PREMCHAND

the complete short stories VOLUME 2

Edited with an Introduction by M. Asaduddin

Translated from the Hindi and Urdu by M. Asaduddin and others

Foreword by Harish Trivedi

PENGUIN BOOKS
 Contents

Foreword by Harish Trivedi

Introduction

1. Premonition
2. The Murder of Honour
3. The Bookbinder
4. Atmaram
5. The Correction
6. The Prime Dharma of Man
7. Black Face
8. Banter
9. The Old Aunt
10. A Father’s Love
11. After Death
12. The Blessed Illness
13. Life Force
14. The Problem
15. A Special Holi
16. The Hidden Hand
17. An Audacious Act
18. The Red Ribbon
19. When Rivals Became Friends
20. A Positive Change
21. A Battle of Ideals
22. A Philosopher’s Love
23. The Bridal Sari
24. Witchcraft
25. Victory of the Defeated
26. Defending One’s Liberty
27. Cobra Worship
28. Turf War
29. Hidden Wealth
30. A Dhobi’s Honour
31. Hoodwinked
32. Reincarnation
33. Test
34. A Loyal Subject
35. End of Enmity
36. The Fool
37. Compulsion
38. A Home for an Orphan
39. Purification
40. Autobiography
41. The Ornaments
42. Revenge
43. Trickery
44. Satyagraha
45. The Roaming Monkey
46. The Prophet’s Justice
47. Sudden Downfall
48. Road to Salvation
49. Money for Deliverance
50. Forgiveness
51. The Lashes of Good Fortune
52. Banishment
53. Despair
54. Ghost
55. By a Whisker!
56. Initiation
57. Rescue
58. The Game of Chess
59. One and a Quarter Ser of Wheat
60. Pleasures of College Life
61. The Malevolent Baby
62. Money for the Decree
63. The Condemned
64. The Path to Hell
65. The Secret of Culture
66. Temple and Mosque
67. Faith
68. Man and Woman
69. A Hired Pony
70. A Mother’s Heart
71. Theft
72. The Goddess from Heaven
73. Punishment
74. The Outcaste
75. Laila
Footnotes
Foreword by Harish Trivedi
Introduction
1. Premonition
4. Atmaram
6. The Prime Dharma of Man
7. Black Face
11. After Death
13. Life Force
15. A Special Holi
20. A Positive Change
44. Satyagraha
54. Ghost
58. The Game of Chess

Notes
Glossary
Acknowledgements
Note on Translators
Popular Editions
Follow Penguin
Copyright
PENGUIN BOOKS
THE COMPLETE SHORT STORIES: VOLUME 2

Premchand (1880–1936), considered one of the greatest fiction writers in Hindi,

was born Dhanpat Rai in Lamahi, a small village near Benares. He wrote in
Urdu under the name Nawab Rai and changed it to Premchand when his
collection of short stories, Soz-e Watan, was seized for sedition in 1909. In a
prolific career spanning three decades, Premchand wrote fourteen novels, two
plays, almost 300 short stories and several articles, reviews and editorials. He
edited four journals, and also set up his own printing press. Though best known
for his stories exposing the horrors of poverty and social injustice, he wrote on a
variety of themes with equal felicity—romance, satire, social dramas, nationalist
tales, and yarns steeped in folklore.

M. Asaduddin is an author, critic and translator in several languages. His books

include Premchand in World Languages: Translation, Reception and Cinematic
Representations; Filming Fiction: Tagore, Premchand and Ray; A Life in
Words; The Penguin Book of Classic Urdu Stories; Lifting the Veil: Selected
Writings of Ismat Chughtai; For Freedom’s Sake: Manto; and (with Mushirul
Hasan) Image and Representation: Stories of Muslim Lives in India. He has been
a Fulbright Scholar-in-Residence at Rutgers University, New Jersey, USA, and a
Charles Wallace Trust Fellow at the British Centre for Literary Translation at the
University of East Anglia, Norwich, UK. He is a regular speaker at literary
festivals, and his translations have been recognized with the Sahitya Akademi
Award, and the Katha and A.K. Ramanujan awards for translation, as well as the
Crossword Book Award.
 Advance Praise for the Volumes

‘Not having access to all of Premchand’s stories has always been a cause of
frustration to his readers. The publication now of the entire, admittedly huge,
corpus of his short stories is very welcome. Premchand—in spite of occasional
challenges—remains a true colossus of Indian literature. The sheer variety, with
its hypnotic power, and the vastness of his output is staggering. It is impossible
to arrive at any kind of assessment of modern Indian literature without taking
full account of Premchand. Then, his fiction as a living source and commentary
on the social, political and rural India of the early part of the twentieth century is
valuable and relevant even today. These four volumes deserve a place on the
bookshelf of every lover of modern fiction, in India or elsewhere’

SHAMSUR RAHMAN FARUQI well-known critic, poet and novelist in Urdu

‘Premchand’s fiction draws from his vast experience of the conflicts of village
life, of caste tensions, of excessive revenue demands and the never-ending chain
of debts entailed by these. If these are grim tales, they are both deepened and
lightened by his psychological insight, his irony and humour, and the broad
canvas on which they are drawn, which links country and city in a manner
unknown in Hindi–Urdu fiction writing before him. To present this rich corpus,
drawn exhaustively from both Urdu and Hindi originals, the vast majority made
available in English for the first time, is a pioneering feat for which the
translators are to be congratulated’

VASUDHA DALMIA
professor emerita of Hindi and Modern South Asian Studies, University of
California, Berkeley ‘At once an extraordinary feat of scholarship and an
immense labour of love, this collection gives us the complete corpus of
Premchand’s short stories in English translation for the first time. It thus allows
readers without access to either or both of Premchand’s languages of
composition, Urdu and Hindi, insight into one of the greatest writers of India’s
modernity—indeed, into the making of modern India. Most importantly, as the
modernity—indeed, into the making of modern India. Most importantly, as the
rich and informative Introduction to this translation states, the stories bear
witness to Premchand’s “secular and inclusive” view of the Indian nation.
Premchand’s socialism, his realism, his role in the fashioning of a modern prose
style in two languages, his searing insights into caste and gender politics, his
sympathy for the oppressed, for the labouring poor, even for working animals,
make him a writer from whom we still have much to learn. If this remarkable
collaborative enterprise brilliantly led by M. Asaduddin helps us to do so, its
purpose will be served’

SUPRIYA CHAUDHURI
professor emerita, Department of English, Jadavpur University, Kolkata ‘It is a
valuable work, especially for foreign readers who cannot read the original text in
Hindi or Urdu. This complete translation of Premchand’s short stories must be
welcomed as a major contribution to the accessibility to modern Indian
literature. Being considered one of the foundational figures of modern Indian
literature, Premchand deserves this kind of ambitious work on him, which will
find him his rightful place in world literature’

PHILIPPE BENOÎT
Sanskritist and professor of Bengali, National Institute for Oriental Languages
and Civilizations, Paris ‘Premchand is one of the most famous—perhaps the
most famous—Hindi authors. Many of his short stories have been translated into
a wide array of languages. And yet, when one looks at these selections it appears
that the translators tended to choose a particular set of stories regarded as
Premchand’s masterpieces, ignoring the rest. The present collection aims to
present the full picture, displaying Premchand at different stages of his life, in
different moods, displaying changing attitudes with regard to the functionality of
literature. For the first time, readers of English will be able to appreciate
Premchand’s story-telling in all its facets and fullness’

CHRISTINA OESTERHELD
professor of Urdu, University of Heidelberg, Germany ‘Premchand was greatly
popular with an earlier generation of Russian readers. This anthology will
certainly enhance his visibility to an international audience and make him
popular with the new generation of Russian readers and scholars of Indian
popular with the new generation of Russian readers and scholars of Indian
literature’

GUZEL STRELKOVA
professor of Hindi, Moscow State University, Moscow
 For
Jamia Millia Islamia,
a university that has nurtured composite culture,
secular nationalism and pluralism for 100 years
 Foreword

During the birth centenary celebrations of Premchand (1880–1936), he was

described as one of the panch devata, that is, one of the five gods, or (to put it
more plausibly in English and also perhaps a bit more secularly!) one of the five
iconic figures of modern Indian literature.1 This was high praise indeed, for each
one of the twenty-four languages of India which are recognized and honoured by
the Sahitya Akademi can boast of several outstanding writers in the modern
period. The foremost of these probably still is Rabindranath Tagore, best known
for his lyrical and transcendentally spiritual poetical works and, of course, for
being the first, and so far the only, Indian to win the Nobel Prize for literature.
But of those following behind him, Premchand stands as tall as any other writer.
Premchand wrote in both Urdu and Hindi, which made him an inheritor of two
distinct literary traditions and also gave him a far wider readership than writers
in other languages could aspire to. He wrote in the popular genres of the novel
and the short story, and he practised a simple and candid style which had a direct
emotive effect. He set his fiction in both cities and villages, often bringing the
two Indias into poignant juxtaposition, most pointedly in his last novel, Godaan
(1936), and in other novels and numerous short stories too throughout his career.
After experimenting early in his career with a few short stories set in the
historical past (which he used allegorically for a present patriotic purpose), he
wrote as a rule on contemporary themes of immediate social and political
relevance. He marched with the times, responding to successive waves of public
events and movements with a creative openness that wasn’t bound by blind
allegiance to any ideology. The scope of his understanding and the range of his
sympathies were wide enough to encompass each aspect of the impact of
colonial rule and of the nationalist movement for freedom in its many
dimensions. His heart beat with the heart of the nation. As the Marxist Hindi
critic Namwar Singh says:
 Premchand was the unique epic-chronicler [maha-gathakar] of our struggle for freedom and it will
be no exaggeration to say that he occupies in this regard an unrivalled place in the whole of Indian
literature. If one wanted to find in any one Indian writer the very pulse of Indian life, its struggles and
its setbacks, its sorrows and its anguish, in all their depth and all their wide scope, over a period of
three decades right from the Partition of Bengal in 1905–06 up to 1936, when he passed away, then,
notwithstanding the fact that we have Rabindranath Tagore, we have Sarat Chandra, we have
Subrahmanya Bharati, we have V.S. Khandelkar, we have Kanhaiyalal Maniklal Munshi, and we
have as well Dr Mohammad Iqbal, I would like to name Premchand, for he is the one writer we have
in whose works the immortal saga of our struggle for independence has been narrated in all its
fullness.2

And yet, it would be to underestimate Premchand to think of him only, or even

primarily, as a chronicler of what was perhaps the most vitally transformative
phase in the history of modern India. For he was, like a true artist, concerned
first and foremost with human beings and the daily, ordinary lives they led. If
these lives were impacted by larger historical forces, as indeed they inescapably
were, Premchand’s focus remained on the human characters rather more than on
the forces shaping them, and it was in this indirectness that the greatness of his
achievement lies. His eventful narratives of the nation were above all else
compassionate tales of humanity.

Life and Times: Sedition and ‘Premchand’

Premchand was born in Lamahi, a village which now stands virtually on the
outskirts of Benares, of Kayastha parents, which meant that he would culturally
be more inclined to Urdu than Hindi. His mother died when he was eight, his
father remarried shortly afterwards, and Premchand first went to school in
Gorakhpur where his father, a postal clerk, was then posted. Premchand’s real
name was Dhanpat Rai Shrivastav, but he was fondly called Nawab, a prince,
and he published his early writings under the name ‘Nawab Rai’. In his early
teens he read voraciously Tilism Hoshruba (in Urdu, published from 1883
onwards in numerous volumes amounting to thousands of pages) and similar
dastaan tales of what may now be called the old school of Arabian magic
realism.
Premchand passed his matriculation examination (class 10) in 1898, and
began a long career as a teacher and school administrator, during which he
passed as a ‘private’ or non-formal candidate the Intermediate examination
(class 12) in 1916 and the BA in 1919, with English literature, Persian and
history as his subjects. In 1921, he resigned government service at the call of
Gandhi during the Non-Cooperation Movement. He had, between 1915 and
1924, moved away from Urdu to begin writing in Hindi which Gandhi had in
1918 declared to be the rashtra bhasha, the national language. During the salt
satyagraha called by Gandhi in 1930, his (second) wife, Shivrani Devi, courted
arrest and spent two months in jail. In 1923 Premchand had bought a press and
started the publishing house Saraswati Press but in the absence of a regular
income, he served two stints as the editor of the Hindi journal Madhuri in
Lucknow, in 1924–25 and again from 1927 to 1932. Meanwhile, he started a
journal of his own, Hans (The Swan, vehicle of Saraswati, the muse of
literature), in 1930, and then taken over another journal, Jagaran (Awakening),
in 1932. Premchand returned to Benares to spend the last four years of his life
back in Lamahi where he had built a bigger pukka house which still stands, and
from where he commuted to his press in Benares. On 8 October 1936, at the age
of fifty-six, he died of a stomach ailment that had long afflicted him. He had
published in Urdu and Hindi thirteen novels, including one left unfinished, and
what are now reckoned to be close to 300 short stories.3
At least four novels by Premchand are counted as being among the greatest
written in Hindi: Sevasadan (1919; The Abode of Service), Rangbhumi (1925;
tr. as The Playground), Karmabhumi (1932; Field of Action), and Godaan
(1936; tr. as Godaan and also as The Gift of a Cow). It has long been a matter of
debate whether Premchand was a greater novelist than a short story writer and,
though scholars may prefer the weightier and more complex novels, popular
opinion has favoured the more accessible and immediately affective short
stories. A brief account is given below of a few highlights and turning points in
Premchand’s career as a short story writer.
Premchand published his first collection of five short stories in 1908, Soz-e
Watan (in Urdu: The Dirge of the Nation), and it met with an unexpectedly hot
reception. The stories were all patriotic, which the British government promptly
interpreted to be seditious, and Premchand, who was then serving as a sub-
deputy inspector of schools, was summoned to appear before the district
magistrate who asked him to confirm that he was the author of the book which
had been published under his pen name ‘Nawab Rai’, told him to burn all the
copies and never to write anything like that again. He then added, ‘Thank your
stars that you are a servant of the British Empire. Had these been Mughal times,
both your hands would have been chopped off.’4 What was chopped off,
however, was the name ‘Nawab Rai’, and it was then that the new pen name
‘Premchand’ was born, under the oppressive shadow of British censorship and as
a subterfuge against its vigilance. This was only the first of Premchand’s many
brushes with authority, for in the 1930s he was required time and again to
deposit a security of Rs 1000 at the slightest whiff of sedition in anything that he
published in his two journals.

Urdu and Hindi

A more significant turning point came when Premchand decided to change his
linguistic horses in midstream and cross over from writing in Urdu to writing in
Hindi. This profound makeover began in 1914 and, through a long and assiduous
process, culminated in 1924, when Premchand revised and rewrote his Urdu
novel Chaugan-e Hasti (Life as a Game) in Hindi as Rangbhumi (1925; The
Playground). He gave two reasons for making this transformation. Publishers
were hard to find in Urdu, while they were plentiful in Hindi and paid
substantially more. Besides, Premchand felt out of place in the Urdu cultural
milieu; as he asked in a moment of despondency in a letter to an Urdu editor in
1918, ‘Has any Hindu ever made a success of writing in Urdu that I will?’5 The
facts seem to support him, for in one count by a British literary historian in 1928,
of about 250 writers he treated in his work, only eight were Hindus and none of
them was regarded as being of the first rank.
Be that as it may, Premchand, by beginning to write in Hindi, entered a wider
and apparently more congenial cultural ambience in which even the semantic
resonances seemed to conform more closely to his vision of the world. The very
titles of several works from this transitional period bear this out. The novel titled
Bazar-e Husn (written in 1917 in Urdu; The Market-Place of Beauty) was
published first in Hindi as Sevasadan (1919; The Abode of Service). The short
story published in Urdu as ‘Panchayat’ (May–June 1916; The Jury of Five
Elders) was published in Hindi as ‘Panch Parameshwar’ (June 1916; The Five
Elders as [the voice of] God), and ‘Brahm ka Swang’ in Hindi (1920; Pretending
to be Brahm or God) was toned down in Urdu to become ‘Nok-Jhonk’ (1923;
Banter).6 It must be added that Premchand never wholly abandoned Urdu, for till
the end he wrote in it a few of his short stories, most notably ‘Kafan’ (1935), and
also lectures and essays, including his presidential address to the first conference
of the All-India Progressive Writers Association (1936), in which he quoted
verse four times, each time in Persian. When his host Sajjad Zaheer remarked
that the Urdu in his speech had become a little ponderous (saqeel), Premchand
laughed his loud laugh and said he thought he would show everyone that he was
a ‘Kayastha ka bachcha’ (son of a Kayastha), implying that his Urdu could be as
high-flown as any Muslim’s!

Realism and Idealism

Another important development in Premchand’s career is believed to have taken
place in the last few years of his life, when he wrote some stories in which his
realism was not irradiated by his usual optimistic outlook. Throughout his
career, in both his novels and his short stories, his protagonists had been inspired
by the abiding values of truth, mutual trust, goodwill, cooperation and service to
others. In moments of adversity and crisis, they were motivated by an idealism
which led them to acts of selfless sacrifice, or to a change of heart involving an
admission of past errors and deep repentance in which all conflict and
dissonance were dissolved into a compassionate harmony. Premchand seemed to
have been a firm believer in what the English poet John Keats, in a memorable
phrase, called ‘the holiness of the heart’s affections and the truth of
imagination’.7
Premchand similarly said that a good short story offered ‘a vivid and heart-
touching depiction of an episode, a glimpse of the soul’. In another essay, he
described his own mode of writing fiction, or indeed his whole vision of life, as
adarshonmukh yatharthvad,8 that is, idealistic realism or, more accurately, ideal-
oriented realism. Some of his best-known and best-loved short stories are
shining examples of this possibly naive-seeming and sentimental but in fact
resolutely principled view of life in which goodness, virtue and self-realization
are ultimately bound to prevail over all misunderstanding and temporary ill will.
Yet, in his last few years, Premchand wrote some stories which seem devoid
of such a hopeful tenor and are instead inconclusive or even bleak. To cite just
the best known of them, in ‘Poos ki Raat’ (1930; A Winter Night), a farmer falls
asleep on his night-long watch over his ripening harvest, wakes up in the
morning to find it devoured and destroyed by a herd of nilgai, but as he walks
morning to find it devoured and destroyed by a herd of nilgai, but as he walks
back home, he tells himself that he would at least not have to freeze any more by
passing night after night out in the open. In ‘Sadgati’ (1930; Gone to Heaven,
made into a film by Satyajit Ray), a poor low-caste man is cruelly worked to
death by a Brahmin priest, with the latter excusing himself in the end by saying
that after death in a Brahmin’s service, the wretched man would surely go to
heaven. And in ‘Kafan’ (1935; The Shroud), a father and son end up in a
drinking house in a city, carousing in an only-too-rare carnivalesque moment,
quite oblivious of the son’s young wife who has died in childbirth the night
before and still lies unmourned and uncremated back in the village.
These are deeply unsettling works, and commentators on Premchand have
been at a loss as to what to make of them. Some have suggested that Premchand
was here at last moving out of the shadow of Gandhi and of traditional values to
a kind of radical progressive position. As there is not a trace of resistance or
rebellion against the system or even the particular oppressor in any of these
stories (as there is not in Premchand’s last novel, Godaan, either), some others
have suggested that Premchand had in the end grown weary of his own idealism
and become a little cynical. Another way of looking at these few stories, which
are so striking partly because they go against the grain of the rest of
Premchand’s career, may be to suggest that in them, Premchand was
experimenting with something new and beginning to develop a ‘late style’ (in
Edward Said’s formulation in his late and indeed posthumous book)9 as many
other masters had done as they advanced in years. Premchand died at the age of
fifty-six, and one can only speculate on what and how he would have gone on to
write had he been granted, say, ten more years. We may anyhow note that the
last two short stories Premchand published in his lifetime, ‘Do Bahnen’ (August
1936; Two Sisters) and ‘Rahasya’ (September 1936; The Secret), are both as full
of Premchand’s signature vocabulary of seva, tyag and daya (service to others,
sacrifice and compassion) as anything he wrote at any time in his career.10

Translating Premchand: The Two Originals

Premchand’s short stories began to be translated in his own lifetime into other
Indian languages, including Gujarati, Bengali, Marathi and Tamil, as well as into
English, German and Japanese. The first volume of a selection of his short
stories in English translation was published in 1946 by Gurdial Malik and, as M.
Asaduddin has shown, about a dozen other selections have been published since
then by translators both Indian and American. As most of the translators have
gone in for the same ‘best’ stories, the total number of short stories translated
into English remains a small fraction of the oeuvre.11
Translation is sometimes slandered as being a losing game by those who do
not pause to reflect on what is gained, for without translation, however
inadequate, we would not have access to an alien author or work at all. What
comes across especially well in English in the case of Premchand is his
irreducibly humane content and his gripping, even enchanting, narrative voice.
With the very first sentence of a novel or a story by him, we enter a parallel
universe of his creation, which compels utter credibility and full engagement.
His diction is simple, especially in the frequent dialogues, his sentences are short
—sometimes too short to sound natural in English—and even in those of his
tales which have a parable-like ending, the specificity of realistic notation
remains undiminished. On the other hand, his authorial passages of both a
narrative and discursive kind exploit fully the expressive resources of the
language he uses and are so felicitously modulated as to stretch the capabilities
of the best translators. Premchand’s penchant for using idiomatic phrases
presents a difficulty and so do culture-specific terms, as with translating any
writer.
But a difficulty that may be unique to Premchand arises from the fact that
whether one translates him from Hindi or Urdu, the original text may well turn
out to be always already translated—from the other language! It is now possible
to say with certainty which of the two versions of a story was first published, and
in the great majority of the cases it is clear that the version first published was
also the first to be written. But this priority may not always indicate primacy, for
if the second, translated version turns out to be different in significant respects, it
would be inept to reject it altogether. Though the early translations from Urdu
into Hindi were mostly done by Premchand himself, we have firm evidence, for
example, that the final manuscript of the Hindi Rangbhumi was translated into
Urdu by another person who demanded a rate that Premchand thought to be
exorbitant. In any case, all his works throughout his life in both Hindi and Urdu
were published under Premchand’s own name with no mention of a translator
and are treated by the common reader as being equally original.
 A good English translation then must take both the Hindi and the Urdu
versions into account and in the case of each notable variation, reconcile them if
possible or at least opt for whichever seems more apt. As I have argued
elsewhere, it must be one translation rendered out of two originals. The issues
involved here may be quickly illustrated through the one story that I have myself
contributed to these volumes, ‘A Special Holi’ (Volume 2). Its title in Hindi is
‘Vichitra Holi’ (published in 1921) and in Urdu ‘Ajeeb Holi’ (1928), which may
look quite similar but have different connotations, especially when we read the
story. It depicts all the servants of a British sahib staging a rebellion against him
on the carnivalesque day of Holi when he is out hunting, and they indulge in
riotous merriment by drinking his wine, dancing on his dining table and singing
lusty Holi songs. They are punished and slink away when Mr Hunter returns, but
they have had their day of glorious liberation. Now this, as Premchand narrates,
is more a special Holi, in a positive sense, than a strange Holi, in a quizzical or
suspicious sense, and the Hindi title is closer to the mark. Elsewhere in the story,
Hindi words seem more apt in some places but Urdu words in some other places,
and in this transitional phase of his career from Urdu to Hindi, Premchand even
seems to waver here and there between Hindi usage and Urdu usage, mixing up,
for example, the verbs that would go with arpan (dedication) and qurbani
(sacrifice).12

The Present Volumes

In this respect, a major new beginning is made with the translations in these four
volumes, for the translators had access to both the Hindi and the Urdu versions.
Besides, the notes at the end indicate the major variations between the two texts
and provide the publishing details of both the versions. The Introduction by M.
Asaduddin, a multilingual scholar, provides an erudite and comprehensive
overview of Premchand’s career, and his thematic and stylistic range. His
archival researches have resulted in the discovery of two whole stories which
were so far known to have been published but could not be traced, and also of
sections 2 and 3 of a third story of which only the first section was available.
This edition of translations of Premchand thus goes a bit beyond even the most
comprehensive editions of his works so far published in either Hindi or Urdu and
gives a new meaning to the phrase ‘Found in Translation’!
But the outstanding feature of these volumes is, of course, the fact that they
 But the outstanding feature of these volumes is, of course, the fact that they
present in English translation close to 300 stories that Premchand wrote. Such an
enormous project must have initially seemed audacious, and then been full of
difficulties, problems and heartaches during its long gestation. But a team of
sixty translators, occasionally interacting together in workshops, finally realized
the plan with Professor Asaduddin himself leading from the front by translating,
I am given to understand, no less than 100 stories all by himself.
So far as I know, this is an unprecedented project of its kind and scale in the
history of translations into English in India, for not even the great Rabindranath
Tagore has had all his short stories (which number seventy-nine, as collected in
the three volumes of his Galpa-Guchchha, that is, ‘Bunch of Stories’) translated
into English, much less in a uniform edition like this one. As this fleet of four
ships, this argosy laden with some of the best writing produced in India in the
modern period and now made available in a global language, is launched by a
major international publisher upon the seven seas, one hopes that it will succeed
in flying the flag of Indian literature far and wide and win for it a new and wider
circulation.

November 2017 Harish Trivedi

 Introduction

‘Premchand stands supreme as the iconic fiction writer of Urdu and Hindi, and to read and re-read
him over and over again is to understand better ourselves and our society’1—Harish Trivedi

Premchand is generally regarded as the greatest writer in Urdu and Hindi, both
in terms of his popularity and the range and depth of his corpus. His enduring
appeal cuts across class, caste and social groups. He was not only a creative
writer in Urdu and Hindi, but he also fashioned modern prose in both languages
and influenced several generations of writers. The fact that his works were
published in more than two dozen Hindi and Urdu journals2 simultaneously
attests to his extraordinary reach to the wide audience that formed his readership.
Many of his readers encountered modern Urdu and Hindi novels and short
stories, and indeed any literary forms, for the first time through his writings.
Premchand’s unique contribution to the formation of a readership—and, in turn,
to shaping the taste of that readership—has yet to be assessed fully. Few or none
of his contemporaries in Urdu–Hindi have remained as relevant today as he is in
the contexts of the Woman Question (Stree Vimarsh), Dalit Discourse (Dalit
Vimarsh), Gandhian Nationalism, Hindu–Muslim relations and the current
debates about the idea of India that is inclusive of all groups and denominations,
irrespective of caste and creed. Francesca Orsini, who has worked on the Hindi
public sphere, says pertinently: ‘His strong social conscience and radical politics,
which brought him closer and closer to socialism, were rooted in an utterly
secular and inclusive view of the Indian nation, which makes him a particularly
valuable and rare role model these days.’ (Orsini 2003, xxvi)
However, despite his pioneering and iconic status, studies on Premchand have
remained woefully inadequate because his entire corpus was or is still not
available in either Hindi or Urdu, not to speak of English. Researchers had to
remain content with only one of the corpuses (either Urdu or Hindi) accessible to
them. This is also true of his short stories. Till today, the entire corpus of his
short stories is not to be found in any of the versions. Fortunately, it is now being
made available in English by combining and assimilating both the archives.
Moreover, some new materials not accessible so far either in Hindi or Urdu are
being made available for the first time in English. These twin advantages—in
addition to the fact that the entire corpus is now being made available in English
in a reliable chronological order3—should make the reading of Premchand more
fruitful, exciting and enjoyable and give a new fillip to Premchand studies. There
is a need to revisit Premchand in the light of the new materials that have been
discovered, mainly, though not exclusively, through the efforts of Kamal
Kishore Goyanka, and some more new materials that are presented in this
anthology.

Premchand as a Short Story Writer: Beginnings

Premchand pioneered modern short story writing in Urdu and Hindi. The Urdu
short story, or afsana (sometimes called mukhtasar afsana to distinguish it from
longer fictional works), can be seen as a continuity of the fictional tradition that
existed in Urdu for several centuries—that is, literature consisting of qissa,
hikayah, dastaan, and so on, which drew upon the Perso-Arabic narrative
tradition on the one hand and the Indian tradition of storytelling as one finds in
works like the Panchatantra, Hitopadesha and the Jataka tales on the other. The
short story proper in Urdu, however, emerged only in the opening decade of the
twentieth century. By that time, novels and short stories were familiar
conventions, having already been established in Bengali at the hands of Bankim
Chandra Chatterjee, Rabindranath Tagore and Sarat Chandra Chatterjee. These
Bengali writers are being invoked here because Premchand had read all of them
in translation and drew inspiration from them. In fact, he began his writing
career by translating Tagore. Of course, his staple readings were the medieval-
style romances in Urdu and Persian popular at the time, particularly the writings
of Ratan Nath Dhar Sarshar and Abdul Halim Sharar.
The atmosphere of dastaan and historical romances hangs heavy on
Premchand’s early stories. But he soon grew out of that phase and made his
work more socially relevant by giving it the hard, gritty texture of realism. His
art of storytelling became a vehicle for his socially engaged agenda of social
reform and ameliorating the condition of the deprived and oppressed sections of
society. However, that does not mean he was mainly concerned with the content
and external circumstances of his characters and not with their inner worlds.
and external circumstances of his characters and not with their inner worlds.
Like all great writers, he took interest in unravelling the mental processes of his
characters and the psychological motivations of their actions. As he says:

My stories are usually based on some observations or personal experience. I try to introduce some
dramatic elements in them. I do not write stories merely to describe an event. I try to express some
philosophical/emotional reality through them. As long as I do not find any such basis I cannot put my
pen to paper. When this is settled, I conceive characters. Sometimes, studying history brings some
plots to mind. An event does not form a story, as long as it does not express a psychological view of
reality.4 (My translation)

In the stories he has written—which number close to 300—one finds different

modes and points of view, which he adopted by employing an array of narrative
devices. An overwhelming number of his stories are written in the third person
or omniscient narrative mode and a far lesser number in the first person. He
makes extensive use of dialogue, using different registers of Urdu and Hindi in
addition to dialects, colloquialisms, idioms and speech patterns specific to a
caste, class or community. He also uses the technique of interior monologue and
multiple points of view in quite a few stories. The salient point is that even
though Premchand was mainly concerned with the content of his stories, to the
extent of sometimes making them formulaic and predictable, he certainly did
engage with the stylistic aspects too. And in this respect, he was influenced by
both Indian—specifically Bengali—and foreign writers.

Sources
The subject matter of Premchand’s stories has been taken from Indian history
and mythology, Indo-Muslim cultural history, contemporary society, and his
own wide readings of literature from across the world, particularly English,
Russian and French literature, from which he translated into Urdu and Hindi.
The early decades of the twentieth century in India were exciting times, marked
by the stirrings of change in society, particularly in its transition from a
predominantly feudal and patriarchal society to a more democratic and modern
one. From the third decade, the movement for independence gained momentum.
Premchand had a journalist’s curiosity of the quotidian and the contemporary.
He was extraordinarily alive to the goings-on around him and made the events
and issues the subject matter of his stories.5 There is hardly any issue relevant to
the India of that time that he did not touch in his fiction. From a reading of his
short stories it is quite possible to recreate the society of that time, with all its
quirks, contradictions and superstitions, as well as the prevalent reformist and
intellectual climate, particularly in the northern part of the country.

Themes
Premchand began his career as a short story writer with the publication of Soz-e
Watan (The Dirge of the Nation, 1908), written under his pen name, Nawab Rai.
It is a collection of five stories wherein he wrote on patriotism in a mode that can
be called revivalist or revisionist, much in the vein of Bankim Chandra
Chatterjee, whom he imitated in matters of style as well.6 The patriotism and the
hatred against invaders displayed in these stories made the colonial government
ban the book, and Premchand barely escaped with a sharp reprimand from the
magistrate. This was his first encounter with colonial censorship but not his last.
He had to battle with censorship that tried to cripple him both as a writer and an
editor of magazines later in life, without much help from anyone. What is
pertinent to note here is that a strain of patriotism ran through stories such as
‘The Rarest Pearl in the World’ (‘Duniya ka Sab se Anmol Ratan’), ‘Sheikh
Makhmoor’, ‘Rani Sarandha’, and ‘Raja Hardaul’, which were written either in
the dastaanesque mode or in the mode of historical romances, sometimes both.
He continued to write in this vein for some time before he moved gradually to
the realist mode, which was preferred by writers in many other Indian languages.
‘A Well-bred Daughter’ (‘Bade Ghar ki Beti’) is the first story to depict the
family drama of an average, middle-class Indian family written in the realistic
mode. He wrote a large number of stories throughout his career in this mode and
on this theme. This and ‘Family Break-up’ (‘Algojhya’) are two classic stories
about the Indian joint family that is held together by the ideal of sacrifice, where
individual aspirations are subordinated to what is good for the family. A joint
family in a village provides an ideal for Premchand whereby peasants can avoid
dividing their landholding into smaller units. The breaking up of a family is an
immensely painful affair in Premchand’s stories, bringing social disgrace and
opprobrium to those involved. However, between the two stories mentioned
above, Premchand wrote a large number of stories about the daily life of smaller
families in villages and small towns where he dealt with different aspects of
family life: conjugal tiffs and strife, domestic cruelty, struggle for survival
amidst limited means and penury, polygamy, rivalry between mother-in-law and
amidst limited means and penury, polygamy, rivalry between mother-in-law and
daughter-in-law for domination in the house, the phenomenon of co-wives and
the plight of stepchildren, conflict between legitimate aspirations and meanness
of opportunities, the cycle of debt that ruins families, and so on.
Premchand felt a deep affinity with the common man and his natural
sympathy was towards the oppressed and deprived sections of society. No writer
before him in Urdu or Hindi, and possibly other Indian languages, had depicted
the lives of underdogs, untouchables and marginalized sections with such depth
and empathy. Throughout his life, ‘Premchand did not let go of his
unsentimental awareness of the grim realities of rural life, of life at the bottom of
the economic scale’ (Amrit Rai 1982, ix). The oppressors and oppression came
in many forms—they may be priests or zamindars, lawyers or policemen, or
even doctors, all of whom held society in their stranglehold. Rituals pertaining to
Hindu marriages and deaths were so exploitative and oppressive that these
events were often robbed of their dignity and joy and spelt the ruin of families.
Premchand began his career by exposing the corruption of the Hindu priestly
class in his novel Asraar-e Muavid (Mysteries of the House of Worship, 1903–
05), and then continued the tirade in many of his stories. In the story ‘Babaji’s
Feast’ (‘Babaji ka Bhog’) he depicts the greed of a Brahmin who has no
compunction in robbing a poor family of its meagre means, and in ‘The Funeral
Feast’ (‘Mritak Bhoj’) he showed how the predatory and parasitical Brahmins
drive another Brahmin woman to destitution and her daughter to suicide. In a
series of stories where the central character is Moteram, a Brahmin priest,
Premchand exposes with rare courage the rapacity, hollowness and hypocrisy of
the Hindu priestly class, which earned him the ire and venom of a section of
high-caste Hindus, even culminating in a lawsuit for defamation. But he
remained undaunted and went on exposing the many oppressive customs
prevalent in society.
But his most trenchant critique was reserved for caste injustice, whereby
people on the lowest rung of the Hindu caste system, and beyond the pale of the
caste system, were considered untouchable and were compelled to live a life of
indignity and humiliation. The upper-caste Hindus treated them worse than
animals and this injustice was institutionalized through the social sanction of the
caste system. Stories such as ‘Thakur’s Well’ (‘Thakur ka Kuan’), ‘Salvation’
(‘Sadgati’), ‘The Shroud’ (‘Kafan’), ‘Temple’ (‘Mandir’), ‘The Woman Who
Sold Grass’ (‘Ghaaswali’) and ‘One and a Quarter Ser of Wheat’ (‘Sawa Ser
Gehun’) constitute a devastating indictment of the way upper-caste Hindus have
treated Dalits for generations. They demonstrate that Dalits were subjected to
daily humiliation and this humiliation stemmed from the fact that Dalit
inferiority had become embedded in the psyche of the members of the Hindu
upper castes, who have developed a vast repertoire of idioms, symbols and
gestures of the verbal and physical denigration of Dalits over centuries. Grave
injustice and the inhuman treatment of Dalits have become normalized, and
cause no revulsion in society. Despite criticism from a few Dalit ideologues who
level some rather irresponsible charges against Premchand for depicting Dalits in
a certain way, the stories above—some of which have been rendered into films
—have contributed significantly in raising awareness about the injustice
perpetrated against the most vulnerable section of society. In this respect, as
Vasudha Dalmia suggests, Premchand was much ahead of his time: ‘In his
fiction, written over the three decades in the early century, Premchand presented
what academic scholarship was to face squarely only towards the close of that
century.’7
A considerable number of his stories deals with the plight of women.
Premchand was deeply sensitive to the suffering of women in a patriarchal
society where they had no agency and lived their lives according to the whims
and fancies of the men on whom they were dependent—husbands, fathers,
brothers or even close or distant male relatives. Women were expected to be
docile, submissive and self-effacing, sacrificing their lives for the well-being of
the family. Girls were treated as a curse on the family and the parents of girls
were subjected to all kinds of humiliation and indignities while their marriages
were arranged. Parents were sometimes compelled to marry off their nubile and
very young daughters to old men just to unburden themselves of the
responsibility and shame of being saddled with an unmarried daughter. The
practices of kanya vikray (sale of a daughter in marriage), even kanya vadh
(killing of a girl child), were prevalent. In his essays and editorials, Premchand
made a strong plea for the abolition of the evil practices that made the life of
women unbearable. He advocated divorce in extreme circumstances, and
supported the wife’s claim to own half the husband’s property in case of divorce
and inherit the property in case of the husband’s death.8 He also wrote in favour
of the Sarda Bill which aimed at raising the minimum marriage age for girls. In a
large number of stories, such as ‘Tuliya’ (‘Devi’), ‘Sati’, ‘The Goddess from
Heaven’ (‘Swarg ki Devi’), ‘Return’ (‘Shanti’), ‘Godavari’s Suicide’ (‘Saut’),
‘The Thread of Love’ (‘Prem Sutra’), ‘Two Friends’ (‘Do Sakhiyaan’), ‘The
Lunatic Lover’ (‘Unmaad’), and so on, he sheds light on the plight of women in
an oppressive, patriarchal system. Through the immortal characters of old
women like Chachi in ‘Holy Judges’, the old aunt in the eponymous story, and
Bhungi in ‘A Positive Change’ (‘Vidhwans’), he shows how difficult life was for
old women in a society that was known to respect its elderly members. The fate
of widows, who were considered inauspicious and were expected to renounce all
joys of life, was even worse, as shown in ‘Compulsion’ (‘Nairashya Leela’),
‘The Condemned’ (‘Dhikkar’) and ‘A Widow with Sons’ (‘Betonwali Vidhva’).
However, there is a certain ambivalence in his depiction of women and their
status as equal partners in marriage.9 Some of the stories were radical for his
time, yet he was unable to imagine a fully independent and empowered woman
with her own agency and subjectivity, as Tagore did, for example, in ‘Wife’s
Letter’ or ‘Chitra’.10 In the entire Premchand oeuvre of short stories there are
only three single women—Miss Padma of the eponymous story, Miss Khurshed
of ‘Disgrace’ (‘Laanchan’) and Miss Joshi of ‘Faith’ (‘Vishwas’). While Miss
Padma, despite her education and economic independence, seems inadequate as
a woman, deprived of a family life and bereft and regretful after a failed live-in
relationship, Miss Khurshed is depicted as enjoying to the hilt her single status
as a woman, and even sharing a deeply emotional relationship with another
woman, Dr Leela. Miss Joshi starts off as a social butterfly, with the high and
mighty kowtowing to her, but after several years of a live-in relationship with
Mr Johri, pines for the bliss of domestic life with Mr Apte. However, there are
so many female characters in Premchand’s stories, portrayed from different
points of view, that any kind of generalization will be undesirable. The labels
‘pro-feminist’ and ‘anti-feminist’ are not very helpful in understanding
Premchand’s stories either, as these labels inevitably carry the elements of
reductionism inherent in them. To some, the very fact that Premchand could
imagine women outside the marriage bond and as capable of finding fulfilment
in a career was radical enough, if not too radical, for his time. Similarly, despite
his sympathy with widows and his support for widow remarriage, there is a
certain uneasiness in depicting a widow who has an equal claim to bodily
pleasures and comforts. Widows in Premchand’s stories seem to find fulfilment
only in the ideals of service, devotion and self-effacement. Indeed, in the entire
corpus of his short fiction there are no more than two widow marriages11 and
both of them end disastrously.
As stated earlier, Premchand began his career as a short story writer by
writing stories of patriotism in a somewhat revivalist mode. Later in life when he
came under Gandhi’s influence and showed deep involvement in India’s struggle
for independence, to the extent of giving up his government job, he wrote a
string of nationalist stories dealing with the adoption of indigenous or swadeshi
products, the boycott or even burning of foreign goods, picketing outside alcohol
shops, giving up government jobs and embracing a life of social service, among
other things. Some of them, like ‘A Strange Holi’ (‘Ajeeb Holi’) and
‘Resignation’ (‘Isteefa’), show the discomfiture of British colonial officials at
the hands of Indians and the sudden conversion of Indian loyalists or servants of
the British Raj into patriotic Indians who jealously protect their honour and are
devoted to the cause of Independence. Some of these stories, as also some
others, have been criticized for a kind of contrived and easy plot resolution
through the ‘change of heart’ device. Apart from the above two, there are stories
like ‘The Wine Shop’ (‘Sharab ki Dukaan’), ‘Maiku and the Congress
Volunteer’ (‘Maiku’), ‘An Audacious Act’ (‘Dussahas’), ‘Role Reversal’ (‘Patni
se Pati’), ‘The Night of the New Moon’ (‘Amavas12 He also uses suicide as a
device for plot resolution for women faced with social opprobrium, something
which might seem melodramatic and an easy way to arrive at a denouement but
on closer analysis seems to be historically accurate. In Indian society, this kind
of honour suicide is quite rampant even now, as newspapers and television
channels will testify.
Premchand’s love for the countryside is evident in his fictional and non-
fictional writings. He has written several extremely evocative stories such as
‘Holy Judges’, ‘The Story of Two Bullocks’ (‘Do Bailon ki Katha’), ‘Idgah’ and
‘Atmaram’, which depict the pristine village life of simplicity, honesty and quiet
contentment. In fact, his fictional corpus, if read uncritically, would lend itself to
an easy binary between country life and city life, one good and the other almost
irredeemably evil. Yet, we have to recognize that he does not depict country life
as an idyll shorn of all evils. There are stories such as ‘A Positive Change’
(‘Vidhwans’), ‘A Home for an Orphan’ (‘Grihdaah’) and ‘Road to Salvation’
(‘Mukti Marg’) that de-romanticize and demystify village life and depict the
author’s awareness of the imperfections and blind spots in the supposed idyll.13
Thus, the apparent binary that seems to work in the case of some novels and
stories cannot be stretched beyond a point.
Premchand’s deep interest in the simple life of peasants extended to his love
for animals, particularly draught animals, treated most cruelly in India. Very few
writers have depicted such an intimate bond between animals and human beings.
Premchand depicts animals as endowed with emotions just as human beings are,
responding to love and affection just as human beings do, and are fully deserving
of human compassion. Often, the duplicity, cruelty and betrayal in the human
world is contrasted with the unconditional love and loyalty displayed by animals
towards their masters and those who care for them. It is a heart-wrenching
moment, as shown in ‘Money for Deliverance’ (‘Muktidhan’) and ‘Sacrifice’
(‘Qurbani’), when a peasant has to part with his animals because of want and
destitution. The deep compassion with which animal life has been depicted in
‘Holy Judges’ (‘Panchayat’), ‘Reincarnation’ (‘Purva Sanskar’), ‘The Story of
Two Bullocks’ (‘Do Bailon ki Katha’) and ‘The Roaming Monkey’ (‘Salilani
Bandar’) are treasures of world literature. Stories such as ‘Turf War’ (‘Adhikar
Chinta’) and ‘Defending One’s Liberty’ (‘Swatva Raksha’), written in a
humorous and symbolic vein, show how a dog fiercely protects his turf and how
a horse defeats all the machinations of human beings to make him work on a
Sunday, which is his day of rest, rightfully earned after working for six days of
the week! In ‘The Roaming Monkey’ the author shows how a monkey earns
money by performing tricks of different kinds and thus looks after the wife of his
owner, nurturing her and bringing her back from the brink of lunacy. In ‘The
Price of Milk’ (‘Doodh ki Qeemat’) we have the spectacle of goats feeding a
baby with milk from their own udders, thereby saving its life. The baby has been
denied milk by its own mother because she considers it a tentar, an ‘evil’ child
destined to be the cause of death of one of her parents or another member of the
family, and wishes it dead. In ‘A Daughter’s Possessions’ (‘Beti ka Dhan’)
Sakkhu Choudhury finds tears streaming down the eyes of his oxen in his
moments of grief when the zamindar is going to evict him from his home, and
when his own sons are totally indifferent to his plight. In the story ‘Two
Brothers’ (‘Do Bhai’) the narrator contrasts the greed and lack of empathy of the
elder brother, Krishna, for his younger brother, Balaram, whose property he
wants to grab, with the deep bond between two bullocks, one of whom refuses to
touch any food for three days when the other is separated from it.
Several very popular stories of Premchand deal with Hindu–Muslim relations.
He was deeply interested and invested in a cordial relationship between Hindus
and Muslims, a fact which is evident in both his fictional and non-fictional
writings. He had no doubt that the independence and progress of the country
depended substantially on the harmonious relationship between these two
dominant religious groups in India. Early in his life he was introduced to Muslim
culture and Islam through his study of Persian and Urdu and the maulvi who
taught him. He was also familiar with the ideals of Hinduism, the orthodox
variety as well as the reformist trend of the Arya Samaj to which his family
owed allegiance. This, coupled with his inherently secular temperament,
provided him a unique vantage point from which he could write fairly and
fearlessly about both communities in an even-handed way. In fact, he was the
only writer of his generation in any Indian language, not excepting Tagore, to
write about the external and internal lives of the members of both communities
with an insight, empathy and intimacy that have not been matched since. I
cannot think of any other Indian writer who possessed that kind of vision.
During his lifetime, the relationship between Hindus and Muslims went through
particularly volatile and turbulent phases, but he was always unwavering in his
belief in pluralism and kept the faith. Stories like ‘Holy Judges’, ‘Idgah’, ‘The
Greater Pilgrimage’ (‘Hajj-e Akbar’), ‘Temple and Mosque’ (‘Mandir aur
Masjid’), ‘The Prophet’s Justice’ (‘Nabi ka Niti Nirvaah’), ‘Forgiveness’
(‘Kshama’) and essays such as ‘Islamic Civilization’ (‘Islami Sabhyata’14)
demonstrate his deep knowledge of Islamic culture and the intimate lives of
Muslim families, and how the daily lives of Hindus and Muslims were
intertwined, particularly in the countryside. Towards the end of the second
decade of the twentieth century when Hindu–Muslim relations were at their
lowest ebb, Premchand wrote the play Karbala, on a deeply emotional subject
for Muslims, to cement the bonds of Hindu–Muslim unity.
Premchand seems immensely relevant in today’s India when history is being
sought to be rewritten and Muslims are constantly cast in the role of the ‘other’
sought to be rewritten and Muslims are constantly cast in the role of the ‘other’
and held accountable for all the real and imagined atrocities of Muslim rulers of
the past. In his own time, he saw with bewilderment how ‘Whenever a Muslim
king is remembered, we evoke Aurangzeb’ (Premchand 1985:5), a remark that
reverberates with contemporary resonance, indicating the agenda of some people
who always sought to frustrate any attempt at a broader understanding and
reconciliation between these two communities. He was opposed to religious
sectarianism and orthodoxy in any form. This will be evident if one reads his
stories in the Moteram series and a story like ‘Holy War’ (‘Jihad’) where he
anticipates what goes today by the misleading and erroneous name of ‘Islamic’
terror. In this context, Syed Akbar Hyder’s comments seem particularly apt:

Premchand archives Hindu–Muslim relationship in mutually respectable terms that move beyond
Aurangzeb and his times into a temporal zone reflecting a more pluralistic Islam . . . By ideologically
fracturing religious communities, he undermines the antagonistic communal bifurcation within the
colonial milieu that posited Hindu and Muslim as age-old enemies whose scriptures determined their
mode of thinking and living. (Hansen and Lelyveld, 2005, 276)

Evolution in Premchand’s Art of Storytelling

Premchand’s art of storytelling evolved through his career encompassing three
full decades, as did his language and vocabulary. As he evolved from a
dastaanesque to a realistic mode, his language also changed in register and
vocabulary, and the patches of purple prose likewise dwindled. Moreover, as he
slowly moved from Urdu to Hindi, but still continued to write or translate in
both languages (or forms or shaili, as some would characterize it), his language
underwent visible changes. And later in life, when he became a strong advocate
of Hindustani, his endeavour was to craft a language that would be equally
intelligible to the votaries of both Hindi and Urdu. He also moved from the
earlier dense, lush narrative style incorporating multiple registers and a variety
of characters as in ‘Holy Judges’, ‘The Sword of Loyalty’ (‘Khanjar-e Wafa’),
‘Atmaram’, ‘Idgah’, and so on, to a leaner, pared down narrative style focusing
on one or two events and involving fewer characters. The earlier expansiveness
was replaced by intensity of experience. The idealistic, sometimes even
prescriptive, nature of his work evolved into a more robust and mature
understanding of life’s pitiless ironies and unpredictability that did not always
conform to poetic justice. Amrit Rai’s remark in this context seems the most
pertinent:
In the year 1933–34, Premchand wrote several stories such as ‘Manovritti’, ‘Doodh ka Dam’,
‘Balak’, ‘Naya Vivah’ . . . which are entirely new from the point of view of both content and form . .
. there isn’t in these later stories . . . a dense and tightly woven web of events as in the stories of an
earlier phase. They have, instead, just a single focus of interest, just one little point to make, an
unremarkable enough state of mind to describe, the author’s own way of observing a fleeting glimpse
of truth or beauty—and this is presented in an informal and conversational manner . . . (Amrit Rai
1982, 311)

Language Issues: Urdu versus Hindi

As indicated in the opening paragraph of this Introduction, a comprehensive
understanding of Premchand’s stature as a writer demands that the reader is able
to access his stories in both versions. One great advantage of this anthology is
that it points to differences in the two versions of a story. These differences are
sometimes trivial, at other times substantial, and provide added insights into the
stories and expand their textuality.15 Premchand began his career writing in Urdu
and he produced a substantial volume of work in his first twelve years as a writer
(1903–15)—five novels and close to four dozen stories to be precise—before he
thought of writing in Hindi. His transition from Urdu to Hindi was gradual,
though irreversible, given the social and political circumstances and the
publishing scenario of the time.
Now, the question is, are the Hindi and Urdu versions of his stories exact
replicas of each other? Not always and not necessarily. Premchand knew this too
well, as he was aware of the changes that he made along the way. In a letter to
Imtiaz Ali Taj, the dramatist, translator and editor in Urdu, he mentioned that he
changed entire scenes while translating the text from one version to the other. As
usually happens with writer-translators, whenever they translate their own work,
the creative impulse often takes over so that translation often turns into
rewriting. In Premchand’s stories one finds many minor changes that were done
either for stylistic embellishments, or for the difference in perceived readership,
or, quite probably, for the space constraints in the journal in which the stories
were going to be published.
There is another dimension to this issue. It was not always Premchand himself
who translated his work between Urdu and Hindi. Often, he took help from
others, which might have meant he had the time to look over it only cursorily.
Several translators, most notably Iqbal Bahadur Verma ‘Saher’, are known to
have helped Premchand in preparing versions of stories both in Hindi and Urdu.
Their style now passes off as Premchand’s style. His younger son, Amrit Rai,
excavated several stories in Urdu of which there were no Hindi versions. Amrit
Rai published such stories in a two-volume anthology with the appropriate title
Gupt Dhan (Hidden Treasure). In its Introduction he writes about the kind of
changes he has effected while transferring the stories from one version to the
other:

I thought it unfair to Hindi readers to publish these stories in their original form. So I clothed them in
Hindi, in the style of Munshiji, as far as it was possible for me. How far I have succeeded in this
effort to not only preserve the soul of the story but the language and style as well will be judged by
you. As for me, I feel satisfaction in the thought that I have pulled all my resources in this
endeavour.16 (My translation)

It is both significant and debatable why Amrit Rai felt it necessary for the stories
to undergo changes for the sake of intelligibility and readability in Hindi. Had
the two languages changed so much within twenty-five years of Premchand’s
death that they needed to be interfered with? This also brings up the questions of
ethics and authorship. Does anyone, be it even the writer’s own son, have the
right to tamper with the original works of a writer to make them suitable for a
particular readership?
How radical these changes sometimes were can be illustrated through the two
versions of his famous story ‘A Night in the Month of Poos’ (‘Poos ki Raat’).
The story is about a poor, destitute peasant, Halku, who is in permanent debt to
the village moneylender. Halku spends the severe winter nights in the field to
save the harvest from marauding beasts. But ultimately, he is unable to save the
crop when a horde of wild beasts descends on the field one night and despoils
the harvest. In the Hindi version, which was first published in the journal
Madhuri (May 1930), the story ends on a note of apparent relief for Halku, who
decides to move away from the life of a peasant by becoming a worker in a
factory. However, in the Urdu version, which was published later in Prem
Chaleesi 2 (1930), Premchand has added a section at the end where Halku
ponders over the travails of peasant life but nevertheless decides to stay a
peasant. Taking on the job of a day labourer, he thinks, would mean an insult to
the land and to his forefathers who were peasants. So he resolves to stay a
peasant whatever the challenges. Thus, the two endings of the story admit two
radically different interpretations. It is clear that the Urdu version is not simply
an expanded version of the Hindi, but it radically alters the perspective of the
protagonist. In the Hindi version of the story Halku comes across as yielding to
the pressures of being a peasant and surrendering to the fate of a wage-earner,
whereas the Urdu version stresses his strong resistance to any such shift in his
career. He confronts the challenges of a peasant’s life, standing face-to-face with
total ruin as the marauding animals destroy his harvest, but none of it can
destroy his spirit. He is convinced that he should continue to be a peasant to
carry on the legacy of his forefathers. Thus, while the Urdu version maintains
the status quo in Halku’s life, the Hindi version envisages his transformation into
a factory worker. Changes of the kind signalled above, with variations and
different degrees of emphasis, can be found in a number of Premchand’s short
stories.
‘Atmaram’ is a story that presented Premchand with the problem of cultural
untranslatability. It was built on the Hindu philosophical concept of maya and
moha,17 and Premchand must have found that these concepts were not easily
translatable in Urdu. The story is about a devout village goldsmith, Mahadev,
who, disenchanted by his own children, becomes attached to a parrot which he
symbolically named Atmaram. The story plays on the popular belief that atma,
or the soul, is like a bird which flies out at the time of death. Mahadev’s
religious and spiritual inclinations are demonstrated by his constant chanting of
two lines of a popular bhajan: Sat gurudutt Shivdutt daata/Ram ke charan mein
chitt laaga. The villagers could identify him from a distance hearing the sound
of the bhajan. It so happens that one of his sons accidentally opens the cage one
day and the parrot flies out. When Mahadev finds the cage empty, his heartbeat
stops for a moment. All his attempts to tempt the parrot back into the cage bear
no fruit. The parrot sits on the cage and flies about it, but cannot be made to
enter the cage. Mahadev continues his effort. The climax of the story shows this
tug of war between Mahadev and the parrot effectively:

[The parrot] would come and sit on the top of the cage and now sit at the door of the cage and look at
the bowls for food and water, and then fly off. If the old man was moha incarnate, the parrot was
incarnate maya. This went on till evening descended. The struggle between maya and moha was lost
in darkness.
 in darkness.

Hindi: [Tota] kabhi pinjre par aa baithta, kabhi pinjre ke dwar par baith apne daanapani ke piyalion
ko dekhta, aur phir urh jata. Buddha agar murtiman moha tha, tau tota murtimayi maya. Yahan tak ki
shaam ho gayi. Maya aur moh ka ye sangram andhakar mein vilin ho gaya.

Urdu: [Tota] kabhi pinjre par aata, kabhi pinjre ke darwazey par baith kar apne daanapani ki piyalion
ko dekhta, aur phir urh jata, magar joonhi Mahadev uski taraf aata woh phir urh jata. Buddha agar
paykar-e hawas tha, tau tota daayre aarzoo. Yahan tak ke shaam-e siyah ne hawas aur arzoo ki is
kashmakash par parda dhal diya.

One would understand that Urdu words like hawas and aarzoo cannot
adequately represent the philosophical concepts of maya and moha and
Premchand must have realized this fact of cultural untranslatability. Similarly,
the constant chanting of the bhajan Sat gurudutt Shivdutt daata/Ram ke charan
mein chitt laaga would befit the genius of the Hindi language more than Urdu
and appeal to someone brought up in the tradition of Hindu religion more than
anyone else. That Premchand himself was conscious of this is evidenced by the
fact that the story was originally intended for the journal Kahkashan published
from Lahore. But as the story got written Premchand realized that it was
probably not suitable for the predominantly Muslim readership of Kahkashan.
He wrote to the editor, Imtiaz Ali Taj:

I have recently written another story, ‘Atmaram’. I am sending it to Zamana. It has turned out to be
so utterly Hindu that it is not suitable for Kahkashan. You may call yourself a Hindu but your readers
certainly are not Hindu.18

This statement, however, appears to be at odds with the entire version of the
Urdu story which Premchand seems to have written with far greater relish than
the Hindi version. The Urdu version is longer by two dense pages—ten pages
compared to the Hindi version’s eight. The rhetorical flourishes, the deployment
of metaphor and simile, the idiomatic turns of phrase—all these make the Urdu
version more urbane, supple and enjoyable than the Hindi one which seems
somewhat stark and dull in comparison. Thus, reading the short stories in both
Hindi and Urdu reveals several interesting facts.
In many cases, the Urdu version is longer than the Hindi version, showing the
use of traditional rhetorical embellishments. This would encourage us to
speculate that: (a) Urdu was Premchand’s first love and, as he professes in his
essay ‘Sahitya ka Uddeshya’, it came more naturally to him than Hindi. (b) As a
language, Urdu lends itself to finer and more intimate shades of feelings and
emotions in Premchand’s hand in a way that Hindi does not; in comparison,
Hindi is somewhat bare and unadorned. (c) In the Urdu versions one can find
virtuoso passages, passages of purple prose designed to dazzle readers into an
admission of the author’s full control and command over the language. It is
interesting to think about whether there is an organic relationship between theme
and language form, whether language determines subject matter and styles or, at
least, whether language and themes are intimately connected. Alok Rai says, ‘It
seems as though some utterances can be made most felicitously in Hindi and
some in Urdu. What lies behind this—history, social and cultural predisposition
or literary traditions? This can be a subject for research’19 (Alok Rai and
Mushtaq Ali, 2002: ii; my translation). He further says that the communalization
of these two languages is evident, as one can see that in Hindi if the characters
are given Hindu names, in Urdu they are given Muslim names.20 I would argue
that the reasons for the differing versions should be traced in the different
readerships that Premchand was addressing. And these two readerships were
different not only in their religious practices and cultural traditions and cultural
symbols, but also in their class differences, in their reading habits, and the
literary traditions they inherited. To quote Alok Rai again: ‘Only a deeper study
will reveal what was thought to deserve utterance in what tradition and what was
considered redundant. One can see the emerging mental disposition of that
period hidden in these differing utterances.’21 (Alok Rai and Mushtaq Ali, op
cit., my translation)

Premchand in English
In an article, ‘Nirmala Translated: Premchand’s Heroine in English Dress’,
Rupert Snell raises the question, ‘Is Premchand translatable?’ and then answers
quickly, ‘In a word—no: the subtext of purity borne by the very title “Nirmala”
is denied to those who access this novel only through English’ (Snell 2001, 307).
Snell rightly underlines the fact that all the linguistic and cultural resonances
evoked by a word or phrase cannot be transferred to the target language. But this
is the translator’s challenge—not to produce a ‘perfect’ translation, which is an
impossibility, but to gesture towards a universe of possibilities, of cultural
nuances invested in the original text. Snell further surmises that few readers
would be moved by Premchand if they were to read him only in English, a
proposition that one finds contestable. After all, the most widely read fiction
writers in contemporary times—Orhan Pamuk, Milan Kundera, Haruki
Murakami—are read overwhelmingly in their English translations rather than the
original languages, and readers are still profoundly moved by them.22
Snell’s proposition will not hold good for a multilingual country like India,
where the richness of literature in many languages is accessed through English.
The question one really needs to address concerns the kind of English that is
employed to ensure that the voice of the original author is not drowned in what
Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak characterizes as ‘. . . a sort of with-it translatese, so
that literature by a woman in Palestine begins to resemble, in the feel of its
prose, something by a man in Taiwan.’23 Any apparent unevenness and
angularity should be retained, and cultural nuances must be preserved and not
flattened out. In contemporary India, where the largest archive on Indian
literatures and their interrelationships are being created not in any Indian
language but in English, the importance of translation in this language cannot be
overemphasized. In the multilingual classrooms and literary meets and festivals
in India, English often acts as an ice-breaker and a catalyst for entry into the
multilingual world, which is the Indian reality. English is also being moulded for
this purpose by writers who are writing originally in English and translators who
are translating works from Indian languages into English.24
Premchand has been translated by a number of translators with differing
degrees of competence and success. Elsewhere, I have dealt comprehensively
with the history of Premchand translations in English and the challenges
thereof.25 Most of the challenges articulated in the essay—like the varying
registers of the original, irregular punctuation, instability of the meaning of
words and phrases in the original, and allusiveness—are valid for this anthology
too. Premchand’s world is culturally so rich that any translator will have to
grapple with the phenomenon of cultural untranslatability. Not to speak of
English, sometimes one finds that the cultural resonances of the phrases even in
Hindi and Urdu are not the same. Gregory Rabassa, the famed translator from
Spanish, has pointed to this phenomenon succinctly as follows: A ‘language will
load a word down with all manner of cultural barnacles . . . bearing it off on a
different tangent from a word in another tongue meant to describe the same
thing.’ (Rabassa 2005, 6). Attempts have been made to preserve these ‘cultural
barnacles’ rather than eliminate them, even if it means straining the idiom in
English. Inevitably, it has involved a series of particular, contingent judgements
and ad hoc decisions that could not always be anticipated. These decisions have
also differed from story to story. And that is why there are sentence structures
and turns of phrases which might seem infelicitous in English but will give the
reader some clue to the linguistic varieties and speech patterns of the characters
in the original and the ways in which some ideas are expressed in it. Rather than
assimilating the foreignness and cultural specificity of the original in a
universalist idiom, attempts have been made to preserve both linguistic and
cultural nuances, allowing the English to attain a certain measure of both
readability and ‘bi-culturality’.
Premchand was writing at a time when the protocols of style, including
punctuation, in both Urdu and Hindi were not yet settled. The editorial
endeavour here has been to bring the text in line with the modern conventions of
prose writing in English. That involved changes in the format of dialogue
writing, the appropriate use of quotation marks, the use of italics for both interior
monologue where characters internalize their thoughts, and emphasis, and
splitting or joining paragraphs. Short, choppy sentences that come in a string
without subjects or subordinating clauses in Hindi or Urdu have sometimes been
joined together to make coherent, intelligible sentences in English. The Roman
script has the advantage of having letters in both lower and upper cases and
modern computer technology has made it easier to write the script in bold or
italics for varying purposes that have been used discreetly. Translators are, after
all, interpreters of the text they are translating, and if a certain device of the
Roman script was helpful in expressing the intended meaning of the original,
they were encouraged to use this device to bring the text in line with modern
prose. However, such instances are minimal and have been resorted to only after
careful reflection.

A Plea for Humility

Premchand scholarship is very much a work in progress. Textual research on
him has remained bogged down by the lack of availability of original
manuscripts. Scholars have tried to gather works from journals and magazines in
Urdu and Hindi, and in the process committed errors because of logistical or
linguistic inadequacy.26 These journals and magazines often operated on a shaky
and tight budget and had very little or no editing rigour. Mistakes of the
calligrapher, compositor or proofreader often went unchecked and undetected,
and thus became part of the text. All this makes it difficult to arrive at a
definitive version of the text. On our part, too, there is no claim to finality, only
an assertion that all efforts have been made to collate texts from different
sources to arrive at the final version. We request discerning scholars and readers
to bring any errors and inadequacies in our versions to our notice, however grave
or trivial they may be, so that they can be corrected in later editions.

New Delhi November 2017

M. Asaduddin

Works cited

Asaduddin, M. (ed). Premchand in World Languages: Translation, Reception

and Cinematic Representations. New Delhi: Routledge, 2016.

Gopal, Madan. Munshi Premchand: A Literary Biography. Bombay: Asia

Publishing House, 1964.

Hansen, Kathryn and David Lelyveld (eds). A Wilderness of Possibilities: Urdu

Studies in Transnational Perspective. New Delhi: Oxford University Press,
2005.

Orsini, Francesca (ed). The Oxford India Premchand. New Delhi: Oxford
University Press, 2003.

Rabassa, Gregory. If This Be Treason: Translation and Its Dyscontents, a

Memoir. New York: New Directions, 2005.

Rai, Alok and Mushtaq Ali (eds). Samaksh: Premchand ki Bees Urdu–Hindi
Kahaniyon ka Samantar Paath. Allahabad: Hans Prakashan, 2002.
Rai, Amrit. Premchand: A Life. Translated from the Hindi by Harish Trivedi.
Bombay: People’s Publishing House, 1982.

Rai, Amrit (ed). Vividh Prasang, Allahabad, 1978.

Roadarmel, Gordon C. The Gift of a Cow: A Translation of the Classic Novel

Godaan. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2002.

Venuti, Lawrence (ed). The Translation Studies Reader. Second edition, New
York & London: Routledge, 2002.
 Premonition

It was a moonlit night. A pleasant breeze blew in the beautiful garden. Lying in
his large terrace, Kunwar Amarnath told Manorama, ‘Don’t you worry. I’ll come
back soon.’
Looking at him helplessly, Manorama said, ‘Why don’t you take me along?’
‘You’ll have a tough time there. I’ll be all over the place all day long. It’s a
hilly region, all jungle and wilderness, there’s no village for miles together. To
top it all, there’s the fear of ferocious beasts. You won’t be able to bear it.’
‘You aren’t used to these hardships either.’
‘I’m a man! When the need arises I can face anything.’
‘I too am a woman, when the need arises I can also jump into the fire. To
think of women as delicate is a figment of men’s poetic imagination. They may
not be strong but they are so patient and brave that even the most trying of times
cannot overpower them.’
Amarnath looked at Manorama adoringly and said, ‘I agree, but something
which we’ve believed for so long cannot be erased in a moment. I can never see
you in pain, I’ll feel very bad. Look at the splendour of the moon!’
‘Don’t try to distract me. I’m not being stubborn, but my life here will become
unbearable. I am in a strange state of mind. When you are not with me, all kinds
of doubts creep into my mind. When you go hunting I fear for you lest your
horse play the mischief. I wonder whether you’ve got hurt. When it comes to
you, I’m always haunted by strange fears.’
‘But I am a hedonist, a pleasure seeker. You do injustice to yourself by
wasting so much affection on me.’
Manorama’s eyes said that she understood him better than she understood
herself.
Then famine struck Bundelkhand.1 People survived on the bark of trees.
Hunger erased the difference between the edible and the inedible. When children
were being sold for a pittance, what could be said about animals? It was a busy
time for Christian missionaries—their orphanages filled with children who were
continuously herded in like sheep. Maternal love was sacrificed for a handful of
grain. Amarnath was the manager of the Kashi Seva Samiti. When he read about
this in the newspapers, he was deeply anguished. He organized a band of young
people of the Samiti and arrived in Bundelkhand. He promised Manorama that
he would write a letter to her every day and return as soon as he could.
For a week he kept his word but gradually his letters became rarer. Often the
places he visited were very far from post offices. From such places it was
impossible to send a daily letter. Manorama became restless with the pangs of
separation. She would sit distracted in abject misery, sometimes downstairs,
sometimes upstairs, and at other times in the garden. Till she received a letter she
would remain fretful. When she received one it was as if rain fell on parched
fields.
But when the letters thinned even further, her already wretched heart grew
impatient. She regretted listening to him, and not having gone with him. She
loved books but now she didn’t want to have anything to do with them. She grew
indifferent to all things pleasurable. A whole month passed like this.
One day she had a dream that Amarnath stood at the door, crying, bareheaded
and barefoot. She was horrified and raced to the door. All was calm there; she
felt a little better. She woke up the manager and sent a telegram to Amarnath.
But there was no reply. The entire day passed but no reply came. Another
night passed. Manorama lay in her room, without food or water, like someone
unconscious. She could only think about one thing. She could only talk about
one thing. Whoever came to her room, she asked over and over again, ‘Have you
got a reply?’
All kinds of fears haunted her. She would ask the maidservants to interpret her
dreams. She read a pile of tracts on the interpretation of dreams but her own
remained a mystery. The maidservants tried to reassure her, saying, ‘Kunwarji is
fine. If you see someone barefoot in a dream it means that he’s gone for a horse
ride. No need to worry.’ But Manorama was not pacified by these words. She
harped on the fact of the reply to the telegram; after all, four days had gone by.
harped on the fact of the reply to the telegram; after all, four days had gone by.
The arrival of a juggler to the neighbourhood is an event for the young folk.
The sound of his drum is even more attractive than the tempting calls of the food
hawkers. The coming of an astrologer is equally eventful. The news spreads like
wildfire. Mothers-in-law land up with their daughters-in-law, mothers come with
their luckless daughters. Depending on the situation, the astrologer makes his
predictions. His forecasts are difficult to decipher. His constructions of fate are
even more complicated and unfathomable than the lines of fate on the palm.
Modern intellectuals may have devalued astrology but the power of the
astrologer remains undiminished. Even those who don’t believe in him want to
hear him out. Every word of his has the power to inspire hope or fear, especially
his lethal predictions which fall like bolts of lightning set ablaze.
It had been five days since the telegram was sent when an astrologer turned up
at Amarnath’s doorstep. At once the neighbourhood women assembled there.
The astrologer made pronouncements; his readings of fate made some cry and
others laugh. Manorama got wind of it. She immediately invited him in and
asked him the meaning of her nightmare.
The astrologer looked all around as if for an answer. He leafed through
volumes, made calculations on his fingers. But not finding an answer, he said,
‘Is this your ladyship’s dream?’
‘No, a friend’s. In my opinion, the dream is a bad omen. She says it is
auspicious. What do you have to say?’
The astrologer was again at a loss. He had no clue about Amarnath’s journey.
Usually he had some idea of what had happened; this he would couple with
speculation and transform into invaluable astrology. His audience bought it.
Now, even the answer to his question had been vague. Disappointed with his
performance, he thought it advisable to support Manorama. He said, ‘What our
lady says is true. This dream is a bad omen.’
Standing there, Manorama began to tremble like the strings of a sitar. Building
on the ill omen, the astrologer said, ‘A terrible misfortune will befall her
husband. His house will be destroyed and he will wander across many lands in
distress.’
Manorama felt limp. She leaned against the wall, asked God for help and fell
to the floor unconscious.
The astrologer awoke to the difficulty of the situation. He realized that he was
in a mess. He reassured her, told her that she should not worry at all. He would
in a mess. He reassured her, told her that she should not worry at all. He would
ward off the crisis. And his fees need be given only when good news arrived. He
asked for a goat, some cloves and coarse thread. ‘It’s a difficult project, but with
God’s grace, it’s not impossible. See, Madam, what fabulous recommendations I
have got from British officials. Deputy Sahib’s daughter was not well just the
other day. The doctors had given up. When she wore my special amulet, she
recovered in no time. Only yesterday a bagful of cash went missing from Seth
Chandulal’s house. No one had a clue where to begin the search. I made my
calculations—the thief was caught. It was the work of his manager. The bag
reappeared in the same way that it went.’
The astrologer was holding forth on his magical powers while Manorama lay
unconscious.
Suddenly, she sat up, called the manager, and said, ‘Prepare for the journey,
I’m going to take the evening train to Bundelkhand.’
On reaching the station, Manorama sent Amarnath a telegram: I’m coming.
His last letter said he was in Kabrai, so she booked a ticket for Kabrai. But she
had been sleepless for many days. The moment she sat on the train, she fell
asleep, and as soon as she fell asleep, unwanted fears took the form of
nightmares.
She saw a vast expanse of sea in which a wrecked boat bobbed up and down
on the stormy waters. A boat without a sailor or sails or oars. The waves would
sometimes toss the boat around. But then suddenly Manorama could see a man
on it. The man was none other than Amarnath, bareheaded, barefoot, crying.
Manorama trembled like a leaf. The boat would capsize any minute. She woke
up with a loud scream, her body drenched in sweat, her heart pounding. She
immediately got up, splashed her face with water and decided to fight sleep.
What a terrible sight! Great God—you are my sole refuge. Look after him!
She craned her neck out of the window. The stars were streaming across the
sky. Her watch showed that it was noon. She was surprised that she had had such
a long sleep, even though she felt at that moment that she hadn’t slept a wink!
She picked up a book and tried to concentrate. Soon, the train reached Prayag.
It was time to change trains. Once again she opened the book and this time she
began to read aloud. But she could not fight sleep. Her eyelids grew heavy and
her head began to nod. Yet another vision came to her.
She saw the peak of a mountain merging with the sky. The trees at the top
 She saw the peak of a mountain merging with the sky. The trees at the top
looked like saplings. Dark clouds hung low. Lightning crackled with deafening
force as it struck here and there. At the top sat a bareheaded man. His tears were
clearly visible. Manorama had a sinking feeling it was Amarnath. He wanted to
come down but could not find a foothold. He turned ashen. All at once there was
a clap of thunder, a flash of light, and Amarnath became invisible. Manorama
woke up again with a scream. Her heart beat fast, her head spun. The moment
she woke up her eyes streamed with tears. She stood up and with folded hands
began to plead with God: ‘Lord, these terrible dreams of mine, who knows what
he’s going through. You are a friend of the needy, have pity on me. I have no
desire for wealth or property. I’ll be happy living in a hut—all I want is for him
to be well. Please grant this little wish of mine.’
She again sat in her place. The beauty of the sunrise and the cool, pleasant
breeze enchanted her. The night was over after all. Now she could stay awake.
And there were so many things to see among the mountains. Herds of sheep
along the hilly tracks, somewhere in the foothills were a herd of deer, and
somewhere else a sea of fluttering lotuses. As Manorama gazed at it, she fell into
a trance. But God knows when her unfortunate eyes closed once more.
She saw Amarnath riding across a bridge. Below, a river raged; the bridge was
narrow, the horse occasionally neighed and tried to break free. Manorama’s
hands and feet froze in fear. She began to shriek at the top of her voice: ‘Get off
the horse, get off the horse.’ She leapt towards him and her eyes opened. The
train sped along the platform of some station. Amarnath stood on the platform,
bareheaded, barefoot. Manorama’s eyes were still filled with that terrible dream.
When she saw Amarnath, she was afraid he would fall off the horse and slip into
the river below. She immediately flung out her hands to catch him. When she
was unable to do so, in that sleepwalking state, she opened the door of the
carriage, and, reaching her hands out towards Amarnath, stepped off the train.
She was startled. She felt as if someone had flung her up into the sky and
slammed her to the earth. She felt a sharp shock and then lay unconscious.
It was Kabrai station. Amarnath had received the telegram and come to the
station. But this was a mail train and didn’t stop there. Seeing Manorama fall,
her arms outstretched, he had leaped towards her, shouting. But her fate was
already sealed. Manorama had sacrificed herself at the altar of love.
Three days later, he reached home, bareheaded, barefoot and broken-hearted.
Manorama’s dream had indeed come true.
Manorama’s dream had indeed come true.
Who could stay in this loveless place? He bequeathed his entire wealth to the
Kashi Seva Samiti and now he roams all over the world, bareheaded, barefoot,
like the man in Manorama’s dream. The astrologer’s prediction came true as
well.

Translated from the Hindi by Swati Pal

 The Murder of Honour

I have read the incredible and strange tales of the wonders of fortune in legends
and histories. I have witnessed kings becoming beggars and beggars turning
kings. Destiny is a deep secret. Women picked up as morsels from the streets
were placed on thrones of gold while those intoxicated by the wine of wealth,
and before whom destiny itself bowed, were reduced to dust in the wink of an
eye. But the story of my sufferings has no precedent. Alas, when I recall those
incidents of the past, my hair stands on end and I’m left wondering how and why
I’m still alive. Beauty is the source of all desires, and oh! How many desires I
had in my heart! But alas! They all perished at the hands of someone’s cruelty.
How could I have known that a day will come when the one who was ready to
give up his life at my smallest gestures would insult and debase me in this
manner?
It has been three years since I first stepped into this house, which was a
blooming garden at that time. I was the nightingale of this garden, flying in the
air, singing merrily perched on its trees. I slept on a bed of roses. Saeed was
mine and I was Saeed’s. We played the game of love by the side of the pool
whose water was clear as crystal and sang the songs of passion along the rows of
its flowers. The garden was host to our amorous trysts. Passing the wine of
ecstasy, we addressed each other. He would tell me, ‘You are my life,’ and I
would respond with, ‘You are my beloved.’ Our estate was huge. We had no
worries. No sorrows existed; life, for us, was pleasure personified, an insatiable
hunger. It was a magical spring where the flowers of desire bloomed and
happiness reigned. The world was in tune with us, the sky our friend, and fortune
happiness reigned. The world was in tune with us, the sky our friend, and fortune
in our favour.
One day, Saeed said to me, ‘My love! I have a request to make. Take care that
your smiling lips do not turn it down. I want to gift all my property, all my
estate, to you. For me, your love is enough, which is my greatest blessing. I want
to erase my identity and become a fakir at your doorstep. You be my Noor Jahan
and I will be your Salim, and spend my life drinking from the coral cups of your
hands.’ My eyes brimmed, happiness at its peak, transformed into tears.

But hardly had a year passed when I began to notice a change in Saeed’s
demeanour. Though there hadn’t been even a hint of discord or unpleasantness
between us, Saeed just wasn’t the same any longer. The one who had been
unwilling to part with me for even a moment now stayed away for nights on end.
There was no eagerness in his eyes, no yearning in his manner, and no warmth in
his behaviour.
I cried bitterly over his indifference for many days. The memories of our lost
love would torment me. I had heard that love was everlasting. Had that eternal
spring dried up so soon? Alas, no! It was still gushing, but it flowed in a
different direction now. It was nurturing another garden. In due course I too
began avoiding Saeed. Not for the lack of feeling, but because I could no longer
bear to look at him. The moment I would set my eyes on him, memories of the
thousand miracles of love would flash before me and my eyes would well up. I
still felt attracted towards him. At times I would be overcome with a desire to
fall at his feet and plead, ‘My dearest, why this coldness, this cruelty? What
wrong have I committed?’ A curse on this ego, it stood like a wall between us.
Gradually, the love in my heart changed into longing. The patience of a
defeated soul became the succour for my aching heart. For me, Saeed was a
forgotten melody of the spring that was over. The pain in my heart soothed and
the flame of love extinguished. Not only this, I lost respect for him as well. At
no cost would I suffer and pine for one who dirties the waters of the sacred
temple of love.
One evening, as I lay reading a novel in my room, a beautiful woman entered.
It seemed as if the room was aglow, shining with the brightness of her beauty, as
if it had just been whitewashed. Her perfect refinement, her heart-warming
elegance, her mesmerizing charm! How could I praise her? I was overawed to an
extent that all my own claims to beauty were reduced to ashes. I was
wonderstruck. Who could this lovely woman be and why was she here? As I was
about to rise involuntarily to greet her, Saeed entered the room, smiling. I
immediately understood that this beautiful woman was his sweetheart. My pride
got the better of me and I did get up, but with my head erect and stiff. The
admiration in my eyes had been replaced with scorn. To me, she was no longer
the Goddess of beauty, but a poisonous snake. I sat down on the bed again,
opened my book. She stood for a while, looking at my photos, then left the
room. She cast a look at me before leaving. Her glance was like a shower of
sparks, and the fire of murderous revenge seemed to burn in her eyes. The
question which cropped up in my mind was: Why did Saeed bring her here? Did
he want to smash my pride?

Though the property was in my name, it was just a farce as Saeed was still in full
control. The servants regarded him their master and would often behave
insolently with me. I was passing my days with patience and forbearance. Why
suffer when there are no desires left in the heart?
It was the rainy month of Saavan, a light drizzle was falling from the clouds
above. The garden bore the darkness of longing, and the light of the glow-worms
shining on the black-cloaked trees seemed to represent the burning embers of
sorrowing souls. I gazed at this display of yearning for very long. The glow-
worms would light up and turn off in unison, creating floods of light. I too felt
the urge to sing on the swings. The weather can wield magic on despairing
hearts. There was a summer house in the garden. I had a swing installed to the
hook on the roof of the veranda and began to swing in it. I realized only today
that yearning has its own spiritual delight which is unknown to fulfilled hearts.
My overflowing mood made me burst out into a love song. The rainy season is
symbolic of separation and sorrow. The song spoke of the agony of a pining
heart so evocatively that my eyes began to well up with tears. Just then, I saw the
flicker of a lantern outside. It was Saeed’s servant, entering through the back
door. Following him was the same beauty, accompanied by Saeed. The beauty
door. Following him was the same beauty, accompanied by Saeed. The beauty
came up to me and said, ‘Today, there will be a joyous celebration here, where
wine will flow.’ ‘Congratulations!’ I replied with contempt.
The beautiful woman said, ‘The musicians will be there. The tunes of bara
maasa and malhar will soar in the skies.’
‘By all means,’ I replied. She said, ‘Jealousy will rip your breast open.’ Saeed
told me, ‘Zubaida, go to your room. She is not in control of her senses at
present.’
The beauty glared at me, her eyes bloodshot. ‘I don’t even regard you as the
dust of my feet.’ I could take it no longer and retorted, ‘And what do I consider
you to be? A bitch that goes around licking chewed bones?’
Saeed, too, changed his tune now. He gave me a murderous look and said,
‘Zubaida, has the devil possessed you?’
Saeed’s words pierced my heart. They tormented me. The lips that always
spoke to me of love and affection were now spewing venom for no fault of mine.
Have I become so low and worthless that even a whore can tease and abuse me
and I’m forbidden to retaliate? All the anger that had been accumulating in my
heart for the past year suddenly erupted. I got off the swing, and, eying Saeed
accusingly, spoke, ‘The devil! Has he gotten into my head or yours? I will let
you decide for yourself. Saeed, up until now, I had imagined you to be a decent
and respectable person. I did feel sad about your unfaithfulness to me, but I
could never imagine in my wildest dreams that you could be so shameless and so
indecent that you would slight and humiliate me for a shameless woman like her.
May God punish you for this.’
The beauty said aggressively, ‘You call me shameless?’
‘Of course I do.’
Saeed asked, ‘And I’m indecent?’
‘Without a doubt! Not only indecent, but also deceitful, hypocritical and
insincere. These words may sound bitter but still fall short of conveying the
extent of my anger.’
I was still making these statements when suddenly Saeed’s hefty servant
caught hold of my arms, and, undoing the rope from the swing, the woman
tightly wound me against one of the iron pillars in the veranda.
I can’t recall my thoughts at that time, but I had felt blinded, and it seemed
that the threesome were not humans but the devils of hell. A feeling of terror had
replaced the anger in my heart. Even if a supernatural agency had somehow
replaced the anger in my heart. Even if a supernatural agency had somehow
freed me from the ropes and placed a dagger in my hands, I would have done
nothing more than sit on the floor and weep at my helplessness at this gross
insult. I began feeling that this was probably a curse inflicted on me by God. I
was being punished for my neglect of observing namaz and fulfilling other
religious requirements. I was trying to recall memories from the past to ascertain
the possible sins I could have committed to earn this retribution.
Leaving me in this state the three evil figures went into the room. I had
thought that they were done with punishing me, but would the trio keep me
confined in this manner? What if the maids were to see me in this pitiable
condition? No, I was no longer fit to stay in this house. I was trying to figure out
a way to untie myself. But alas! Little did I know that my then deplorable state
was just a prelude to further forthcoming cruelties! I was still ignorant of the
murderous cruelty of which the weaker sex is capable. In my mind, I was
arguing with myself about the extent to which I was responsible for my own
degradation. Could I have prevented things coming to such a pass if I had not
talked back when the woman spoke so hurtfully? They certainly would have.
Like the proverbial female serpent, she had had every intention of stinging me.
Which is why she had begun talking in such a stinging tone, so that I flew into a
temper and accused her, providing her with an excuse to humiliate me.
It had begun to rain heavily. The showers had drenched me completely and it
was pitch dark outside. I was straining my ears to catch a whiff of the conspiracy
being hatched inside. The falling rain had blocked the sounds from being
audible. Just then the lantern appeared in the veranda once more and the three
horrid figures came and stood before me. This time the murderous fairy had a
slim wooden cane in her hand. My blood froze seeing the expression on her face.
Her eyes contained a bloodthirsty madness, teeming with frenzy. Giving me a
dirty look, she said, ‘Begum Sahiba! I want to teach such a lesson to you for
your sharp tongue that you won’t forget it all your life. My mentors have told me
that there is no lesson as long-lasting as the one that the stick gives.’
Saying this, the torturing soul struck a heavy blow on my back with the stick.
I reeled with pain. It seemed as if someone had placed a burning coal on my
back. I could bear it no longer. My parents had never touched me with even a
stick made of flowers. I began howling loudly. All my pride and sense of dignity
vanished into thin air. The stark and frightening truth of the stick had destroyed
all emotions. Probably, the hearts of those Hindu women who jump into the fire
all emotions. Probably, the hearts of those Hindu women who jump into the fire
to save their honour are made of iron. All I could think of now was to save
myself from this ordeal. Saeed stood there silent as a statue. I spoke with
extreme humility, ‘Saeed, for God’s sake! Save me from this cruel woman. I beg
you on my knees, poison me or cut my head off, but I don’t have the strength to
bear this torment. Think back on your sweet, heart-caressing words. Think of my
love for you and for its sake save me from this torture. God will reward you for
this.’
Saeed seemed to relent a little at this. Giving the woman a disapproving look,
he spoke, ‘Zarina, let her go now, since I ask you. Have mercy on her for my
sake.’
Zarina replied, offended, ‘I can do anything for your sake, but I can’t tolerate
words of abuse.’
‘Do you think the abuses have still not been suitably avenged?’
‘This is the value you place on my honour? I have even had queens serve me
as menials. What does her ladyship think of herself? Even if I were to carve her
up with a blunt knife, she would still not have got what she deserves for her foul
tongue.’
‘I can’t bear to see this torture any longer.’
‘Close your eyes.’
‘Don’t irritate me, I say. It’s time you forgave her.’
Zarina looked at Saeed with the utmost scorn, as if he were her slave. God
knows what kind of spell she had cast on him to deprive him of any sense of
family honour, status and the sense of human worth. She probably didn’t regard
him as capable of any manly rage at all. How wrong are those who claim to read
character from the face! What cruelty and hard-heartedness under the guise of
such beguiling charm? Doubtless, beauty is the enemy of physiognomy. She
spoke, ‘Oh! So you’ve begun to get irritated with me now! And why not? After
all, she is your legally wedded wife, while I am a shameless bitch!’
‘You taunt me. I really can’t stand the sight of blood.’
‘Here, then take this stick and give her a good hundred thrashes. My anger
will cool down. That’s the only remedy.’
‘You’re joking again!’
‘I don’t joke.’
Saeed extended his hand to take the stick but Zarina didn’t trust him and
 Saeed extended his hand to take the stick but Zarina didn’t trust him and
dodged, thinking that he would probably break the stick and throw it away. She
spoke, ‘Oh! So you’ll play tricks on me! Then let me show you my skill.’
Saying this, the inhuman creature began to beat me wildly. Writhing in pain, I
was screaming, pleading with her profusely, begging her, asking for forgiveness,
saying words of blessing for her, beseeching her to have mercy in the name of
saints and prophets. But nothing had any effect on that murderous woman. And
Saeed stood still like a figure carved from wood, watching this sad spectacle of
pain and cruelty. And he stayed unmoved at the crying and wailing that would
have moved even my worst enemy. My back was lacerated and bleeding
profusely. Wounds were being inflicted. Every lash would fall like a burning rod
on my body. I don’t know how many times she lashed me, to the extent that the
stick itself took pity on me and split into two. The heart of the wooden stick
burst with pity but the human heart refused to melt.

Having ruined and destroyed me in this manner the three evil souls left. Saeed’s
servant untied me before leaving. But where could I have gone? How could I
have stepped into that house?
My whole body was festering with wounds but the blisters in the heart were
far more hurtful. My heart felt full of lacerations. No space remained for human
compassion. I would have laughed to see a blind man falling into a well or
pulled a face on hearing an orphan weep. The condition of my emotions had
undergone a revolutionary change. To the extent that there was no desire for
revenge either. I wasn’t angry or sad, nor did I want to die. Extreme humiliation
had snuffed out even the wish to take revenge. Although I could have used the
law to ensnare Saeed, this crushing insult and shame inflicted on me was beyond
retaliation. Just one awareness remained and it was that of degradation. I had
been degraded and demeaned forever. Could this stain possibly be washed off?
Certainly not! Yes, but it could be concealed, and the only way to do this was
that I jump into the very abyss of debasement. The dark blackness of my dress
would conceal the darkness of the stain on my being. Isn’t the wilderness better
than a home whose walls have crumbled? Isn’t the riverbed preferable to the
boat which has a gaping hole in its bottom? The same applied to me in this state.
I made up my mind to make my ruin more complete, heighten my debasement
I made up my mind to make my ruin more complete, heighten my debasement
even further and make the blackness of my face shine brighter. I was
determined, though unknowingly, to avenge Saeed emotionally. I lay there all
night, alternatively moaning in pain and struggling with my thoughts. My
originally weak decision gained strength with each passing moment. No one in
the household cared to look me up. I emerged from the garden at dawn itself,
having shed all the inhibitions I might have had earlier. What cares does one
have for ponds and ditches after having dived into the ocean? I, who had earlier
been shy of even the walls of the house, was walking through the lanes of the
city without any hesitation, and where to? There where infamy is valued. Where
there is no one to scoff at you and the market of bad names flourishes. Where
modesty is on sale and where the sense of shame is destroyed.
On the very third day, I was looking at the sights and sounds of the bazaar
before me, seated in a prominent part of the flesh market on a high balcony. It
was evening, there was a milling crowd below, people jostled against each other
as they walked. Today was the day of the monsoon fair. Groups of people were
heading towards the river dressed in their best clothes. The priceless items of our
bazaar too were adorning the riverbanks. At one place some pretty women, who
were also rather brash, played on swings; at another place some of them sang the
folk songs of the rainy season. I found the excursion of this bazaar most
pleasurable from the banks of the river. It seemed as if all the other highways of
the city were closed and just this narrow street was open. And everyone’s eyes
were fixed on the balcony as if they were flying in the air and not walking on the
ground. Yes, the cultured among them did not have such unreserved airs. They
stared too, but their glances were sidelong. It was the middle-aged men who
were the most unabashed. Perhaps they desired to flaunt a fire that only youth
has. It was less a bazaar and more a theatre. People would crack jokes, not for
their personal enjoyment but to show off before the pretty women. Though they
would look in one direction, their words were directed somewhere else. It was an
assembly of mimes and clowns.
Suddenly, Saeed’s phaeton appeared. I had ridden in it so often. Pleasantly
dressed, Saeed sat erect in it. The town couldn’t boast of a more well turned out
and handsome man, so full of manly and virile youthfulness. He raised his
glance once towards me and dropped his gaze after that. The blood left his face
as if a snake had stung him dead. He said something to the coachman and the
phaeton soon vanished. The pleasure I experienced on seeing him at that time
phaeton soon vanished. The pleasure I experienced on seeing him at that time
reduced the pain and suffering of that terrible night to nothing. I had humiliated
him in my own humiliation. This dagger was certainly sharper than any stick. He
dared not look me in the eye again. No. I had caged him and condemned him to
lifelong imprisonment. It was impossible for him to escape this solitary
confinement because of his prideful feelings for his family honour.
The news came early the next morning. Someone had murdered Mirza Saeed.
His body had been found in the summer house of the garden. He had been shot
in the chest. The next piece of news came at nine. Zarina, too, had been
murdered that night. Her head had been severed from her body. Later,
investigations revealed that it was Saeed who had carried out both the killings.
He had killed Zarina first in her own house, after which he had come home and
shot himself in the chest. This typically masculine sense of honour revived the
love in my heart for Saeed.
I returned home that evening. It had barely been four days since I had left it
but it seemed as if it had been ages. The entire place had an air of yearning
hanging over it. Saeed’s smiling countenance rose before my eyes involuntarily
as I stepped into the house. A sigh escaped my lips. It was not that I was
grieving over Saeed’s suicide, for I could never forgive his criminal insensitivity
and masculine woman-chasing till even doomsday. What I regretted was the fact
that the craze for this woman had got the better of him. I can judge by the
condition of my heart at present that the wounds of Saeed’s infidelity and cruelty
will heal in due course, and I might even forget about my gross humiliation.
What will remain, however, is the mark of his short-lived love, which is now the
sole anchor of my life.

Translated from the Urdu by Baran Farooqi

 The Bookbinder

In my office, there was a bookbinder named Rafaqat Hussain. His salary was ten
rupees per month. He could also earn two or three rupees extra doing odd jobs.
This was his total income and he was content with what he had. I don’t know
what his actual financial condition was, but he always wore neat and clean
clothes and looked happy. Debt is normally an integral part of the life of people
belonging to this category, but Rafaqat escaped its magic spell. There was no
trace of artificial politeness in his way of talking. He was forthright in his views.
If he saw any fault in his colleagues, he would point it out to them in a direct
manner as he was very straightforward. Thanks to his straightforwardness, he
earned much more respect than the people of this status normally get. He had a
deep affection for animals. He owned a mare, a cow, a cat, a dog, many goats,
and a few hens which he loved more than anything else. Every morning, he
would get green leaves for the goats and grass for the horse. Although he had to
visit the animal shelter almost every day, his love for his pets never diminished.
People used to make fun of his love for animals, but he never paid any heed to
what they said. His love for the pets was selfless. Nobody saw him selling the
eggs laid by his hens. He never sold any of his goats to the butchers. His mare
was never bridled. The cow’s milk was consumed by his dog. The goats’ milk
was meant for the cat. Rafaqat would drink only the leftover milk.
Luckily, his wife was a virtuous woman. Although her house was very small,
no one ever heard her voice outside the house nor saw her standing at her
doorstep. She never gave her husband sleepless nights by demanding jewellery
or clothes. The bookbinder worshipped her. She would collect cow dung, feed
or clothes. The bookbinder worshipped her. She would collect cow dung, feed
grass to the mare, and make the cat eat sitting next to her. She loved the animals
so much that she did not mind giving a bath to the dog.

One day, during the rainy season, when the rivers were in spate, Rafaqat’s
colleagues went fishing. Poor Rafaqat also accompanied them. The whole day,
they enjoyed fishing. In the evening, when it started raining heavily, Rafaqat’s
colleagues decided to spend the night in a village, but Rafaqat left for his home.
As it was very dark, he lost his way and kept wandering the whole night. When
he finally reached his house in the morning, it was still dark but the door of the
house was wide open. His dog came towards him moaning and lay down at his
feet. A shiver ran down his spine on seeing the door wide open. Inside, it was
unusually quiet. He called his wife twice or thrice, but there was no response.
There was a ghastly silence. He checked both the rooms and did not find her.
Finally, he went to his stable trembling with an unknown fear as if he was
entering a dark cave. In the stable, he saw his wife lying on her back. Her face
was covered with flies. Her lips had turned blue and her eyes had turned into
stone. The symptoms indicated that she had died of a snakebite.
The next day, when Rafaqat came to his office, it was difficult to recognize
him. He looked as though he had been sick for many years. Completely lost, he
sat in the office as if he was in a different world. In the evening, he got up and
went straight to his wife’s grave and sat there in the light of an earthen lamp till
midnight as if waiting for his own death. God only knows when he returned
home. From that day onwards, he would go to the graveyard every morning,
sweep his wife’s grave, place garlands of flowers on it, light some incense sticks
and recite the Koran till nine o’clock. In the evening, he would repeat the same
rituals. This had become his daily routine. He was now living in his own world.
The outside world did not exist for him.

He remained in this state for several months. His colleagues sympathized with
him. They did his work and avoided troubling him. People marvelled at his love
for his wife. But a human being cannot live in his own world forever. The
for his wife. But a human being cannot live in his own world forever. The
climate of that world does not suit him. Where in that world can one find such
enchanting and pleasurable emotions? Resignation cannot bring ecstasy and joy
filled with hope. The bookbinder would generally remain in his own world till
midnight, but ultimately, he had to come out of that world and prepare dinner for
himself and in the morning he had to take care of his pets. This work was an
unbearable burden for him. Circumstances won over his emotions. Like a thirsty
wayfarer in a desert, the bookbinder ran towards the mirage of conjugal
pleasures. He wanted to see again that delightful show of life. The memory of
his wife started fading against his strong desire of experiencing marital pleasures
once again, so much so that there remained not the slightest sign of her memory
after six months.
At the other end of his mohalla lived his office’s peon, from whose family
Rafaqat got a marriage proposal. He was extremely happy. The peon’s status in
the colony was no less than that of a lawyer. People made several attempts to
guess his income. He himself used to say that when the government gave money
to farmers to help them buy seeds, he had to keep a huge bag with him as his
pockets were not big enough to hold his extra earnings. The bookbinder thought
that fortune was finally smiling on him. He at once grabbed the offer the way
children grab toys. All the marriage rituals were performed within a week and
the new bride came home. A person who had lost all hope and was disenchanted
with the whole world just a week back was sitting today on a horse with a
wedding wreath on his head, looking like a new flower in bloom. It was a
strange manifestation of human nature.
Before the week was over the new bride started showing her true colours. The
Almighty had not blessed her with great beauty but to compensate the lack of it,
He had given her a razor-sharp tongue to humiliate her husband and entertain her
neighbours. For eight days, she minutely studied Rafaqat’s behaviour and then
told him, ‘You are a strange creature. People keep animals for their comforts and
not to make life miserable. Why do you let the dog drink the cow’s milk and
why let the cat drink the goats’ milk? From today onwards, the milk must be
brought home.’
The bookbinder couldn’t say anything. The next day, he stopped giving gram
to his mare. His wife would parch the gram and eat it with green chillies and salt.
Every morning, she would drink fresh milk with her breakfast and make tasmai
almost every day. As she belonged to a rich family, it was not possible for her to
live without betel leaves. The consumption of ghee and spices increased in the
house. In the first month itself, the bookbinder felt that his income was not
enough to support his family. His condition was like a person who consumes
quinine thinking it to be sugar.
The bookbinder was an extremely pious man. For two or three months, he
endured that frightful pain. His face expressed his agony more than his words.
He, who had been cheerful even in the most dire circumstances earlier, was now
misery personified. Wearing dirty clothes, with dishevelled hair and an
expression of deep sadness on his face, he lamented day and night. His cow had
turned into a skeleton. His mare had become so weak that she was unable to
move. Even the sneeze of a neighbour could scare his cat. The dog could be seen
chewing on the bones picked from the garbage. Despite all that, this brave man
did not leave his old friends. The biggest problem was his wife’s sharp tongue
due to which he sometimes lost his patience and his enthusiasm. He would often
cry bitterly sitting in the corner of a dark room. Finding it difficult to be content
with what he had, his broken heart took the path of extravagance. His self-
esteem, which is a reward for being content with what one has, disappeared. He
had to starve on many days. Now, he did not have a pot for storing water. In fact,
he wanted to draw water from his well and drink it immediately so that it did not
go waste. He was no longer satisfied with cold water and dry bread. He would
get biscuits from the market and crave milk, cream and mangoes of good quality.
How long can ten rupees last? He would spend all his salary in one week and
then look for orders for bookbinding from private clients. Then, he would spend
one or two days fasting, and after that he would start borrowing money. Slowly,
the situation became so bad that from the first day of the month, he would start
borrowing. Earlier, he used to advise others to spend sparingly. Now, others
persuaded him to economize but he would say carelessly, ‘Dear, let me eat what
I am getting today, leave tomorrow to God. If I get something to eat tomorrow, I
will eat, otherwise I will sleep hungry.’ His condition was like a patient’s who,
after losing hope in medical treatments, stops exercising restraint on diet, and
wants to eat as many goodies as he can before his death.
But he had not yet sold his mare and cow. One day, they were sent to the
animal shelter. The goats also became victims of Rafaqat’s extravagance. Due to
animal shelter. The goats also became victims of Rafaqat’s extravagance. Due to
his addiction to luxury foods, he owed money to the baker. When the latter felt
that Rafaqat would not pay his outstanding dues, he took away all his goats
while the bookbinder looked on helplessly. The cat, too, turned her back on him.
In fact, after the departure of the cow and the goats, she didn’t have any hope to
get even a drop of milk, which was the last thread of love between her and her
master. But, yes, the dog was still loyal to him owing to the good treatment he
had received from him in the past. He had lost all his energy. He was no longer
the same dog that never let any unknown person or a dog enter his master’s
house. He still barked but without moving and with his head tucked under his
chest. It was as though he was cursing his fate.

One evening, I was reading a letter sitting near the entrance of my house. I
suddenly saw the bookbinder coming towards me. A farmer would not be as
scared to see a peon bringing a summons and a child would not be as scared to
see a doctor as I was scared to see Rafaqat. I got up quickly and wanted to go
inside the house and close the door, but the bookbinder was already there in
front of me. It was not possible to escape. I sat on the chair, frowning, knowing
very well why he had come. In fact, it is very easy to guess from his facial
expression the intention of a person wanting to borrow money from you. He
shows an unusual politeness and shyness which, once seen, can never be
forgotten.
Without beating around the bush, the bookbinder told me the purpose of his
visit.
I said rudely, ‘I don’t have money.’
The bookbinder bid me goodbye and left immediately. He looked so
distressed and helpless that I felt sorry for him. The way he left without saying
anything was so meaningful. It exhibited a deep sense of shame and remorse. He
did not say a word but his face said a lot of things: ‘I knew you would give this
reply. I did not have any doubt about it. Despite that, I came here. I don’t know
why. Perhaps your kindness, your affection brought me here. Now I am going. I
have no moral right to share my pain with you.’
I called the bookbinder, ‘Come here. What’s wrong? Why do you want to
borrow money?’
borrow money?’
The bookbinder saw a ray of hope. He said, ‘What can I say? We have starved
for the last two days.’
I advised him very politely, ‘How long can you run your house by borrowing
money like this? You are a sensible person. You know that everybody is worried
about themselves. Nobody has extra money to spare. And even if somebody has,
why should he get into trouble by lending money to someone. Why don’t you try
to improve your condition?’
The bookbinder said nonchalantly, ‘It’s all due to destiny. What else can I
say? Things which I buy for the whole month last only a day. I am helpless
before my wife’s gluttony. If she doesn’t get milk for one day, she will make a
scene. If I don’t bring her sweets from the market, she will make my life
miserable. If I don’t get meat for her, she will eat my flesh. I come from a
respectable family. I can’t afford to have a fight with my wife over matters
related to food. I immediately get her whatever she wants. I pray to God for my
death. I don’t see any other way out. I have tried everything but without any
success.’
I took out five rupees from my box and, handing it over to him, said, ‘This is a
reward for your self-respect. I did not know that you were so large-hearted and
courageous.’
A person who endures family conflicts is in no way less brave than a soldier
who fights on battlefields.

Translated from the Hindi by Faizullah Khan

 Atmaram

In Vedon village, the goldsmith Mahadev was a well-known man. From morning
till evening he could be heard tapping away at his smithy in his veranda. People
had grown so used to hearing this sound that if, for some reason, it stopped, it
would seem as if something had gone missing. It was his routine every morning
to carry his parrot Atmaram in its cage to the pond as he sang a bhajan. To a
stranger, the sight of his emaciated body, toothless mouth and bent back in the
misty light of the morn could easily be mistaken for that of a ghost! However,
the moment people heard the chant of ‘Sat gurudutt Shivdutt daata’1, it had the
effect of a cock’s crow and they immediately understood that it was morning.
Mahadev did not have a happy family life. He had three sons, three daughters-
in-law and dozens of grandchildren, but there was no one to lighten his burden.
The sons believed in making merry while the old man lived; after him they
would have to submit to the yoke of work. Poor Mahadev would sometimes even
go without food. At mealtimes there would be such a hue and cry for one’s share
of food that he would leave without eating anything and go off to sleep after
having dragged away at his coconut-shell hookah. His professional life was even
more strife-ridden. Even though he was skilful at his work, and his processes
were rigorous and his chemical procedures painstaking, he had to put up with the
harsh words of suspicious and impatient customers. However, Mahadev would
hear them out with an unruffled profundity, his head bent at work. As soon as
the quarrel subsided, he would turn his head towards the parrot and say ‘Sat
gurudutt Shivdutt daata’. The chanting of this mantra would fill him with utter
peace.

Once, by chance, a boy opened the door of the cage and the parrot flew out.
When Mahadev raised his head to look at the cage, the parrot had disappeared!
Alarmed, Mahadev rose and started looking for it over the tiled roof. If there was
one thing he loved in the world, it was the parrot. He was quite fed up with his
sons and grandchildren. The boys’ playfulness hindered his work and there was
no love lost for his sons. This was not because they were good for nothing but
that they would deprive him of his quota of liquor. His neighbours, too, he found
irritating because they would take away the fire from his furnace. If there was
any solace from these impediments it was the parrot! It did not trouble him at all.
He was at an age when peace of mind was all that he desired.
The parrot had settled on a tiled roof. Mahadev brought the cage along and
showed it to the parrot, chanting ‘Sat gurudutt Shivdutt daata’. By then the boys
of the village had gathered and were screaming and clapping. Even the crows
were cawing incessantly. The parrot flew outside the village to sit on a tree.
Mahadev ran after him, empty cage in hand. People were surprised at his agility.
One could not imagine a more beautiful, lively and moving picture of a man
chasing his desire.
It was afternoon and the farmers were returning from the fields. They found in
it an opportunity for some fun. Everybody loved to tease Mahadev. Some threw
stones, some clapped. The parrot took flight once again and entered the
mangrove, where it alighted at the very top of a tree. Mahadev, too, leapt like a
frog behind it, empty cage in hand. By the time he reached the mangrove the
soles of his feet were on fire and his head was spinning. As soon as he recovered
his breath, he picked up the cage again and began, ‘Sat gurudutt Shivdutt daata .
. .’ The parrot descended to a lower branch but looked at Mahadev sceptically.
Mahadev understood that it was scared. He put the cage down and hid behind a
tree. The parrot looked around, and once assured, flew down to sit on the cage.
Mahadev’s heart somersaulted and he began to chant ‘Sat gurudutt Shivdutt
daata’, inching towards the parrot. As he reached out to grab the parrot, it eluded
his grasp and flew away to sit atop a tree!
This continued till evening. The parrot sat on this branch, then another.
Sometimes it would sit on the cage or peep in to look at its feed in the bowls and
then fly away. If the old man was desire incarnate, the parrot was an epitome of
illusion. This battle between desire and illusion faded into darkness.

Then it was night and pitch darkness engulfed everything. The parrot was
perhaps hidden among the leaves. Mahadev knew that the parrot would not fly
away elsewhere in the night nor would it enter the cage; even then he refused to
budge. He had not eaten anything the whole day. It was well past dinner time
and he had not even had a drop of water, but he was neither hungry nor thirsty.
Without the parrot, life appeared meaningless, barren and lonesome to him. He
worked day and night because it was his calling; the other chores of his life were
a matter of habit with him. In performing these tasks he had never experienced
the slightest trace of liveliness. The parrot was the only thing that made him feel
truly alive. Losing it was like the soul giving up the body. Mahadev, who had
remained hungry and thirsty the whole day, would grow tired and doze off every
now and then. But the very next moment he would jerk his eyes open and in the
vast darkness his voice could be heard uttering ‘Sat gurudutt Shivdutt daata’.
It was past midnight when he was startled by the sound of some movement.
He saw a dim lamp burning at the bottom of a tree and some men conversing
around it. The smell of tobacco made him restless and with a loud incantation of
‘Sat gurudutt Shivdutt daata’ he made his way to the men to share their chillum.
However, just as a deer bolts at the sound of a bullet, all the men too ran away as
they heard him approach. Mahadev began screaming, ‘Hold on! Wait!’ It
suddenly struck him that they might be thieves and so he began shouting loudly,
‘Robbers! Thieves! Catch them! Get them!’ As Mahadev went near the lamp, he
found a rust-blackened urn and his heart began to throb with anticipation. He put
his hand inside the urn and found coins. He took one out and peered at it in the
light of the lamp. Oh yes! It was a gold coin! He immediately picked up the urn,
blew out the lamp and hid under the tree. From a respectable man he had become
a thief in that one instant.
Then he began to fear, ‘What if they come back and, on finding me alone,
snatch away the coins?’ He took a few coins and tucked them into his waistband.
Then he picked up a stick to dig several holes into the ground and filled them up
with coins, covering them with mud.

In his mind’s eye, Mahadev beheld a different world now, replete with desires
and apprehensions. Even though the fear of losing the urn was still imminent, the
desires had begun their work. A well-constructed house, a large goods store,
reestablishing ties with kin, the accumulation of all the luxuries of life! Then he
would set off on a pilgrimage and upon his return hold a prayer assembly and a
feast for the Brahmins! A temple, a well and a garden, too, were added to the
picture. Every day he would have the holy books read out to him and be
venerated as a saint!
Suddenly, it struck him—if the thieves came back, would he be able to run?
He decided to test himself by picking up the urn and running exceedingly fast for
two hundred steps. It seemed to him as if he had grown wings! All his anxieties
were laid to rest. The night was spent weaving dreams. Dawn broke, the wind
stirred and the birds began to sing. At once Mahadev heard: ‘Sat gurudutt
Shivdutt daata, Ram ke charan mein chitt laaga.’
This chant had been on his lips forever. These words were pronounced by him
a thousand times but their deep religious sentiment had never touched his inner
core. Just as an instrument would produce sound, so would he articulate these
words—meaningless and ineffectual. His heart had been like a leafless, barren
tree and the gentle breeze of these words had not produced any music. But now
this tree had sprung leaves and branches, and the breath of these words had it
resonating with music.
At sunrise, when Nature was steeped in a rosy hue, the parrot flew back into
its cage just like a star falling from the sky. Mahadev rejoiced and addressed the
parrot thus, ‘Come, Atmaram, you gave me a lot of trouble but you also brought
me luck. I’ll keep you in a silver cage and gild it with gold.’ Every particle of his
being sang praises of the Almighty. ‘O God! How benevolent of you! It has to be
your infinite love or else how would a sinner and low person like me be the
recipient of your grace?’ These pure thoughts caused an overflow of emotions
and in reverential tones he spoke out—‘Sat gurudutt shivdutt daata, Ram ke
charan mein chitt laaga.’
He hung the cage on his arm, clutched the urn in his armpit and set off for
home.

It was not yet bright by the time he reached home, and other than a dog he did
not meet anyone. And dogs do not particularly care for coins. He hid the urn in a
large trough, covered it with coal and kept it in his cellar. At daybreak, he
proceeded straight to the purohit’s house. The purohit was at his prayer and in
deep thought—Tomorrow I have to appear in court and I don’t even have a
single paisa. None of the noblemen have even breathed a word about it. At that
very moment Mahadev arrived at his doorstep. The pandit turned his face away
—Why has this inauspicious fellow turned up? I wonder if I’ll get even a grain
of rice today. He asked grudgingly, ‘What is it? What do you want? Don’t you
know that it is the time for my prayers?’ Mahadev replied, ‘Maharaj, I plan to
hold a Satyanarayan prayer meeting at my home today.’ The purohit was
stunned. A prayer meeting at Mahadev’s home was as extraordinary as the
pandit doling out charity to a beggar. He wanted to know, ‘What is the
occasion?’ Mahadev replied, ‘Nothing in particular, I just felt like listening to
the stories of our gods.’
The preparations began right from the morning. The invitations went round to
the neighbouring villages. There was to be a feast after the prayer meeting.
Whoever heard it was filled with surprise—how had this grass sprung from
sandy soil?
In the evening, when everyone had gathered and the pandit had enthroned
himself, Mahadev stood up and addressed everybody in a loud tone, ‘Brothers!
I’ve spent all my life swindling people. I’ve lost count of how many I deceived,
how many times I termed the authentic as fake. However, now God has been
kind to me and has provided me with an opportunity to wipe the smear off my
name. I hereby declare to all of you that if anyone feels that I owe him
name. I hereby declare to all of you that if anyone feels that I owe him
something or have stolen something from him or that I have converted his
genuine goods into something spurious, he can come now and take back
whatever is his due to the last penny. If perchance, that person is unable to come
today, then from tomorrow onwards till a month, as and when it is convenient,
he may come and settle his account. There is no need for any proof or witness.’
A stunned silence ensued. Someone shook his head sympathetically, ‘Didn’t I
say so?’ Someone asked disbelievingly, ‘How does he plan to pay up? The total
may come to thousands!’ One thakur poked fun, ‘And what about those people
who are deceased?’ Mahadev replied, ‘They would surely have surviving kin?’
However, people were keener on wanting to know how he had managed to lay
his hands on such a huge amount of money rather than getting their money back.
Nobody dared approach Mahadev. These simple village folk did not know how
to dig out skeletons from the closet. Moreover, nobody could recall exactly how
much Mahadev owed them and the fear of claiming incorrectly was tantamount
to committing a sacrilege on such an auspicious occasion. The most significant
thing was that Mahadev’s saintly gesture had had a mesmerizing effect on them.
Suddenly, the purohit said, ‘If you remember, I had given you some gold for a
necklace and you underweighed it.’
Mahadev agreed, ‘Yes, I recall, and how much was your loss?’
The purohit said, ‘It couldn’t have been less than fifty rupees.’
Mahadev took out two coins from his waistband and offered it to the purohit.
Everybody began pointing out the purohit’s avarice. This was cheating! If at all,
the loss could not have been more than a few rupees. He had extorted fifty
rupees from the poor man! He did not even fear God! With such a poor
conscience, how could he call himself a priest? Good God!
People began to regard Mahadev with something close to veneration. An hour
passed and there were no more claimants among the many who were present
there. Mahadev repeated the request, ‘It seems as if you have forgotten your
dues. In that case, let the prayer meeting end today. I will wait for a month and
only then proceed on a pilgrimage. It is my earnest plea that you help me to
redeem myself.’
For a month Mahadev waited for his creditors. He would not get any sleep for
fear of robbers. He had stopped working. He had even given up alcohol. The
holy men and other guests who came to his door would be treated generously.
His fame spread far and wide. The month passed by and not a single person
His fame spread far and wide. The month passed by and not a single person
turned up to claim anything. It now dawned on Mahadev how much goodness
and right conduct there was in this world! The world was a bad place for evil
people and good for the righteous!

Fifty years have gone by. If you go to Vedon village, you can see a golden urn
from afar. It is placed at the thakur’s door. Adjoining it is a cemented pond
where lotuses bloom in abundance. Nobody catches the fish in it, and beside it is
a huge samadhi. It is Atmaram’s memorial, related to which many tales are
prevalent. Some say that the bejewelled cage ascended to the heavens and some
believe that it disappeared, with the parrot reciting ‘Sat gurudutt Shivdutt daata’.
The truth was that the moon-like parrot had been swallowed by a saturnine cat.
People say that at midnight one can still hear the incantation near the pond—‘Sat
gurudutt Shivdutt daata, Ram ke charan mein chitt laaga.’
Even about Mahadev there are many popular legends. The most accepted one
is that after having memorialized Atmaram, he set off for the Himalayas with
many sanyasis and never returned. He came to be known as Atmaram thereafter.

Translated from the Hindi by Deeba Zafir

 The Correction

The gardener Durga worked at the bar-at-law Dr Mehra’s place and earned five
rupees a month. His wife and three young children made up his family. His wife
ground wheat for her neighbours while his two children, sensible for their age,
foraged for dry twigs, leftover grains of wheat from fields, and dried cow dung
for fuel. Yet, despite this hard work, they lived in penury. Durga would often
steal flowers from the garden, keeping away from Doctor Sahib’s eyes to sell
them off to the temple priests. Sometimes he would also lay his hands on fruit.
This was his extra income which took care of his smaller domestic needs. Many
a times he requested Doctor Sahib for a hike in his salary, but for Doctor Sahib
any increase in a servant’s salary was tantamount to the spread of a contagious
disease which devours one and all. He would openly declare, ‘Look, you are not
bound to me. If you don’t find this salary good enough, you can always find
some other place to work. There is no dearth of gardeners for me.’ So, Durga
had no courage to leave a secure job and search for another. He languished in
this job and continued.
Doctor Sahib loved gardening. He had planted a good variety of flowers and
plants in his garden which he had procured from places such as Darbhanga,
Malihabad, Saharanpur, among others. He would be extremely happy to see his
fruit-laden trees and gifted his friends with bouquets of flowers and baskets of
green vegetables. He was not very interested in having the fruits himself and
instead derived greater happiness in seeing his friends relish them. During each
season, he would invite his friends over to his place for parties and his picnics
would be the star attraction of their entertainment.
would be the star attraction of their entertainment.
Once, during the summer, he invited some of his friends to feast on mangoes.
A rich harvest of Malihabadi Safeda mangoes awaited them in the garden.
Doctor Sahib had been watching over the fruits every day. As it was the first
time that the trees had borne fruit, he wanted to hear the compliments his friends
paid to the sweetness and taste of his mangoes. The mere thought of this gave
him the same joy a wrestler would gain by showing off the talent of his
apprentices. He, too, hadn’t come across such big and succulent mangoes. He
firmly believed that each of them would be so delicious that it was unnecessary
to taste them beforehand mainly because one fruit tasted would deprive one of
his friends from having it.
It was evening and the month of Chaitra. Friends had arrived and were sitting
on chairs in the garden beside the pool. Arrangements for milk and ice had
already been made but the mangoes had not been picked as yet. Doctor Sahib
had wanted to first show them the fruit hanging on the branches before picking
them so that everyone believed that the mangoes actually came from his garden.
When all the gentlemen arrived, he announced, ‘You would be inconvenienced a
little but you must come and see the fruits hanging on the trees. It is a sight
worth watching! Even roses don’t carry such a lovely blush as these seem to
have. Their colour seems to ensure their taste. I had got the cutting especially
from Malihabad and the plant was nurtured carefully.’
The friends got up. Doctor Sahib led them on the path to the garden, on both
sides of which were rosebeds. Pointing out their loveliness, he finally reached
the Safeda mango trees. But surprise of all surprises! There was not a single fruit
on them. Doctor Sahib thought perhaps this wasn’t the tree, so he moved a
couple of steps ahead; he found another tree, he moved on and found the next
tree. Then, he retraced his steps and stood below a Safeda tree in shocked
surprise. Undoubtedly, these were the trees, but where had all the fruit gone?
There had been around two dozen mangoes, but now there were none! Then he
looked at his friends with guilt and exclaimed: ‘How strange! This tree does not
have a single fruit. I had seen in the morning that the trees were laden with fruit.
Look, these are the stalks of the fruits. I am sure this is the mischief of the
gardener. I will break his bones today. See! How this rogue has cheated me! I
am very sorry for the trouble this has unnecessarily caused you. Honestly, I am
so pained by this incident that I cannot express it. Never in my life had I seen
so pained by this incident that I cannot express it. Never in my life had I seen
such lovely, luscious and tender fruit! The manner in which they vanished has
broken my heart.’
Having said this, he collapsed in a chair in great sorrow.
His friends consoled him, ‘Servants are the same everywhere. The very race
of servants is cunning. Please don’t worry about our inconvenience. Forget about
these Safedas, we can have other ones.’
One of the gentlemen said, ‘My friend! In fact, all mangoes taste alike to me. I
can’t make out any difference between varieties like Safeda, Mohanbhog,
Langda, Bombay, Fazali, or Dussehri. I wonder how you make a distinction by
their taste.’
Another said, ‘It’s the same with me, too! Please get us those that are
available. Why cry over spilt milk?’
Sadly pained, Doctor Sahib said, ‘There is no dearth of mangoes. The garden
is full of them. Please have them to your fill and also carry them home. What
else are they meant for? But, where is that taste and flavour? You won’t believe,
those Safedas looked as appealing as apples. Apples do look good but where is
the delicious beauty and ambrosial sweetness in them? The gardener is
responsible for this crime and I feel like shooting this ungrateful wretch. If he
comes before me, I will thrash him till he is half-dead.’
The gardener had gone to the market. Doctor Sahib asked his horse keeper to
pluck some mangoes. His friends relished the mangoes with milk, thanked him
and left for their homes. But Doctor Sahib waited for the gardener beside the
pool with a hunter in his hand.

Durga returned late in the evening from the market. He looked around with
suspicion. The moment he saw Doctor Sahib sitting beside the pool with a
hunter, he was frightened. He knew immediately that his game was up. This was
why he had deliberately delayed his return from the market. He had presumed
that by the time he reached home, Doctor Sahib would have left for a walk and
he would quietly sneak into his hut under the jackfruit tree. Meanwhile, he
would get some time to find an excuse by morning. He would then say, ‘My
lord! You can search my hut’, and the matter would slowly die a natural death.
Time is the best alibi for a successful thief. It proves him innocent with each
Time is the best alibi for a successful thief. It proves him innocent with each
moment. But when he is caught red-handed, there is no way out. Dried blood can
be mistaken for colour but fresh blood calls attention to itself! Durga stopped in
his tracks, his heart pounding with fear. Doctor Sahib had seen him now. It was
useless to withdraw.
The moment Doctor Sahib saw him, he walked towards him thinking of
thrashing him well. But he was an advocate by profession so he thought it
mandatory that he give him a chance to speak. He beckoned him and inquired,
‘The Safeda trees had plenty of mangoes. Now I can’t find even one. Where
have they all disappeared?’
Durga replied with feigned innocence, ‘Huzoor! When I left for the bazaar,
they were all there. If during my absence someone plucked them, I can’t say.’
‘Who do you suspect?’
‘Sarkar! Now, who should I name?’
‘But I suspect you! If you have taken them away, return them to me or admit
that you stole them. Else I will punish you really hard.’
A thief wants to save himself not only from retribution but also from insult.
Retribution does not make him as fearful as insult. Even when he is left with no
hope of saving himself, he will not accept his crime. Better to face the penalty
and be proven innocent than to be let off and proven guilty. Durga could have
accepted his delinquency and saved himself from punishment but he said,
‘Huzoor! You are my master, do what you may, but I haven’t stolen the
mangoes. You tell me, I have been serving you for this long, have I ever touched
even a leaf off the branch?’
‘Can you swear by God?’
‘I swear by the holy river Ganga, if I ever touched the mangoes.’
‘I don’t believe you. Go and get some water in a vessel, put some tulsi leaves
into it, then swear by it and say “If I have stolen the mangoes, may the curse
befall my son.” Only then will I believe you.’
‘Huzoor! Let truth prevail. I can swear by any God. When I haven’t sinned
why would any curse befall me?’
‘Okay, now don’t tell me stories. Go and get the water.’
Doctor Sahib was quite knowledgeable about human nature. He had to remain
regularly in touch with all kinds of criminals. Although Durga was acting brave
and bold, in his heart of hearts he was terrified.
He came to his hut but had no courage to carry the pot of water back. His
 He came to his hut but had no courage to carry the pot of water back. His
hands trembled. He remembered those incidents when divine wrath had befallen
those who had sworn falsely by the holy river’s name. Never in his life had he
experienced such heartfelt trust in divine omniscience. He decided, ‘I will not
swear falsely by the holy river. The worst that could happen to me is that I
would be chucked out of the job. I will find another job somewhere and if I don’t
find one, a labourer’s job is always available. Even if I plough the field, it will
surely provide me at least half a kilo of flour for the evening meal.’ He came and
stood empty-handed before Doctor Sahib.
Doctor Sahib asked him sternly, ‘Did you get the water?’
‘Huzoor! I will not swear by the river Ganga!’
‘So, it is proven that you have stolen the mangoes!’
‘Now, let the master think whatever he deems to be true. Suppose I did steal
the mangoes, I am your servant after all. I slog day and night for you. When
children cry for mangoes what do I do? Spare me this time. This will never
happen again.’
Doctor Sahib was not so generous. He was kind enough not to hand him over
to the police or to whip him with his hunter. Durga’s belief in the divine had
softened his attitude towards him. But it was impossible to keep a person of such
weak disposition in his service. Durga was immediately dismissed without
receiving half a month’s salary.

3
Many months later, Doctor Sahib visited Babu Premshankar to have a look at his
garden. He wanted to get some good cuttings from there. Premshankar also
loved gardening and this was the only common interest between them, otherwise
they were very different from each other. Premshankar was a contented, simple
and kindhearted man. For many years, he had lived in America, where he had
studied agricultural science in depth and, after his return, made this avocation his
source of livelihood. He held strange ideas on human character and the present
social system. As a result, people from civilized society ignored him and
considered him crazy. There was no doubt that people had a kind of
philosophical empathy with his principles but they doubted their pragmatic
veracity. The world is a field of action not a site for debate. Doctrines will
remain only doctrines; they will have no relation with direct sensory
remain only doctrines; they will have no relation with direct sensory
experiences.
When Doctor Sahib reached his place, he found Premshankar watering the
plants. A man stood at the well and was drawing water with the help of a pump.
Doctor Sahib recognized him at once. He was Durga the gardener. At that
moment, Doctor Sahib felt a strange pang of jealousy towards Durga. How could
this detestable creature, whom he had punished and fired, get a job in the first
place? Had Doctor Sahib found him shabby and miserable, he would surely have
felt compassion for him. Perhaps he may have given him some money, too, and
said good words about him to Premshankar. He was kind and merciful towards
his servants but this kindness and compassion was not at all different from the
kindness he felt for his dogs or horses. The foundation of this generosity was not
based on justice but was charity for the underdog. Durga saw him and saluted
him from near the well and continued to work. His pride pierced Doctor Sahib’s
heart like a spear. He was annoyed that Durga was better off after he was sacked.
The smugness he had for his own kindheartedness suffered a dent. As soon as
Premshankar shook hands with him and took him on a visit to the flower beds,
he asked him, ‘Since when has this man been with you?’
‘He may have been around for six or seven months.’
‘I hope he doesn’t pilfer things. He worked as a gardener at my place. I got so
fed up of his thievery that I had to sack him. Sometimes he would pluck flowers
and sell them, or else he would steal plants and saplings, and what to say about
fruit? Mangoes could never be safe with him. Once I invited my friends over for
a party. The Malihabadi Safeda mangoes had borne a good crop. When all my
friends arrived and I took them around, the fruit had vanished into thin air! You
can’t imagine how embarrassing it was! I gave him a good shouting that very
moment. He is a rascal and so clever that it’s difficult to catch him. Only a
person with the cunning of an advocate can see through him. He whizzes past
you with such ingenuity and brazenness that you are left gaping! Has he ever
fooled you?’
‘No, never. He has never given me an occasion to complain. Here he works so
hard that he doesn’t even take a break in the afternoon to rest. I have started
depending on him so much that I leave the whole orchard to him. Whatever
income is made during the day, he hands it over to me by the evening and it is
never short even by a penny!’
never short even by a penny!’
‘This is his ploy; he will fleece you blatantly even before you know. How
much do you pay him?’
‘No one is paid here. All of us share the profits equally. At the end of the
month, out of whatever is saved, ten rupees per hundred is given as charity and
the rest is equally distributed among us. Last month we made a profit of one
hundred and forty rupees. We are seven of us. Each of us got twenty rupees. This
time we have a good harvest of oranges. Green peas, sugar cane, cauliflowers,
etc., are generating good income. So, this time our share will not be less than
forty rupees each.’
Doctor Sahib was surprised and asked, ‘How do you manage within this?’
‘Very easily. I wear clothes like they do, eat food like they do and I suffer
from no vices. Here, twenty rupees a month is spent on medicines which are
distributed among the poor. This amount is taken out from the joint earnings and
no one has any objection to it. The bicycle that you can see has been bought
from this common pool of funds. Whoever needs it uses it. They consider me
more efficient and trust me completely. I am only their chief. Whatever advice I
give is followed by them. Nobody here thinks himself subordinate to another.
All of us consider ourselves to be shareholders and work hard to the best of our
abilities. Wherever one is a master and the other a slave, immediately there is
antagonism between them. A master wants to extract as much work as possible
from a servant. The servant wants to work as little as possible and has no
concern or sympathy for him. Both of them are actually antagonists. We have
already been witness to the ill-effects of such antagonism. People of different
dispositions have formed separate groups and there is a terrible feud among
them. The signs of the future indicate that this conflict will last only for a short
while. It will be replaced by cooperatives. In other countries I have seen the
dangerous consequences of this conflict and I hate it. Only cooperation can
liberate us from this misfortune.’
‘You mean to say that you are a “socialist”.’
‘No, I am neither a “socialist” nor a “democrat”. I am just a humble servant of
justice and social responsibility. I consider selfless service far better than
education. I don’t want the power of my mind, soul and intellect to be in
servitude to money and wealth. I have no faith in modern education and culture.
The purpose of education is evolution of the self, generosity, sacrifice, goodwill,
empathy, justice and kindness. The education that trains us to exploit the
empathy, justice and kindness. The education that trains us to exploit the
helpless makes us slaves to material wealth, submerges us in sensuous pleasures,
and produces a desire to suck the blood of others is no education at all. If fools
get trapped in greed and delusion, they can be pardoned. But, for the disciples of
knowledge and culture, self-centeredness is extremely shameful. We have made
knowledge and intelligence a pathway to reach the pinnacle of power and glory.
Ideally, it should have been a means to care and compassion. How strange it is
that the more learned a person is, the more selfish he is! Our knowledge and
intellect, enthusiasm and passion are all overtaken by our desire for wealth. If
our professors earn less than a thousand, they are unhappy. Despite earning a
salary of more than two thousand, our ministers and revenue officials curse their
fates. Doctors want no compromise with their fees whether their patients live or
die and our lawyers—excuse me!—pray to God for a spurt in jealousy and
hostility among people so that they can build a fortune out of it. We take “Time
is wealth” as God’s word. Each of these so-called great men snatch away the
livelihoods of hundreds and thousands or may be even lakhs of people. Despite
this, they claim to be the saviours of this class. They proclaim their love for their
community. Let others toil and sweat; they enjoy good food and twirl their
moustaches in smugness. I consider the entire educated class not only worthless
but also destructive.’
Doctor Sahib kept his patience and asked, ‘So you want us to slog as
labourers?’
Premshankar replied, ‘Not at all, though if this ever happens it would be the
greatest blessing for mankind. I have an objection only against the conditions
that lead to such unfair disparity. If a labourer can survive on five rupees, for a
person doing mental work, a salary thrice this should be good enough, and this
excess is only to cater to his need for better food, clothes, and other luxuries of
life. But why should there be an unwarranted difference in wages as in five and
five thousand, fifty and fifty thousand? Not only this, our society will never
condemn the huge disparity between five and five lakh, but only extol this as a
virtue. Administration, law, medicine, art, education, commission, trade, music,
and hundreds of other similar practices have become the vocation of the
educated class. But none of these can generate income on their own; these can
only flourish at the expense of others. I fail to understand why small industries
that produce life-sustaining commodities should be considered inferior to those
professions that offer mere entertainment or at the most aid in generating money.
Today, if all the advocates are turned out of the country, the executive class
disappears, all the commission agents go to meet their Maker, life will continue
as usual, in fact, more smoothly. Farmers will till the land, weavers will weave
cloth, carpenters, blacksmiths, masons, cobblers, and all the tradesmen will ply
their trades as usual. Their panchayats will decide their quarrels. But if farmers
go away, the whole world will die of hunger. If a farmer is paid five rupees, it is
taken to be a big sum, but for a doctor or an advocate, even five thousand is
less.’
‘You seem to forget the important principle of economics known as the theory
of division of labour. Nature has bestowed creatures with different capabilities
and different conditions are needed for their growth and development.’
‘Did I ever say that each one of us should be forced to do manual labour? No,
I didn’t. Those blessed with intellect and reason should interpret the shastras.
Someone who is sensitive should compose poems. One who hates injustice
should practise law. What I mean to say is that there should not be so huge a
difference in the prestige accorded to other occupations. It is unjust to have such
disparity between a white collar job and physical labour. It goes against the law
of nature that unimportant and non-essential work should take precedence over
more important and essential ones. Some gentlemen believe that this fairness
will discount worthy people and the world would be poorer by being deprived of
their good deeds and thoughts. What they lose sight of is that the greatest
scholars, poets, inventors, teachers were free from any aspiration for opulence
and power. One of the ill effects of our fake life is also that we perforce become
poets or teachers. As a result, we have innumerable writers and poets, lawyers
and teachers in this world. All of them are like burdens on this earth. It’s only
when they realize that these divine faculties promise no gains, only those who
actually want to be poets will become poets. In brief, I just have to say that the
importance of money has completely disturbed the balance in society.’
Doctor Sahib was now impatient and said, ‘Mister, this kind of social system
may be suitable for the heavens above, but it is just not relevant for this material
world.’
Premshankar replied, ‘This is how the power of the affluent, the landlords and
the educated class is maintained. But even before this, power centres have
suffered a big blow. Signs indicate that in the near future they shall taste defeat
suffered a big blow. Signs indicate that in the near future they shall taste defeat
again. Perhaps this defeat shall be the defining moment. The social cycle begins
in equality and ends in equality. Sole proprietorship, sovereignty of the rich, the
power of trade and commerce are at its core. The present cycle has reached this
median point and is now moving towards its destination. But we are so
intoxicated by power and authority that we fail to see what stands before us. We
can hear the deafening call of democracy but we are convinced that it is only an
ordinary thunder of clouds. We are still engrossed in that knowledge and those
arts which depend on others’ hard work. Educational institutions are flourishing,
our courts are crammed, every nook and corner has a photo studio, doctors
outnumber patients, but our eyes are still closed. We don’t venture out of this
artificial lifestyle, the allure of this culture. We set up industries in cities to make
us fat and obese on workers’ earnings. We are jubilant to extract a profit of thirty
rupees and forty rupees per hundred. We have never come across any educated
person who has ever taken up weaving cloth or ploughing land. Unfortunately, if
someone does it, he is made fun of. We consider only those people worthy of our
honour and respect who lounge comfortably without having to move their limbs
and prosper as moneylenders and usurers by earning interest in lakhs.’
These were the topics of conversation when Durga the gardener came up with
a basket of cauliflower, guavas, green peas and oranges, all neatly arranged, and
placed it before Doctor Sahib. He looked so self-assured as though his soul had
awakened. He came and sat near Doctor Sahib and asked, ‘Huzoor! What kind
of cuttings do you want? Please give their names to Babuji on a piece of paper. I
will deliver them to your place by tomorrow. I hope your children are fine!’
Doctor Sahib was a trifle embarrassed and replied, ‘Yes, my boys are okay.
How are you?’
‘With your blessings I am happy here.’
When Doctor Sahib finally got up to leave, Premshankar went to the gate to
see him off. As Doctor Sahib sat in the car, he smiled and said, ‘I may not have
been convinced of your principles, but there is no doubt at all that you made a
man out of a beast. It is the impact of your good company. But excuse me if I
say that you should still be careful of him. Eugenics has not devised a
mechanism as yet that can change the sanskars inherited by birth!’

Translated from the Hindi by Madhu Singh

 The Prime Dharma of Man

It was Holi. A devotee of laddus and lover of rasgullas, Pandit Moteram Shastri
sat on the broken bed in his courtyard with his head bent, a picture of worry and
grief. His wife sat close by, looking at him with true empathy, and tried to
extinguish his burning anxieties in dulcet tones.
After sitting for a long time, drowning in his sorrows, he said lifelessly, ‘God
alone knows where my damn fate is lying dead. It hasn’t woken even on Holi.’
Moteram’s wife retorted, ‘Bad times have fallen upon us. Ever since you
instructed me to, I have been asking the Sun God for a boon so that you get an
invite. I’ve been praying night and day, while offering holy water and lighting
hundreds of tulsi lamps, but that has all been in vain. When you are in dire
straits, nothing, no one, helps.’
‘Oh, that’s all nothing, these gods and goddesses are for name’s sake only. If
only they would help us when we need them, I would believe they exist. When
all is well, there is no dearth of freeloaders.’
‘Is there not a single good soul left in this entire city? Are they all dead or
what?’
‘Dead and rotting. The five to ten who do survive come alive just once or
twice a year. And they too, when they can gather the courage, might, at best,
feed you a rupee’s worth of sweetmeats. If I had my way, I would send them all
to the Kaala Paani prison; this is entirely the influence of all this Arya Samaj
business.’
‘You also keep sitting in the house only. In today’s world there are no such
generous souls who will send you an invite to feed you at your doorstep for free.
Once in a while you have to use your tongue.’
 ‘How do you know that I haven’t? Is there any rich man in this city I haven’t
visited and blessed? But who the bloody hell listens to me? Everyone is busy
doing their own thing.’
Just then Pandit Chintamani arrived. He was Moteram’s closest friend.
Certainly, he was younger and in keeping with that, his belly, too, was not as
magnificent.
Moteram asked, ‘So, friend! Any news? Has there been any breakthrough?’
Chintamani replied, ‘Breakthrough, my foot! No such luck any more.’
‘Coming from home itself?’
‘Brother, I will take sanyas. If this life has nothing good to offer, then why not
quit? Now you tell me, if on a day like this one doesn’t get something
worthwhile, then what’s the point of living?’
‘Yes, that is very true.’
‘So, you won’t be able to do anything? Tell me clearly and I will renounce the
world.’
‘No, no, don’t worry, friend. Don’t you know, without dying you can’t reach
heaven? You can’t enjoy goodies without hard penance and so I suggest let us go
this very minute to the banks of the Ganga and deliver a lecture there . . . who
knows, some kind soul may get the message.’
‘Yes, that’s a good idea. Let’s go.’
When the gentlemen got up and went towards the banks of the Ganga, it was
dawn. Thousands of people were bathing there. Some were chanting prayers.
Many were seated on the stools of the pandas getting tilak on their foreheads. A
few were even returning home in their wet dhotis.
Seeing both the priests, calls of ‘Namaskar’, ‘Pranam’ and ‘Paon lagan’ filled
the air. Answering these salutations, both friends reached the banks of the Ganga
and started their bathing rituals. After that they sat on the chowki of a panda and
started singing bhajans. This curious event attracted hundreds of utterly amazed
people around them. When the strength of the audience reached about several
hundred, Moteram said solemnly, ‘Gentlemen, as you know, when Brahma
created this Universe, he produced Brahmins from his mouth. Anyone here who
doubts this?’
The audience chorused, ‘No, respected sir, you always speak the truth. Who
can challenge you?’
 ‘So then it’s agreed that Brahmins emanated from the mouth of Brahma.
That’s why the mouth is the most important human organ. Hence, to please the
mouth is every man’s prime dharma. Is it not so? Is there anyone who disputes
me? Come forward. I can give evidence from the shastras.’
‘Sir, you are a learned man. Who can dare to contest you?’
‘Well then, now that it’s clear that pleasing the mouth is every person’s prime
task, would it be wrong to say that those who shirk the mouth are bound to suffer
? Is there anyone to contest this view?’
‘Sir, you are great, you are an expert in the Nyaya Shastra.’1
‘Now the question is, how can one please the mouth? I would say it’s each
according to his ability and piety. There are many ways—sing praises of the
gods, pray to the lord, attend satsangs, and don’t speak harsh words. All these
measures will please the mouth. If you see someone in distress, soothe him. All
these will no doubt please the mouth, but there is a better method, in fact, the
best and the most useful method of all. Is there anyone who can tell what this is?
Anyone at all, speak up.’
‘Sir, who can speak in your presence? Please oblige us by telling us yourself.’
‘Well then, I can shout from the rooftops that this method is the best. Just as
the moon is the purest of the pure of the heavenly bodies.’
‘Sir, we can’t wait any longer. Please tell us this method.’
‘All right then, listen, listen carefully. This method is—feeding the mouth
with the best meals with the nicest delicacies. Is there anyone to challenge my
words? Come up and I will give you proof from the Vedas.’
One man interjected, ‘I don’t understand how eating nice things is above
honesty in speech.’
A few others said, ‘Yes, yes, we too have the same question. Sir, please clear
our doubt.’
Moteram said, ‘Anyone else with doubts? I will be more than happy to clear
them. Gentlemen, you ask why eating or feeding others good food is a better
method than truth-telling. My answer is that the first method is direct and the
other is indirect. For example, imagine that I commit a crime. If I am called by
the judge and told mildly that I have not done a good deed, that I have not been
correct, then this punishment would not be successful in putting me on the right
track. Gentlemen, I am not a saint, I am just a poor man trapped in a web of
illusion. This punishment will have no effect on me. The moment I leave the
illusion. This punishment will have no effect on me. The moment I leave the
presence of the judge I will go back to my bad ways. Do you follow me? Do you
doubt what I am saying? Anybody who does not agree?’
‘Sir! You are an ocean of knowledge, you are a jewel among the pandits. You
are great.’
‘All right, consider the same example yet again. The judge calls me and puts
me in jail where I am subjected to severe tribulations. Now, when I am freed, for
years I will remember these travails and, in all probability, give up the wrong
path. You will ask, why is this? Both are punishments, so why is it that one
method makes a direct impact while the other one makes an indirect impact?
This is because while the effect of the first method is evident, the effect of the
other is subtle. Did you all understand?’
‘Wow! God has blessed you with immense intellect.’
‘Okay, so now you will ask, what are the best things in life? Let me explain.
Just as God created many colours to please the eyes, in the same way he created
many flavours for the mouth; but which is the best of these flavours? Of course,
it depends on personal taste but as per the Vedas and the shastras, it is the sweet
flavour. The gods are all entranced by sweetness, even Sachidanand, the
Almighty Lord, prefers sweet dishes above all others. Can anyone mention a
God who prefers salty dishes? Is there anyone who can name such a Divine
Light? No one. In the same way sour, bitter, spicy and piquant foods do not suit
the taste buds of the gods at all.’
‘Sir, your wisdom cannot be surpassed.’
‘So it is proven then that sweet dishes are the best. Now, once again, the
question before us is, do all sweet dishes provide the same degree of pleasure? If
I say yes, then you will all shout at once that Panditji, you are crazy, you’ve lost
your wits, so I will say no, definitely not. All sweet dishes are not equally
pleasing. There is a lot of difference between jaggery and sugar. That is why it is
our primary duty to appease the mouth. We should eat as well as serve the best
sweet dishes. My own view is that if you offer imartis from Jaunpur, motichoor
from Agra, pedas from Mathura, kalakand from Benares, Lucknow’s rasgullas,
Ayodhya’s gulab jamuns and Delhi’s sohan halva, then it is food fit for the gods.
The gods will be enchanted by these. And that brave and noble person who feeds
the Brahmins with such delicacies will certainly get a place in heaven. If you
have true faith, then I can only urge you to follow the call of dharma, otherwise
you will only be pretending to be human.’
you will only be pretending to be human.’
Moteram’s speech came to an end. People clapped. Impressed by this
outpouring of knowledge and teaching, they showered flowers on him. It was
then that Chintamani made himself heard.
‘Folks, you have listened to my dearest friend Pandit Moteram’s powerful
speech. Now while there is no need for me to get up and speak, I must say that
although I am generally in agreement with him on most subjects, I also have a
slight difference of opinion. In my view, if you are holding just Jaunpuri imartis
in your hand, then these would be more enjoyable, more tasty and more
beneficial than the five ritual sweetmeats. I can prove this by citing the shastras.’
Moteram said disapprovingly, ‘This thinking of yours is false. The Jaunpuri
imartis cannot compete with Agra’s motichoor and Delhi’s sohan halva.’
‘Prove your point.’
‘Prove the obvious?’
‘This is your foolishness.’
‘You’ve only gorged all your life, never known how to savour.’
At this Chintamani threw his rug at Moteram. Moteram rose to combat and
leapt towards Chintamani like an elephant gone berserk, but the crowd present
there separated the two mahatmas.

Translated from the Hindi by Swati Pal

 Black Face

They were faced with a great famine. Not a drop of rain had fallen for an entire
year. Dust flew in the fields. There was neither a grain nor a drop of water.
People would pull out the bark of the trees and eat it. Hot winds blew even at
night, and it seemed as if the earth was spitting fire in the afternoons. The earth
appeared like a volcano. Even people’s hearts had dried up. They would not ask
anything from each other. Everyone was trapped in their own misery. Huge
groups would gather in temples and mosques. People would weep and howl, but
it seemed that it had no impact. It appeared as if there was no mercy left in the
heart of the Angel of Death. Day and night, huge crowds gathered in front of the
houses of fortune tellers and forecasters. Small urchins would run around naked
in the streets singing ditties imploring the Cloud God to send some rain.
A chemist came up with the bright idea that he could bring rain through a
chemical procedure. People donated huge sums of money. Doctor Sahib tried to
create a magnetic impact on the skies, but without any luck. Neither did Indra1
melt nor were there any rains, and the public suffered more and more with every
passing day.

Helpless, one day, the people decided that they should plead in the courts of the
Muslim and Hindu saints. Their services were required at this critical hour.
Thousands of Hindus gathered and sat in front of the hut of Baba Durlabhdas in
protest. The Muslim populace gathered at the threshold of Khwaja Rasheed
protest. The Muslim populace gathered at the threshold of Khwaja Rasheed
Jalali. Both the saints had compassion for common people. Babaji sent for all the
holy people of the country. Khwaja Sahib asked for help from the chosen
religious people. Within a week, groups of sadhus and fakirs started pouring in.
Never before had one seen such a sanctified and holy atmosphere in the capital.
These people were famous for miracles and tricks. The public was positive that
even if these saints would only lift their eyebrows, Indra would not dare go
against their wishes. One day, Durlabhdas stepped out of the city with his group
of saints. It was a magnificent procession. The drum-beaters were mounted on
camels that led the procession. Following them were relics and pennants of
various kinds. Bells rang and conch shells blew in the rear. There were groups of
sadhus. Some were seated on elephants decorated with golden howdahs, some
on decorated horses, while some sat on beautiful palanquins. Their disciples
walked behind them, with umbrellas in hand, fanning them. A few steps behind
this procession was the line of the khwaja. Although they didn’t have this royal
glitz, the way they were dressed had the glory of the fakirs. After circling the
entire city, the procession reached a high mound. Here these people sat down to
plead with God. Some sat cross-legged to meditate while the others started
reciting the Ramayana. The devotees of Lord Krishna thought that singing
hymns in his praise was more than enough. Some saints started chanting the
rosary. Some were engrossed in their pain and some in heavenly pleasures.
Three hours went by like this. Millions of people were standing at a distance,
watching this sight. On and off, they would look at the sky to see if there was
any change in the clouds. The sun had reached its peak by the afternoon. The
faces had begun to get redder and not a portion of a cloud was to be seen.
Disappointed, people started to get down from the mound. Khwaja Rasheed
Jalali called out in a loud voice, ‘Such a state of the country is the result of the
injustice of the king. Till the time Raja Sahib does not lament in the durbar of
God, this divine wrath will not cease. All of you should go and fall at his feet.
You will only attain salvation by his intervention.’
Raja Prithvi Pati Singh was a man given to sensual pleasures. He was only
concerned with his own luxury and comfort. He would not step out of his palace
for months. There was only talk of music and festivities. All the rascals,
scoundrels and useless people were his close friends. New varieties of liquor
were tried every day. Foods of diverse assortments were prepared. He was only
in love with poetry and that too the kind which incited the fire of passion. He
himself would compose the thumri and dadra, and very often, intoxicated, he
would even dance with the dancing girls. He was unaware of the calamity in his
kingdom. His ministers were also selfish. It was in their vested interests to keep
the real condition of the kingdom from the king. Whatever problems descended
on the kingdom, money for the royal expense was managed. The common
people did not have the courage to interfere in the day-to-day affairs of the state.
The public was becoming disappointed with the king. They tried to tackle
whatever problem befell them, but could not muster enough courage to obstruct
the merriment of the king.
But when Khwaja Rasheed Jalali spelt out that this natural calamity could not
be cured unless Raja Sahib was involved, perforce, the people gathered in the
grounds in front of the royal palace and started shouting slogans. The
gatekeepers and soldiers tried to remove them forcefully, scared them,
threatened to beat them up, but the people were ready to give up their lives. They
refused to budge from there. Their unheard voices were being heard now, to
such an extent that it caused a hindrance in the luxury of the king. In anger, he
asked a gatekeeper, ‘Who are these people creating this ruckus?’ The scared
gatekeeper replied, ‘My lord, a huge crowd of the city dwellers has gathered and
is refusing to budge at any cost.’
The king asked, ‘What do they want?’
A minister replied, ‘Huzoor, I don’t know exactly what they desire. They are
saying that it will be their good luck if they could see the king.’
‘Why do they wish to see me today?’
‘Huzoor, I tried to make them understand but they are adamant that they will
not leave without being successful in their mission.’
‘Then shoot them and get rid of them. They should know that I rule them, and
they do not rule over me. They are my subjects and it is not the other way
round.’
‘Exalted lord! I have tried everything possible. I have a feeling that even if we
open fire, they will all be killed but not move from the decision that they have
made.’
The king thought for a while and then replied, ‘That means they have a
problem. Get my carriage ready.’
A palanquin was arranged in a moment. Apparently, Raja Sahib didn’t step
 A palanquin was arranged in a moment. Apparently, Raja Sahib didn’t step
out of his home without a carriage. Sitting in the palanquin, he appeared in front
of the people. At the sight of him people began to shout ‘Long live the king!’
The anger of all those people vanished the moment they saw their king.
Moreover, they needed him at that hour and so couldn’t afford to remain angry
with him. The real cause of their enthusiasm was that their hearts welled up with
such devotion at the sight of the king that it swept away all their complaints
against him, like the wind sweeps away dry leaves. The sound of ‘Long live the
king!’ rent the air. The people pleaded, ‘Maharaja, we’re in a terrible crisis. You
are our king. We will die without food and water if you don’t save us.’
Surprised, the king asked, ‘What crisis are you talking about?’
The people replied, ‘Lord of the impoverished! There hasn’t been a drop of
rain for a year now. There is total chaos in the entire kingdom. There is no water
in the ponds, the wells have dried up, so has the river. You are our master. This
trouble would only be solved with your kindness.’
‘I have come to know of this problem today. Was there really no rain?’
‘Come and see our condition for yourself. Without a grain to eat, our
condition is critical.’
‘Didn’t you all pray to the gods and perform yagnas?’
‘Huzoor! We have tried everything possible.’
‘You should have offered sacrifices to the mahatmas and sadhus. You should
have caught hold of Mahatma Durlabhdas and Khwaja Rasheed Jalali. They are
godly personalities. If they want they can have the whole area flooded in an
instant.’
‘Huzoor! Even these godly people tried their best but could not do anything.’
‘Really?’
‘Absolutely, huzoor!’
‘I have heard a lot about their miracles.’
‘O protector of the poor! These people sent us away saying that we must take
refuge under the king, and only the king can solve our problems. This heavenly
wrath can only be driven away with the king’s intervention.’
The king laughed, and replied, ‘What can I do when such great personalities
could not do anything?’
‘Huzoor. You are the master of this land, the ruler. If you take our prayers of
survival to the divine court then we are sure that our plaints will be addressed.’
Trembling, the king replied, ‘I don’t have any hope. I am sad that all of you
 Trembling, the king replied, ‘I don’t have any hope. I am sad that all of you
are plagued with these problems. But what virtue will come your way from the
pleading of a king who is always surrounded by seductresses, who is unaware of
the conditions of his people, who is always in a state of drunkenness, who is a
victim of his libido? But I don’t want to disappoint you people. I don’t want to
increase your problems with my carelessness. I am not capable of requesting
God for anything. I am ashamed to ask anything of Him. But shamelessly, I will
ask for mercy for all of you from Him. Rest assured.’

It was afternoon. The sun was spitting fire on the land, causing dread in the
minds of the people. The scorching sand was reeking, as if the helpless land was
emitting smoke. At that time, Raja Prithvi Singh stepped out of the palace. He
had no clothes or jewellery on his body except a loincloth. His hair was rolled up
and his face was painted with black soot. The blood-red eyes on his blackened
face seemed like red silk flowers on a dark cloth. His face was withered and sad,
and he was crying. He came and stood on the scorching land in front of the
palace, barefoot and without his crown. His ministers tried very hard to stop him
but the king had made such a firm decision that no one could dissuade him.
When the people heard of this, they ran and gathered at the spot. There wasn’t
a single soul who wasn’t moved seeing the king in that condition. They pleaded
with immense fondness, ‘Please wash away this black soot. We are pained to see
you in this condition.’
The king said nonchalantly, ‘Brothers, this soot will now be washed away
only by the rains that will come as God’s blessing.’
An hour passed. The king’s face was burning like a heated pan. His eyes were
emitting sparks. He was perspiring from head to toe. His brain was heating up
like boiling water. People worried that the king would faint any moment. The
people requested him humbly, ‘Lord of the impoverished, do not put yourself
through this strain. We are ready to starve, but cannot see you in this condition.’
But the king remained steadfast in his decision, his face suffused with the glow
of fortitude. He looked calm from the outside, but every pore of his body seemed
to send up the prayer, ‘My subjects are in trouble, give them succour. I am a
sinner, a disobedient creature in the eyes of God. I am ashamed to ask anything
of you. I must pay for my sins, and not my people. They are innocent. Have
of you. I must pay for my sins, and not my people. They are innocent. Have
mercy on them. I bow my head before you and am ready to undergo the severest
punishment. If my prayers are not accepted, I’ll lay down my life on this spot,
but I will not show my face to the people. I am your slave and do not have any
shame in appealing to you in distress. How can I face my people who consider
me their master?’
Two hours passed. The sun was becoming more severe. The earth was being
scorched. Everyone was staring at the sky but there was no sign of a single
cloud.

The entire city had converged to witness this sight. There was tumult in
everyone’s hearts. Tears streamed from the eyes of the people. Women were
pleading to God in extreme distress. Heart-wrenching cries echoed in the palace,
filling every heart with foreboding.
Although it was three in the afternoon, the heat did not let up. The eyes of
Raja Prithvi Singh had dilated, his forehead had shrunk. The effort to keep
control over his body and his wits about himself took its toll on him and his
delicate lips closed like petals. It seemed as if his blood had run dry; he had no
life. It was only his despairing fortitude that helped him stand erect on his feet.
The people had a feeling that he might fall at any time. Many believed that what
stood in front of them was not the king but just his lifeless body. The heat was so
intense that it was even difficult to stay indoors and bear it—the vultures would
leave their eggs and fly away, the insects would crawl out of the land and die, it
was impossible for any living being to stand even for a moment. Everyone was
wondering how the king, accustomed to royal comforts, was standing in the
blazing heat.
Suddenly, the sound of ‘Long live the king!’ rent the air, the earth quivered,
the sky moved, and it seemed as if a massive earthquake had come or two
mountains had clashed. Thousands of people started rejoicing and celebrating.
There was a kind of commotion in the huge crowd and many fingers pointed
towards the east. A small cloud was seen on the horizon as if a lamp was
flickering in the dismal atmosphere. Cannons were shot from the fort, and
women started singing songs of happiness. Queens started donating alms to the
poor and the needy at the royal gates. But the people were in a state of shock.
The first waves of pleasure had numbed them. Controlling their emotions, they
were looking at that small cloud with fear and anticipation. In a moment, it
started spreading through the sky like smoke from the cannonballs. The winds
were blowing. There was thunder and lightning. But these sounds seemed more
melodious than the hymns being sung in praise of God. People had been restless
to hear these sounds for many days. The sun was descending towards the west in
great haste. It seemed as if he was scared and, looking at the army of clouds, was
trying to save his own life. In a moment, it hid behind the clouds. The world was
engulfed in darkness. But this darkness was a symbol of hope, of God’s creation.
The clouds thundered again. Drops of rain began to fall. With dedication and
love, the people ran towards the king and fell at his feet. The king was still
standing straight. His blackened face was being washed by the raindrops and his
face resembled the moon coming out through the clouds. There was a spiritual
glow on his face and his eyes had a divine spark. He had sworn that his
blackened face would only be washed in the rain, and it had happened exactly as
he wished. This was because there was fortitude as well as the belief of divine
intervention and God’s help. Before this day, the country had never witnessed
such happiness, such relief, and such peace.

Translated from the Hindi by Saba Mahmood Bashir and M. Asaduddin

 Banter

Wife

I really am very unfortunate, otherwise would I have to witness such disgusting

scenes every day? Not only do I have to see them, what is worse is they have
become part of my everyday life. My father is a highly esteemed Brahmin whose
decisions in all serious religious matters and beliefs are considered infallible. In
my home, we wouldn’t put even a drop of water in our mouths before taking a
bath or before our prayers. Once, I had high fever and had to take my medicine
without a bath, which I regretted for months. The dhobi was never allowed to
even set foot in our house. And the chamarin was not permitted to even sit in the
passageway. And I simply detested playing with the sons of weavers. But here, it
seems I have arrived in a world wholly corrupt. My husband is a very kind and
capable man. My father was impressed by his qualities and had me married to
him. How would he know that these people were simply godless? Forget
sandhya and prayers, people here don’t even bathe regularly. Muslims and
Christians walk in and out of the sitting room at will. And my husband sits right
there, drinking water, tea and milk. He even eats sweets there. Just yesterday, I
saw him drinking lemonade. And the groom, who is a Chamar, comes straight
into the house and takes gram out of the sack. I have heard that my husband
visits his Muslim friends’ houses and eats and feasts there. I just can’t stand such
immorality. I’m filled with a sense of loathing. Sometimes, when he comes close
to me, holds my hand with a smile and seats me next to him, I wish that the earth
would give way and swallow me. I rue the style of life I’m compelled to live. O
Hindu community! Have you made slavery to man the prime duty of a woman?
Our thoughts, our beliefs, even our religions are of no value!

Now I can’t take it anymore. I want to resolve this today, once and for all. I want
to get out of this vicious circle. I can’t stand this life even for an hour more. I
have decided to take refuge with my father. Today, there is an intercommunity
feast here. My husband is not only participating in it, he is also one of the main
organizers. It is the result of his hard work and inspiration that this heretic
atrocity is being perpetrated. People of all castes are sitting together and eating. I
have heard that even Muslims are eating along with the others. O! Why don’t the
heavens fall? Won’t God take on an avatar and come down to earth to protect
our faith? Can one imagine a greater distortion of the faith? The Brahmins eat
only what their closest kin cook; they do not even eat what other Brahmins have
cooked. This great community has reached such a state of decadence that
Brahmins now do not hesitate to eat with Kayasthas and Muslims. On the
contrary, they see this as a sign of communal pride and unity.

Husband

When will that auspicious hour arrive when the women of our country will be
educated and help us men unite the nation? When will this religious
parochialism disappear? For how long will we remain trapped in the wiles of the
Brahmins? For how long will marriages remain captive to family prestige?
When will our people understand that in a marriage, compatibility matters more
than family lineage? Had this been so, I wouldn’t be Vrinda’s husband, nor she
my wife. There is a world of difference between our thoughts. She doesn’t often
express herself openly, but I am sure she simply detests my liberalism.
Sometimes I feel she does not even want to touch me. It’s not her fault; rather it
is the fault of our parents who have placed us in this oppressive situation.
Nevertheless, I’m happy that Vrinda has confidence in herself. Even in difficult
circumstances, she clings to her ideas firmly, even if her ideas happen to be
wrong.
Yesterday, Vrinda had an outburst. A number of my friends had suggested an
intercommunity feast. After many days of debates and discussions, some of them
intercommunity feast. After many days of debates and discussions, some of them
finally organized the lunch. There were only four Brahmins apart from me; the
rest were Kayastha or from other castes. This magnanimity was unbearable for
Vrinda. When I returned from the lunch, she looked very upset as though
someone had hurt her deeply. Looking at me with hurtful eyes, she said, ‘The
gates of heaven must have opened now for you!’
These rude words pierced my heart like an arrow. I said harshly, ‘Only those
who are lazy or lifeless worry about heaven and hell. My heaven and hell are
right here in this world. I want to achieve something here before I leave it.’
‘Thank God for your manly courage and endeavour! I am sure from today
peace and joy will reign in the world! You have redeemed the whole world! It
cannot expect better than this!’
I said irritably, ‘If God hasn’t endowed you with the ability to understand
things, how can I make you understand them? Even a stupid person can
understand the harm that discrimination has done to our country. There cannot
be any doubt that eliminating this will benefit our nation. Of course, it’s a
different matter that there are those who do understand these things, but choose
to ignore them.’
‘Can’t this mutual love be born without eating together?’
I thought it was futile to continue this argument. I felt I should take recourse
to a principle that was beyond debate. Vrinda was very devout and I decided to
defeat her on her own ground. We men do not have much regard for religious
beliefs. I said gravely, ‘It is certainly difficult, if not impossible. But just think
how unjust we are to our own fellow beings—we who are the children of the
same Creator hate each other. We are so caught up with who is superior and who
is inferior. The whole world is a manifestation of that one mighty God. It is the
same Divine Light which shines on all of us. It is only this physical form that has
separated us from each other. We are blinded by our own self-interest. In reality,
we are all one. Just as the sun’s light does not become different when it falls on
different houses, in the same way, God’s spirit does not become different when
it mingles in different human beings. Doesn’t the light of the sun fall on the huts
of the poor? I’ll say it falls more abundantly on them.’
This shower of wisdom drenched Vrinda’s dry heart. She listened to me with
attention. When I was done, she looked at me with devotion and began to cry.
The hearts of human beings are like iron pillars. It is difficult to erase the
marks on them. But we can heat them up and then leave new marks. The marks
marks on them. But we can heat them up and then leave new marks. The marks
of family prestige and national pride were removed from Vrinda’s mind. In their
place were imprinted the marks of the universal soul.

Wife

The words of my venerable husband have awakened me to a new realization.

This advice pulled me out of the dark pit I was inhabiting and raised me to the
luminous peak of a mountain. I have dishonoured many souls because of my
arrogance in the purity of my caste and false pride in my birth. O Parmatama,
forgive me for the bitterness and lack of love I had for my honourable husband.
Ever since I heard those divine words, my heart has become extremely tender,
filled with all kinds of nice thoughts.
Yesterday, the dhobin brought the clothes. She had a severe headache. Earlier,
I might have expressed verbal sympathy for her or, at the most, asked the maid
to give her a little oil. But yesterday, I felt very agitated. I felt as though she
were my sister. I made her sit next to me and rubbed oil on her head for a whole
hour. The heavenly joy I felt in doing this cannot be described in words. I felt as
if my soul was drawn to her by some strong force. Seeing my behaviour my
sister-in-law turned up her nose, but I did not care one bit.
Early this morning, it was extremely cold. My hands and feet were freezing.
When Mahari came to work, she was shivering. I was wrapped in a quilt and
sitting by the fire. Even then it was extremely uncomfortable for me to expose
even a part of my face.
I felt really sad when I saw Mahari. I was ashamed of my conduct. What is the
difference between us? The same light illuminates her soul too. I was sitting
comfortably by the fire and she was busy carrying out errands for me. Why this
injustice? Just because I am the wife of a wealthy man? Is it because my ego had
put a veil between us? I didn’t have the courage to think beyond this. I got up,
put my woollen shawl over Mahari, took her hand and made her sit by the fire.
She was taken aback and said, ‘Bahuji, let me go and do my work. The master
will be late for court.’
After that, I put aside my quilt and began washing the dishes with her. That
good woman repeatedly tried to dissuade me. My sister-in-law came, watched
me with great curiosity, then made a face and left, thinking I was amusing
myself. The entire house was thrown into commotion because of this little
incident! How selfish we are! We insult the Parmatama. Trapped in the fetters of
self-interest we perform all kinds of atrocities on ourselves.

Husband

It seems that women simply cannot follow the path of moderation. They resort to
extremes. Vrinda, who once attached such importance to her high-caste status
and national pride, is now the embodiment of equality and kindness. This is the
miraculous result of the simple advice I gave her. Now I too can really be proud
of my inspirational powers! I have no objection to her sitting with low-caste
women or laughing or talking with them. She could even read aloud to them for
their benefit. What I do not like at all is that she should forget herself completely
and literally run behind them.
Three days ago, a Chamar came to me, wanting to file a case against his
zamindar. No doubt the zamindar had been cruel to him, but it’s not a lawyer’s
job to file lawsuits for free. And then to take on a zamindar for the sake of a
mere Chamar! Well, would I have built my career if I had practised law like
this? Vrinda came to know of his plea. That was it! She kept nagging me to
accept the case. These days, she has developed a knack for debating with me
frequently. I tried to palm her off by making some excuse or the other, but she
would not leave me alone till I had taken the brief. The only result of this has
been that for the past three days clients have been lining up at my door, all
wanting me to fight their cases for free. I have had to reproach Vrinda several
times about this.
This is precisely why ancient scholars did not consider women fit to receive
religious instruction. Women just don’t understand that the practical side of
every philosophy is different from its theoretical side. We all know that God is
just, but does one forget one’s own position while thinking of justice? If we were
to bring into practice the idea of universal spirit, then there will really be a
kingdom based on equality on earth. But just as the idea of equality has
remained an abstract principle and will ever remain so, in the same way, the
political principle of equality is unobtainable and will remain so.
We will praise the two ideals loudly and freely and debate and theorize about
it. We will even make use of it to strengthen our argument before the public. But
it. We will even make use of it to strengthen our argument before the public. But
it would be impossible to follow it. I didn’t realize that Vrinda would not
understand such a simple thing.
Vrinda’s radicalism started becoming unbearable. Today, the same kind of
food was cooked for everybody in the kitchen. So far, for the family, fine quality
rice was cooked; vegetables were cooked in ghee; milk, butter and fruits were
served. For the servants there was always coarse rice, vegetables cooked in oil,
and lentils. Milk would not be given to them. This practice has been followed
even in very rich families. It is nothing new, and our servants have never
complained about this. But today, I saw that Vrinda had cooked the same kind of
food for everybody. The servants ate the same food as the members of the
family. I was too amazed to say anything.
Vrinda probably thinks that to make a distinction in food is unjust for the
servants. What a silly idea! Carried away by her fancy notion of equality, she
wants to obliterate the distinction between the nobility and the laity, big and
small. How stupid of her! This distinction has always been there and will remain
so. I certainly am a supporter of national unity. All educated people swear by
nationalism. But nobody imagined, even in their wildest dreams, that we would
give an equal place to servants and labourers. We want to educate them and lift
them out of poverty. This wind is sweeping every country in the world.
Although everybody understands what it really means, no one is ready to say it
openly. The idea is to become politically more important, to announce to the
world our greatness so that our nationalist movement has a greater impact. Then
we can claim that this is not simply the voice of a few educated people from the
upper class, but the voice of the entire nation. But Vrinda refuses to understand
even this.

Wife

Yesterday, this husband of mine revealed his true self. That is why I am so
distressed. There is so much hypocrisy and pretence in this world! We are all
such cowardly oppressors. After hearing his advice, I had begun to see him as a
godlike soul. I took pride in the fact that I had the good fortune of serving such a
noble person. Today, I realized that it is only those who know how to straddle
two boats at the same time are thought of as well-wishers of the community.
 Yesterday was my sister-in-law’s send-off to her husband’s house, the
rukhsati. Many ladies from our community were invited. They were all wearing
beautiful clothes and jewels and were sitting on the carpet. I was welcoming
them all. Suddenly, my eyes fell on the women who were sitting on the floor
where the ladies’ shoes were kept. These poor women had also come to witness
the rukhsati. I felt it was not right for them to sit there. So I brought them in and
made them sit on the carpet. The ladies began to whisper among themselves,
and, in a little while, one by one, they made some excuse and left. Somebody
reported this to my husband. He came in a rage and reprimanded me in full
public view.
When I woke up this morning, I saw a strange sight. The leaves from which
the guests had eaten last night, the clay cups and leaf plates used by the guests
were thrown on the ground outside. Many people were bent over them, licking
the leftovers. Yes, they were human beings animated by the same universal soul,
the Parmatama. Many dogs had also gathered there but these vagabonds beat
them and chased them away. Their condition was worse than that of the dogs.
My hair stood on end when I saw this spectacle. Tears began to flow from my
eyes. God! These are our own brothers and sisters, part of the same universal
soul. And their condition was so pitiable! I immediately sent the maid, called all
those people inside, and gave them the sweets that were stacked up for the
guests. The maid was shivering—if the master came to know, she would be in
real trouble. But when I comforted her, she felt a little reassured.
The poor souls were eating the sweets when my husband came in, enraged.
‘Have you taken leave of your senses?’ he asked harshly. ‘You are always up to
some mischief or the other. I just can’t understand what has got into you. These
sweets were prepared for guests, not for scavengers. Now what can I serve to the
guests? Have you taken a determined vow to destroy my reputation?’
I replied calmly, ‘You are getting angry for no reason. I will get you the
sweets I’ve just given away. I could not stand and see one person eating sweets
and another licking plates and leaves. The scavengers, too, are human beings.
They have the same soul. Don’t you think it unfair?’
My husband replied, ‘Just don’t go on harping on the same point like a silly
woman. All souls are the same indeed! If all human beings are the same then
who stopped God from keeping everyone in the same condition? Why should he
allow differences between high and low? What’s the point of this meaningless
allow differences between high and low? What’s the point of this meaningless
argument?’ I was dumbstruck and could not utter a word! At that moment, all
regard and devotion for my husband simply vanished from my heart. How
selfish human beings could be! They make a mockery even of God! What
shameful hypocrisy! We sacrifice the truth for national good and self-interest.
Under such circumstances, is it strange that our efforts do not bear the desired
fruit?

Translated from the Urdu by M. Asaduddin

 The Old Aunt

Old age, in many ways, is the return of childhood. The old aunt had lost all her
senses except that of taste. She had no other means to draw attention to herself
except by crying. All her limbs—eyes, hands and legs—had given way. She
would be lying there uncared for and, if the members of the family did things
contrary to her wishes, did not give her food on time or in sufficient quantity, or
a share of the food brought from the market, she would begin to howl. What’s
more, she cried and sobbed at the top of her voice, not in a subdued tone.
It had been a long time since her husband had died. Her son, too, had died
when he was an adolescent. And now, there was no one except the nephew with
whom she lived. She had transferred her entire property to his name. He had
made tall promises at the time, but they turned out to be false. The return from
her property was not less than two hundred rupees a year, but she was hardly
given enough food to fill her belly. It was not clear whether her nephew, Pandit
Buddhiram, was to blame for this, or his wife. Buddhiram was a decent
gentleman, but only as long as he did not have to part with his money. Rupa was
sharp by temperament but God-fearing. The old aunt did not mind her sharp
tongue as much as she did Buddhiram’s apparent gentlemanliness.
Sometimes Buddhiram regretted this cruel attitude of his. He knew well that
he could pretend to be a gentleman because of this property. If verbal assurances
and dry sympathy could improve the situation, he was all for it. But the fear of
extra expenses made him suppress all his good intentions. If the old aunt shared
her plight with a visitor he would fly into a rage and reprimand the aunt.
Children generally dislike old people. When they saw the attitude of their
Children generally dislike old people. When they saw the attitude of their
parents towards her, they teased her all the more. If someone pinched her,
another would spit water on her after rinsing. Kaki would let out a scream, but as
everyone knew that she cried and screamed only for food, no one paid any heed.
Of course, if Kaki, in a fit of anger, started cursing the children, Rupa would
appear on the scene. This fear made Kaki use her tongue as a weapon sparingly,
though it was certainly a more potent weapon than crying to get her way.
In the entire family, if Kaki was attached to anyone, it was to Ladli,
Buddhiram’s youngest daughter. Fearing her marauding brothers, Ladli would
take her share of sweets to Kaki’s room and eat them there. This was her refuge,
though it often proved rather costly because of Kaki’s greed, yet cheaper than
her brothers’ injustice. Their self-interest had awoken their sympathy for each
other.

It was night. A shehnai was playing in Buddhiram’s courtyard, and the children
of the village were enjoying the music with wide-eyed wonder. The guests were
resting on charpoys and getting massages from the barber. The village minstrel
was standing there and singing and, carried away by this, some guests were
exclaiming ‘Wah! Wah!’ The minstrel looked ecstatic, as though he was really
deserving of the praise. Some English-educated youths were there who ignored
it. They considered it beneath their dignity to take part in the assembly of fools.
The occasion was Buddhiram’s eldest son Sukhram’s tilak ceremony. People
had gathered to celebrate it. Women were singing inside the house, and Rupa
was busy in the preparations of the feast. Huge pans were installed on the
earthen oven. If puris and kachoris were being fried in one, other dishes were
being cooked in others. Spicy curries were being cooked in another huge pan.
The appetizing aroma of ghee and spices had filled the place.
Kaki was sitting in her room, dejected. The spicy aroma was making her
restless. She was thinking, They won’t give me any puris, I guess. It’s so late, but
no one has brought me any food. It seems everyone has eaten. Nothing has been
left for me. This made her feel like crying, but she resisted it thinking it might be
an ill omen.
 Ah! What aroma! Who’ll think of me? When they don’t give me enough rotis,
will they give me luscious puris? This thought brought tears to her eyes and she
felt a lump in her throat. But she maintained silence for fear of Rupa.
Kaki was lost in her sorrowful thoughts for a long time. The aroma of ghee
and spices would make her restless off and on. Her mouth was watering.
Imagining the flavour of the puris tickled her mind. Who would she call today?
Even Ladli didn’t come to her. The two boys who always teased her were not to
be seen either. No one knew where they had disappeared to today. If only she
had a way to know what food was being prepared.
Kaki’s imagination took wing as she thought of the puris dancing before her
eyes. Deep red, puffed up and soft to touch. Rupa must have eaten to her heart’s
content. The kachoris must be emitting the aroma of ajwain and cardamom. If
she could just lay her hands on a puri, she would love it. She felt like going to
the scene and sitting before the pan. The puris must be tumbling out of the pan.
They must be taking them out of the pan and serving them hot. One can smell
flowers in the house, but it is quite another experience to smell them in the
garden. Having decided, Kaki sat on all fours and, leaning on her hands, got
across the threshold with difficulty and slowly crawled to the pan.
At that moment Rupa was carrying out her duties anxiously. Sometimes she
entered one room, then another; sometimes she went near the pan, and the next
moment to the place where the food was being stored. Someone came from
outside and said, ‘Mahraj is asking for a milkshake.’ She became busy giving
him a milkshake. The next moment someone else came and said, ‘The village
minstrel has come, give him something.’ She was taking out a portion for the
minstrel when a third person came and asked, ‘How long for dinner to be ready?
Could you give me the drum and the cymbals?’ Poor thing, she was exhausted
from running around and she felt annoyed, but she had no time to express her
anger. If she vented her anger, her neighbours would make fun of her saying she
had no ability to manage an event. Her throat was parched because of thirst. She
was sizzling in the heat. But she didn’t have the time either to drink water or fan
herself with a hand fan. She also had her apprehensions that if there was the
slightest laxity on her part then things would begin to disappear. In this mental
state when she saw Kaki sitting near the pan she flared up. She could not control
herself. She forgot that her women neighbours were sitting there and did not care
what they would think. What would the men think if they saw her chiding the
what they would think. What would the men think if they saw her chiding the
old woman? Just as the frog pounces on the snail, she pounced on Kaki, shook
her by the arms and said, ‘Is your belly on fire already? Is it a stomach or a
warehouse? Couldn’t you sit still in your room? The guests have not eaten yet,
offerings to the God have not been made yet—couldn’t you wait a little more?
You have come out to sit on my chest. May God burn your tongue. If you aren’t
given food throughout the day, you will go out raiding other people’s kitchens.
The village people will think that you are not provided with sufficient food in the
house, that is why you look for food elsewhere. She doesn’t even die, the witch!
She is bent upon sullying our honour. She will stop only when we lose face in
society. She stuffs herself with so much; I don’t know how she burns it off. If
you care for your life, go back to your room and sit there; when the people in the
family will sit down to eat, you will get your food. You are not a deity that you
should be worshipped first, never mind if no one else has taken even a drop of
water.’
Kaki lifted her head; she didn’t cry or say anything. Silently she dragged
herself back to her room. Rupa’s tone was so cruel that her entire mind, her
senses and all her feelings were drawn towards it. When a big tree from the
riverbank falls into the river, water from the vicinity rushes to fill the gap made
by it!

The feast was ready. Leaf plates were laid out, and the guests began to eat. The
women sang the songs that are sung during festivals. The barber and other
servants who came along with the guests also sat down to eat at some distance
from the group, but as a matter of etiquette no one could get up before everyone
had eaten. One or two guests who were somewhat educated were annoyed
because the servants were taking too much time. They considered this restriction
to be useless and irrational.
Sitting in her room, Kaki was regretting her adventure that had brought so
much humiliation. She was not angry with Rupa, but cursing herself for her own
impatience. She was speaking the truth—how can the members of the family eat
before the guests? I could not show this much patience and had to face disgrace
before everyone. Now, I won’t go as long as I’m not called.
 Thinking along these lines, she began to wait for the call. But the tasteful
aroma of ghee was testing her patience. Every moment began to seem like an
age to her. Now the leaf plates must have been laid out! The guests must have
arrived. People are washing their hands and feet, the barber is serving water.
She surmised that people must have sat down to eat. The songs were still on; she
lay down to take rest and began to hum a song. Now she felt that she had been
singing for long. Were the guests still eating? She could not hear any sound.
People must have left after the feast. No one came to call me. Rupa is angry, she
might not call me. She must be thinking that I will go on my own. After all, I was
not a guest that she should come to invite me. Kaki prepared herself to go out.
The anticipation that she would encounter puris and spicy curry tickled her
senses. She began making all kinds of plans in her mind, First, I will eat the
puris with vegetable curry, then with curd and sugar. The kachoris will be
yummy with raita. I will demand several helpings, never mind what people might
think. They might say that I have no control over myself. Let them. I am going to
eat puris after such a long time and can’t be content without having my fill. She
sat on all fours and slid down to the courtyard. But fate betrayed her again. Her
impatient mind had miscalculated the time, the guests were still sitting. Some
had just finished eating and were licking their fingers; some looked from the
corner of their eyes to see if others were still eating. Some were worrying about
how to take the remaining puris with them. Some had finished the curd but were
longing for a second helping for which they were hesitating to ask. At this
moment, Kaki slowly crawled amidst the guests. Several men stood up, startled.
They exclaimed, ‘Who is this crone? Where has she come from? Take care that
she doesn’t touch you.’
Buddhiram flared up at the sight of Kaki. He was holding a plate of puris. He
threw the plate to the ground and, just as a cruel moneylender pounces on an
unfaithful and fugitive borrower, he held Kaki with both hands, dragged her to
the dark room and flung her inside. Kaki’s imaginary scene was destroyed in a
moment by the blow of a whirlwind.
The guests finished eating. The family members also ate. The musicians, the
washer man and the cobbler, too, had eaten. But no one remembered Kaki. Both
Buddhiram and Rupa had decided to punish her for her shamelessness. No one
took mercy on her old age, her destitution and her helplessness, except Ladli
who felt an ache for her grandmother.
who felt an ache for her grandmother.
Ladli was deeply attached to Kaki. An innocent and simple-hearted girl, she
had no trace of childish play or restlessness. On both occasions when her parents
had dragged Kaki away with such cruelty, Ladli’s heart cried for her. She was
annoyed that her parents did not immediately give Kaki a lot of puris. Would the
guests eat all of them? And would the earth fall if Kaki ate before the guests?
She wanted to go to Kaki to give her solace but couldn’t for fear of her mother.
She had not eaten her portion of puris at all, but had kept them hidden in the doll
box. She wanted to take them to her and was growing restless. Hearing my
footsteps Kaki will get up and be so happy at the sight of the puris. She will
shower her affection on me.

It was eleven at night. Rupa was sleeping in the courtyard. But Ladli’s eyes were
sleepless. The desire to see Kaki’s happiness while eating the puris did not allow
her to sleep. The doll box was right there in front of her. When she felt that
Amma had gone to sleep she got up and wanted to go to Kaki. But it was pitch
dark outside. Only the embers in the earthen ovens were still lit, and there was a
dog sitting there. Her glance fell towards the neem tree beside the door. She felt
as though Hanumanji was sitting on it. She could see his tail and mace quite
clearly. She closed her eyes in fear. At that moment the dog sat up, which gave
courage to Ladli. A waking dog provided her more security than sleeping human
beings. She picked up the box and made for Kaki’s room.

Kaki could only remember that someone had caught her by the hand and
dragged her along. Then it felt as though someone was pulling her over a
mountain. Her feet stumbled on the stone a couple of times. Then someone
threw her down from the mountain and she passed out.
Now that she had come to her senses, there was not a sound anywhere. She
thought that everyone must have eaten and gone to sleep, and with them her fate
had also gone to sleep. Oh God, how could she spend the night without food? A
fire was burning in her belly. Ah! No one spared a thought for me. Will they add
to their wealth by cutting down on my food? These people do not show any
concern that this old woman might die any day. Why hurt her? I just eat a couple
of rotis and nothing more. They grudge me even this. I am a blind and
handicapped woman—I don’t hear or understand anything. Even if I had gone to
the courtyard Buddhiram could have told me, ‘Kaki, the guests are eating right
now, you can come in a while.’ He dragged me and then dumped me here. Rupa
abused me before everyone for the puris. Even after doing all this to me, their
stony hearts did not melt. They fed everyone, but did not so much as ask me. If
they didn’t give me anything then, will they give now?
Arguing thus, Kaki lay down, resigned to her fate. The humiliation hurt her
deeply and she had wanted to cry her heart out, but she couldn’t do so while the
guests were there.
Suddenly, she heard someone saying, ‘Kaki, wake up. I have brought puris.’
Kaki recognized Ladli’s voice. She sat up with alacrity. She groped for Ladli
with both her hands and made her sit on her lap. Ladli took out the puris and
gave them to her.
Kaaki asked, ‘Did your Amma give them?’
Ladli replied, ‘No. It’s my portion.’
Kaki grabbed the puris. She emptied the box in five minutes.
Ladli asked, ‘Kaki, did you have your fill?’
Just as a little bit of rain shoots the temperature up instead of bringing it down,
the few puris whetted Kaki’s desire and hunger further. She said, ‘No, girl. Go to
your mother and get some more.’
Ladli said, ‘Amma is sleeping. If I wake her up, she’ll beat me.’
Kaki scraped the box once again. There were some leftover crumbs that she
picked and ate. She licked her lips again and again, longing for more.
Kaki’s heart was craving more and more puris. When the bridge of
contentment breaks then one’s cravings cross all limits. If drunkards are
reminded of alcohol, they are blinded by their desire for it. Kaki’s impatient
mind was carried away by the strong current of her desire. She forgot the
distinction between what is right and what is wrong. She resisted her desire for
some time, then suddenly said to Ladli, ‘Take hold of my hand and lead me to
the place where the guests were eating.’
 Ladli couldn’t make out what was going on in her mind. She held out her hand
and took Kaki to the place which was now strewn with leaf plates in which
people had taken their food. The wretched hungry woman began to pick leftover
pieces of puris from the leaf plates and eat them. How tasty was the curd! How
delicious the kachoris! And how delicate the khasta! However dim-witted she
might have been, Kaki knew very well that she was doing something she
shouldn’t do. I’m licking stale plates discarded by others! But old age is the final
stage when all our desires concentrate on a single point. In Kaki’s case, this
centre was her sense of taste.
Just at that moment Rupa’s eyes opened. She realized that Ladli was not there
by her side. She became flustered and looked around the charpoy lest Ladli had
tumbled off it. When she didn’t find her, she came out to see her standing beside
the debris of discarded leaf plates, while Kaki was eating pieces of leftover puris
from them. Rupa was stunned by the sight. Her state at that moment was akin to
the feeling of a cow that sees its own throat being slit. What can be a more pitiful
sight than a Brahmin woman looking for food in leftovers? For some morsels of
puris her mother-in-law was taking recourse to such a lowly and reprehensible
act! It was a scene that would shock anyone. It seemed as though the earth had
stopped on its axis and the sky was spinning around, that a calamity was going to
befall the world. Rupa didn’t feel anger. Her anger melted into deep sorrow. Pity
and fear brought tears to her eyes. Who was responsible for this adharma? She
raised her hands towards the heavens and said with a pure heart, ‘My God. Have
pity on my children. Do not punish me for this adharma. I’ll be ruined.’
Rupa had never witnessed an exhibition of her own selfishness and injustice
so directly before. She thought, How cruel can I be? I have reduced someone to
this state from whose property I receive an income of two hundred rupees per
year! It is all my doing. O merciful God! I’ve committed a blunder. Please
forgive me. It was my son’s tilak ceremony today. Hundreds of people were fed. I
was a slave to their wishes. We spent hundreds of rupees for our prestige. But
the one whose money helped us do this was left starving. Just because that old
woman is helpless!
Rupa lit the diya, opened the door of the dresser, arranged all the food on a
plate and moved towards Kaki’s room.
It was past midnight. The sky looked like a huge plate of stars on which the
angels were arranging heavenly offerings. But none of them could experience
angels were arranging heavenly offerings. But none of them could experience
the supreme joy that Kaki felt when she saw the plate before her. Rupa said with
a choked tone, ‘Kaki, get up. Have your meal. Please forgive me for my lapse
today. Pray to God that He may forgive my crime.’
Like simple, innocent children who forget the chiding and beating of their
mother the moment she gives them sweets, Kaki began to eat, oblivious of
anything else. Every pore of her body exuded a blessing for Rupa who was lost
in that moment of heavenly bliss.

Translated from the Hindi by M. Asaduddin

 A Father’s Love

Babu Chaitanya Das had studied economics in depth; he wasn’t just a student,
but an ardent practitioner as well. He was a lawyer, he owned land in a few
villages and he had some money saved in the bank as well. All of this was the
result of that education in economics. Whenever he was faced with an expense,
his mind would naturally wonder, Will either I or someone else profit from this?
If neither stood to profit, he would mercilessly kill the purchase. ‘Waste’ was
like poison to him. The principles of economics had become his life’s
foundation.
Babu Sahib had two sons. The older was named Prabhu Das and the younger,
Shiv Das. Both were in college. The two were only a year apart in school. Both
were clever, handsome young men, but Prabhu Das received more of his father’s
affection. He showed greater signs of success and his father had huge ambitions
for him when he was born. He wanted to send him to England for higher
education. His biggest wish was to make him a lawyer.

But it just so happened that after his BA exams, Prabhu Das began running a
fever. He was started on medication that the doctor had ordered. For a month,
various doctors came by, but his fever still didn’t subside. He began treatment
with another doctor, but that too had no effect. Day by day, Prabhu Das grew
emaciated. He didn’t have the strength to get out of bed. So much so that even
when he heard the good news that he had passed his exams first class, there
when he heard the good news that he had passed his exams first class, there
wasn’t even the slightest trace of joy on his face. Each day, he was drowning
further in worry. Living began to feel burdensome. One day, Chaitanya Das
asked the doctor, ‘Why is it that two months have passed and the medicines still
have had no effect?’
The doctor replied apprehensively, ‘I don’t mean to make you anxious. I
suspect that he has tuberculosis.’
Frantically, Chaitanya Das said, ‘Tuberculosis?’
‘Yes, sir, he has all the symptoms.’
In disbelief, as if he had just heard something shocking, Chaitanya Das said,
‘He has tuberculosis!’
Consolingly, the doctor said, ‘The disease infects the body very
surreptitiously.’
‘But no one in my family had this illness.’
‘It’s possible that he caught the germ from his friends.’
After thinking for a few minutes, Chaitanya Das said, ‘What should we do
now?’
‘Continue his course of medicine. It hasn’t reached his lungs yet. There’s hope
that he’ll get better.’
‘How long do you think it will take for the medicine to have effect?’
‘I can’t say for certain, but he should be better in three or four months. The
fever tends to go down in the winter.’
‘After he gets better, will he be able to continue his studies?’
‘There is a slim chance that he will be able to exert himself mentally.’
‘What if we send him to a sanatorium?’
‘That would be best.’
‘And then will he be completely healthy?’
‘It’s possible, but in order to keep his fever down, he needs to avoid any
mental exertion.’
Chaitanya Das said dejectedly, ‘That means his entire life is ruined.’

The summer was over. The rains were coming. Prabhu Das’s condition
worsened each day. Lying in bed, he would read what famous doctors had
written about this disease. He would compare his condition to their descriptions.
written about this disease. He would compare his condition to their descriptions.
For the first several days, his health remained unstable. His condition would
improve and he would start reading books and talking about his plans for foreign
travel, but then when his fever intensified, he would lose all interest in life. But
after a few months, when he realized that it would be difficult to overcome this
illness, he decided to stop worrying about life. He stopped caring about his daily
routine and avoided looking his family members in the eye. He didn’t bother to
follow the prescribed diet and even threw away the medicine when no one was
looking. He would sit with his friends to raise his spirits. If anyone asked him
something about his health, he would get irritated and turn away. His disposition
acquired a melancholic resignation and a philosophical disposition. He fearlessly
critiqued tradition and social custom. Even though Chaitanya Das was constantly
worried that if the outcome was certain, then what was the point in wasting
money, he still patiently kept on providing for his medicine, partly out of love
for his son and partly out of fear of social stigma.
It was winter. Chaitanya Das sat at the head of his son’s bed and looked over
at the doctor questioningly. When the doctor sat down on the chair after
checking his temperature, Chaitanya Das asked, ‘It’s winter now. Can you see
any change in his condition?’
‘Not at all. In fact, the fever is getting worse.’
Chaitanya Das asked in a harsh tone, ‘Then why have you people tried to
deceive me into thinking that he would get better in the winter? It’s one thing to
take advantage of someone’s naivety for your own benefit, but this can never be
called respectable behaviour.’
Tenderly, the doctor said, ‘In these circumstances, all we can do is speculate,
and speculation is never the same as the truth. It’s true that you have spent a lot
of money, but I promise you that it was not my intention to deceive you.’
Shiv Das had come home for the long holidays, and it was just then that he
entered the room and spoke to the doctor, ‘You can imagine what my father has
been through. If his words seem accusatory, please forgive him.’
Chaitanya Das looked at his younger son with affection and said, ‘Why did
you need to come in here? I’ve told you several times, don’t come in here, but
you never pay heed to my advice.’
Embarrassed, Shiv Das said, ‘I’ll leave right now. Don’t get angry. I only
wanted to ask the doctor what we should do for bhaiya now.’
wanted to ask the doctor what we should do for bhaiya now.’
The doctor said,‘There’s only one treatment left. You should send him to a
sanatorium in Italy.’
Intently, Chaitanya Das asked, ‘How much will that cost?’
‘At the most, three thousand. He’ll need to be there for a year.’
‘Are you certain that he will come back cured?’
‘Not at all. This is a terrible disease, and even with ordinary diseases one
cannot speak in certainties.’
‘And if he returns in exactly the same shape after we’ve spent all that money?’
‘That’s up to God. But you can take comfort in the thought that you’ve done
whatever you could for him.’

For half the night, the debate about whether or not to send Prabhu Das to Italy
raged throughout the house. Chaitanya Das’s position was that it went against
logic to spend three thousand rupees on spoiled fruit. Shiv Das agreed with him,
but his mother, Tapeshwari, opposed this argument with great conviction.
Ultimately, the mother’s reproaches turned Shiv Das to her side in shame.
Chaitanya Das was alone. Tapeshwari had manoeuvred intelligently. She tried to
ignite her husband’s goodwill. She recited proverbs about the impermanence of
wealth. These weapons didn’t bring her victory, so she began a deluge of tears.
Chaitanya Das could not withstand the body blows of these waterworks. He
acknowledged his defeat with the words, ‘Please, please, don’t cry. I will do
whatever you say.’
‘When?’
‘I need to get my hands on that much money.’
‘Why not just admit that you don’t want to send him to Italy?’
‘I want to send him, but I don’t have the money right now. Don’t you know
that?’
‘There is money in the bank, isn’t there? You have property that can be sold,
don’t you? It shouldn’t be that hard to come up with two or three thousand.’
Chaitanya Das looked at his wife as if he might devour her, and a moment
later he said, ‘You say such childish things. There is no special life-giving
fountain in Italy that will immediately work its magic. When all he will be doing
there is waiting for his destiny, then we should proceed cautiously. I cannot
there is waiting for his destiny, then we should proceed cautiously. I cannot
sacrifice the accumulated property of our ancestors and the money saved up in
the bank for an uncertain outcome.’
Scared, Tapeshwari said, ‘But ultimately half of it is Prabhu Das’s, too.’
Chaitanya Das said mockingly, “‘Not just half, I can give him the entirety of
it, but only when there is some hope for his future, when he can improve the
reputation of the family and grow our fortune and use our investments to do
something. I cannot be swayed by emotions into blowing away real wealth.’
Tapeshwari was left speechless. She had lost even though she had won.
Six months after this discussion, Shiv Das received his BA. Chaitanya Das
mortgaged one-eighth of his property to send him to England to study law. He
himself went to see his son off in Bombay. When he returned, his conscience
was satisfied. He had invested money in the kind of project that held out real
hope of limitless rewards. A week later, poor Prabhu Das passed away with his
high ambitions.

Chaitanya Das was sitting at the Manikarnika Ghat with his friends watching the
flames of the funeral pyre. Lines of tears glistened under his eyes. For a moment,
his paternal love had defeated his economic principles. And in his heavy-
heartedness, a notion kept rising up in his head—It’s possible that Prabhu Das
could have become better if he had gone to Italy. Alas! I held on to three
thousand rupees but let my gem of a son fall from my grasp. The notion grew
stronger by the moment and his guilt, sadness, and regret turned into arrows that
pierced through him. And the anguish in his heart grew into a lance. The flames
in his soul burned no less white than the flames of the pyre. Suddenly, he heard
the sounds of clarinets. He raised his head and saw a large group of men carrying
a corpse. They proceeded along, playing drums, singing and raining down
flowers. When they got to the ghat, they lowered the corpse and began setting up
the pyre. One of the young men amongst them went and stood next to Chaitanya
Das. Chaitanya Das asked, ‘Which neighborhood are you from?’
The young man answered, ‘We are from the countryside. We set out last
night. This was our father. We don’t come here often, but our father’s last wish
was to be cremated at the Manikarnika Ghat.’
‘Are all these men with you?’
 ‘Are all these men with you?’
‘Yes, and there are more coming. There are approximately a hundred all
together. It cost a fortune to get here, but at least my elderly father’s soul will be
liberated. What else is money for?’
‘What illness did he have?’
Very gently, the young man spoke, as if he were talking to a close friend, ‘No
one had any idea he was sick. His fever kept rising. He became as dry as thorns.
He was bedridden for three years. We took him for treatment wherever anyone
recommended. Chitrakoot, Haridwar, Prayag—we took him to all of these
places. We didn’t spare any expense in doing whatever the doctors
recommended.’
In the meantime, one of the young man’s companions had also joined them
and said, ‘Sir, I tell you the honest truth, if God gives anyone a son, let it be like
this one. He didn’t concern himself with the costs. He spent all of the wealth in
his home on his father’s treatment. He sold even what little land he owned, but
man cannot stave off death.’
Growing emotional, the young man said, ‘Money and wealth are meaningless
things. They come and go, but you can’t compensate for the loss of life easily. If
I’m alive, I will find a way to survive, but at least I won’t have any regrets and
think, Alas! I didn’t do that, or I didn’t go to that doctor, or else he’d still be
alive. There’s a saying, “Take my home and my wealth, just give my father
another moment’s health.” This world of illusion and lies that goes by the name
“life”, what is there of substance in it? Life is more valuable than wealth and
faith is more valuable than life. Sir, I tell you the truth, if I had spared anything
in my power for my father, I wouldn’t be able to keep myself from bawling
today. My own pyre would taunt me. Or else this moment would feel to me as if
I had paid for my own well-being with a heavy debt. As long as his soul finds
peace and happiness, everything will turn out fine for me.’
Chaitanya Das hung his head as he listened to all this. Each word stung his
heart like an arrow. This magnanimity revealed his own heartlessness, his
soullessness, his materialism in a terrible light. The effect of this blow on his
conscience could only be measured by the fact that he spent thousands on
Prabhu Das’s final rites. This was the only salve possible for his afflicted heart.

Translated from the Hindi by Snehal Shingavi

 After Death

Ishwarchandra Datt acquired his taste for writing articles for the newspaper back
in college. Every day he was preoccupied with new issues. He got much more
joy in seeing his name in print in the newspapers than he did in passing his
exams or winning the top rank in his class. He was the leader of the extremists1
in college. It was his responsibility to critique confusing exam papers and the
inappropriate behaviour of teachers in the newspaper. This had earned him a
position of leadership in college. Every time it was necessary to editorialize, his
name would come up for leading the charge. He was confident that he would be
more successful in the vast playing field of the real world once he had left this
limited one. He thought that he was destined for public life. Coincidentally, even
before his name had figured on the list of students appearing for the MA exam,
the editor-in-chief of Gaurav2 announced his retirement and decided that he
would leave the burden of managing the paper in Ishwarchandra Datt’s hands.
Ishwarchandra was beside himself with joy when he heard the news. I am so
fortunate to be considered worthy of this distinction. There is no doubt that he
was aware of the seriousness of his responsibilities, but his love of fame had left
him unprepared to confront the obstacles in his way. He wanted to enhance the
respect, progress and responsibility of the profession. He had ambitions of
bringing Indian newspapers up to Western standards.
He finally had the opportunity to make good on his ambitions. Overcome with
ecstasy, he leapt into the river.

2
 2

Ishwarchandra’s wife, Manaki, came from a rich family with a high status and
she had imbibed the false pride and prestige of such families. When she heard
the news, she was worried lest her husband get caught up in all this and turn his
back on studying law. But when Ishwarchandra assured her that his work would
not get in the way of his studying law, she didn’t say anything.
But very quickly, Ishwarchandra realized that being an editor was very
invidious work that quickly overran all the other things in the mind. He thought
of it as a means of entertainment and an instrument to increase his fame. He
wanted to use it to do something useful for his community. He hadn’t even given
any thought to how much he would earn. But once he got in the boat, he knew
that the journey would not be as easy as he had thought. With all of the revising,
correcting and editing of articles, corresponding with writers, finding interesting
topics and worrying about staying ahead of his partners, he never had the chance
to study. He would sit down to study in the morning, resolving not to get up until
he had finished a hundred pages, but as soon as the mail arrived, he fell upon it
eagerly, and the book remained unread. Again and again he would vow to study
regularly and not spare more than a certain amount of time for editorial work.
But as soon as the bundle of papers arrived, he would lose control over himself.
Everything worked its magic on him: the carping letters to the editor, the
arguments in the journals, the arguments and criticisms, the poetic brilliance of
the poets, the eloquent craft of the writers, and all the rest. On top of that, the
problems with the printers, the worry about increasing the number of subscribers
and the hopes of making his newspaper wholly beautiful all made his life even
more difficult. Occasionally, he would be filled with regret—I got tangled up in
these problems for no reason—and then all of a sudden it was the day of the
exam and he was completely unprepared for it. He couldn’t take his exams. He
tried to console himself, thinking, I am just getting started in this work, that’s
why there are all these hindrances. By next year, I will have this work under
control and then I can sit for the exams without any worries! It’s not difficult to
pass after all! Idiots who cannot even write a simple composition pass the exam,
how can I possibly not pass? When Manaki heard his explanations she was
beside herself with rage—‘I knew this obsession would ruin you. That’s why I
tried to stop you so many times, but you never listened to me. Now that you have
sunk yourself you are going to take me down with you.’ His father, too, was
angry. His friends tried to make him understand—‘Put your work on hiatus for a
while and pass your law exams, and then you can carry on with your idealist
work.’ But Ishwarchandra thought it was cowardly to run away once you had
stepped on to the battlefield. True, he was determined that he would prepare
body and soul for the examinations next year. So, just as the new year began, he
got his law books and the prescribed syllabus together, began keeping a diary,
and tried to restrain his distractible and cheating mind, but when does simple
fare ever taste good after tasty snacks!
Where were the manoeuvres in law, the passion, the blows, the excitement, or
the commotion! Every day, now, Ishwarchandra was lost. While he was doing
the work that he wanted to, he could find an hour or two out of the day to look at
his law books. But this stupor had drained his mental faculties. His muscles had
atrophied. He began to realize, I am not cut out for law, and this realization made
him treat the law with indifference. A contentment began to grow within. He
began to find comfort in the ideologies of fate and superstition.
One day, Manaki said, ‘What’s the matter now, are you bored with the law
again?’
Restlessly, Ishwarchandra replied, ‘Yes dear, I can’t focus on it.’
Sarcastically, Manaki said, ‘Is it very difficult?’
‘It’s not difficult, and even if it was difficult I wouldn’t have been scared by
it, but I find the practice of law detestable. The more I get to know about the
inner workings of lawyers, the more I hate the profession. There are hundreds of
lawyers and barristers in this city but there is not one among them who has
enough compassion in his heart not to sell himself for personal gain. Deceit and
hypocrisy are the defining principles of this profession. It does not exist without
them. And even if some individuals do take part in the nationalist struggle then it
is only to beat their own drums in self-promotion. Our entire lives become
dedicated to chasing after pleasure. How unfortunate are the educated classes of
our nation who are jumping on this bandwagon. This is the reason that there is
no improvement in our national institutions. We can never really accomplish any
work that our hearts are not in, and become captains only out of a desire for
fame and personal gain. It is the injustice of the present social condition that this
profession has been ranked so high. This is the worst aspect of colonial
civilization: A country which is unable to generate revenue on the basis of its
civilization: A country which is unable to generate revenue on the basis of its
own talents but enjoys the fruits of others’ labours. Unable to become a
honeybee, it makes it its life’s mission to become an ant instead.’
Irritated, Manaki said, ‘You never used to criticize lawyers like this before!’
Ishwarchandra responded, ‘I didn’t know what I was talking about then. I was
dazzled by its superficial shimmer.’
‘I do not understand why you love being an editor so much. Every time I meet
an editor, he’s constantly crying over his misfortunes. If it’s not appealing to
your subscribers for more subscriptions, then it’s complaining about people not
paying their bills. I dare you to tell me of me a single man with an advanced
degree going into this profession. The kind of person who edits a newspaper is
the kind who has no ambition, who has neither a certificate nor a degree, and
who contents himself with coarse bread instead of dying of starvation. People go
abroad—to become doctors or engineers or civil servants—but I’ve never heard
of anyone going abroad to become an editor. Why get an education? What’s it to
anyone if you abandon your ambitions and live out your life as an ascetic?
Unless of course we are talking about crazy people.’
‘The purpose of life is not just to accumulate wealth.’
‘You just criticized lawyers by pointing out that they are growing fat eating
other people’s incomes. Editors eat other people’s incomes, too.’
Ishwarchandra retorted, ‘Perhaps we do eat other people’s incomes, but we
also care deeply for them. We are not looting them like lawyers.’
Manaki countered him, ‘You’re being unfair. Lawyers, too, make sacrifices
for their clients. Their incomes are just as kosher as editors’. The only difference
is that one is a mountain stream and the other is a trickling gutter. One of them
carries along pure water each day, while the other moves garbage. At the most, it
will carry water for an hour or two when it rains.’
‘First of all, I don’t agree that lawyers’ earnings are kosher, and even if I do
accept that fact, I can never accept that they are all noble people sleeping on
beds of flowers. Every person’s fate catches up with them. There are so many
lawyers who give false testimonies to fill their bellies. There are such few
newspapers in this country precisely because the economic status of managing
editors is not very good. In Europe and in America, people have become
millionaires running newspapers. In the world today, the leading figures in all
the advanced countries are either newspaper editors or journalists or owners of
newspapers. There are so many billionaires who have built their fortunes on the
newspapers. There are so many billionaires who have built their fortunes on the
foundation of newspapers . . .’
Ishwarchandra wanted to prove that there was no better route to wealth, fame
and respect than running a newspaper, but even more important was the fact that
it gave one a real chance to defend truth and justice. But Manaki wasn’t moved
in the slightest by this oratory. She didn’t have the insight to see things at a
distance. Manaki could not see a single example of a successful editor before
her.

Sixteen years had passed. Ishwarchandra had created a name for himself in the
world of editors; he had written important books for the nationalist movement,
had brought out a new daily newspaper and had earned the respect of several
officials. His eldest son had earned a BA. The younger ones were studying in
lower classes. A daughter was married into a wealthy family. It seemed as
though his life had turned out very well, but his economic situation was still a
cause for concern. His expenses had outstripped his income. He had had to sell
off around a thousand rupees’ worth of his family’s assets, and on top of that he
was always worried about being in debt to the bank for something or the other.
Nor did he have any credit in the market. Sometimes it got so bad that he had to
avoid the market streets. And now he constantly regretted his youthful lack of
foresight. The feeling of service to the nation was still strong in his heart but he
observed that he did all the work and the lawyers and the merchants got all the
credit. He was still considered a junior partner. Even though the entire city knew
that he was the spirit of the public life, it was a fact that none ever expressed
this. These were the reasons why Ishwarchandra began to hate his editorship.
Day by day, his enthusiasm waned, but he could come up with no way to escape
this prison. His work possessed no vitality, nor did his writing have any force.
His indifference peeked from the pages of both his newspaper and his magazine.
He had turned over all the work to his assistants. He worked very little. True,
both publications were now well-established so there was no discernible drop in
subscriptions. He was living off his reputation.
But in this age of conflict and struggle it was impossible to remain indifferent.
Several competitors rose to challenge Gaurav and their fresh energy stole a
march over it. Its share of the market began to dry up. The public welcomed the
competition gladly. They began to grow. Even though they had the same beliefs,
the same writers and the same topics, the newcomers brought new life to the old
issues. And seeing their energy, Ishwarchandra was also excited to give one
more push to his stalled car, but not only did he lack energy, there was no one
around to lend him a hand. His eyes looked around helplessly until they were
resigned. Oh! I spent my entire life doing social work, I ploughed and tended to
my fields, paid no heed to whether it was night or day, I burnt in the sun, I was
drenched in the rains, and after all of this effort, when it is time to harvest, I
don’t even have the strength to carry my sickle. Other people who were nowhere
to be seen at the time are now filling their granaries with grain while I stand like
a fool. He had total confidence that if he had an enthusiastic youth working
under him, Gaurav could still defeat its competitors. He still had a large
following in high society; the circumstances were in his favour. All he needed
was fresh blood. He could not find anyone more suited to this task than his eldest
son. He was also interested in this line of work, but his fear of Manaki’s anger
made him bite his tongue. Two years passed without him raising the issue, and
things had come to a head: Either he would have to throw in the towel with
Gaurav or he would have to commit himself to returning it to its prior status.
Ishwarchandra steeled himself for a last-ditch effort at revitalizing it. There
was no other alternative. The newspaper was everything to him. It was
connected to his life and death. He could not even imagine closing it down.
Although his health had deteriorated, his natural instinct for self-preservation
made him willing to sacrifice everything for his newspaper. Soon, he spent his
entire day absorbed in reading and writing. He wouldn’t lift his head from his
work for even a moment. The writings in Gaurav began to show a new vitality
again, the educated classes started talking about its content once more, his peers
began to cite its articles and other publications began to give it complimentary
reviews. The old master’s roars were heard in the wrestling arena again.
But as the magazine retained its prior status, his health deteriorated further. He
began to show signs of heart disease. Deficiency in his blood made his face look
jaundiced. Still, despite his condition, he worked from morning until night. In
the country, a struggle had erupted between capital and labour. Ishwarchandra’s
humanist nature had made him a partisan of labour. His criticism and arguments
against the capitalists made his blood boil and sparks began to fly from his
against the capitalists made his blood boil and sparks began to fly from his
words, although these sparks did alleviate his hot-bloodedness.
It was an extremely cold night. The clock had struck ten. Manaki quietly crept
into his room. In the light of the candle, the jaundice on his face was even more
apparent. He was lost in some thought with a pen in his hand. He didn’t realize
when Manaki stepped into the room. She stared at him for a while with deep
concern. Then she said, ‘Put away your papers now. It’s almost midnight. You
should eat something.’
Ishwarchandra raised his head with a start and said, ‘Why? Is it midnight? No,
it’s barely ten o’clock. I’m not in the least bit hungry.’
‘Just eat a little something, please.’
‘Not even a bite. I have to finish my article now.’
‘I’m watching you get worse day by day. You should get some medicine. You
can’t work if you ruin your health.’
‘Should I worry about my health or should I worry about the conflict that has
engulfed the entire nation? What’s one life lost in sacrifice defending thousands
or tens of thousands of lives?’
‘Why don’t you hire a capable assistant?’
Ishwarchandra sighed and said, ‘I’ve looked everywhere but I can’t find one.
I’ve been thinking about something for several days now and I will tell you if
you promise to listen patiently.’
Manaki averred, ‘Say it. I will listen. And I’ll even agree if it’s agreeable.’
‘I want to bring Krishnachandra into this line of work. He has his MA now.
He is also keen on this profession. It seems as if God has made him just for this
line of work.’
Contemptuously, Manaki said, ‘Is your plan to drag him down with you? Is
anyone going to worry about our family or is everyone just worried about the
nation?’
‘Krishnachandra will not be worse off than anyone.’
‘Forgive me, but there is no way. He will enter some other profession where
he has the chance to make a living. You can keep your home-ruining profession
to yourself.’
‘Mark my words, you will regret it if you send him to law school.
Krishnachandra is totally unsuited for that line of work.’
‘I don’t care if he has to work as a day labourer, but he will never go into your
line of work.’
line of work.’
‘You’re trying to use me as an example that this profession has nothing but
poverty to offer. But there are also fortunate people in this country who have
become rich and famous because of newspapers.’
‘Even if it rained gold for people in this line of work, I still wouldn’t let him
do it. This whole life has been wasted in austerity. I want to spend at least some
of my life in luxury, too.’
This honest servant of the nation could not simultaneously bear the troubles of
his people and the problems of his illness. It was barely nine months after this
conversation when Ishwarchandra departed from the world. He had spent his
whole life in nurturing the truth, defending justice and protesting the suffering of
his people. There were countless times he had to become the object of his
colleagues’ scorn or endure the mistrust of the people, even lose his friends, all
to maintain his principles, but he never sacrificed his soul. He believed that
money was nothing compared to self-respect.
As soon as the sad news spread, the entire city was overcome with
lamentation. The markets were closed, memorial services were held, other
newspapers abandoned their critical attitudes and, from all directions, one could
hear people saying that the nation had lost an independent, honest and thoughtful
editor, a fearless, selfless patriot, and that his place could never be filled again.
His family had no idea that Ishwarchandra was so beloved by the people. When
his funeral procession set out, the entire city marched with his bier. Monuments
were being built to him. Scholarships were organized in his name, portraits of
him were produced, but the most important was the statue that the members of
the working class had erected for him.
It made Manaki happy to see the honour bestowed upon her husband by
society. She now regretted that she had never recognized his godlike qualities or
valued his pure feelings or his lofty thoughts. The entire town is mourning him.
His writings must have made impressions so deep that they will never forget him,
while I was a constant thorn in his way; I kept tormenting him with my frustrated
desires until the very end. I would have been happy and considered it my good
fortune if he had covered me with gold, built me a mansion or had acquired
some land. But then no one in this country would have shed tears for him or
sang his praises. Here lies one rich man after another. They leave the world and
no one feels a thing. I’ve heard that they are going to name scholarships for
students after my husband. Those students who will receive their education
because of his scholarship will bless his soul until their dying breaths. Alas! I
did not realize the essence of his frugality. My selfishness had made me blind.
As these feelings began to grow in Manaki’s heart; it also made her devotion
to her husband grow. She was a proud woman. The commemorations and public
honours lifted her head high. Besides, her economic status was not as troubling
to her as it had been. Krishnachandra’s extraordinary assiduousness and
intellectual fortitude had stood out in the courts. He certainly participated in
national projects and he wrote articles for the papers when he was able. He had a
special love for this work. But Manaki always tried to keep him away from such
things. Krishnachandra restrained himself from saying anything to her. He didn’t
want to hurt his mother.
It was the first anniversary of Ishwarchandra’s death. A feast for the Brahmins
was organized in the evening. The poor were fed through half the night. In the
morning, Manaki took her carriage to bathe in the Ganga. Her son’s devotion to
his mother had allowed her long-held wish to be fulfilled. She was returning
when she heard a band playing and after a moment she saw a procession coming
towards her. In the lead was a contingent of horses and behind them was a
mounted volunteer militia. Behind them were hundreds of horse-drawn
carriages. And at the very end was the idol of some God on a decorated chariot.
Countless men were pulling this chariot forward. Manaki started to think, Which
God’s chariot is this? It’s not the time of year for either the Ram Leela or for the
Rathyatra! Her heart suddenly began to beat fast. It was the statue of
Ishwarchandra that the labourers had erected, and the people were taking it to
have it placed in the city square. It had the same disposition, the same clothing,
the same expression. The sculptor had shown remarkable skill. Manaki’s heart
beat faster. She was impatient to go and fall at the feet of her husband just like
the people in the procession. A stone sculpture is easier to worship than human
flesh. But how can I show my face before that statue? She had never felt so much
contempt for herself. If my greed had not been shackles around his feet, who
knows what heights of respectability he might have achieved. I must have caused
him so much anguish. The sympathy of your family is more encouraging than the
respect of strangers. What great heights he could have achieved if I had assisted
him! But I didn’t allow him to grow. Forgive me, my lord, I have wronged you. I
destroyed your pure ambition. I hurt your soul. I imprisoned a falcon in a cage.
Alas!
Manaki felt that same regret all day long. By evening, she could no longer
bear it. She called her servant and set out on foot to pray to that God whose soul
she had injured.
It was evening. The sky had turned amber in the dusk. A few clouds had even
appeared on the horizon. The sun hid behind a screen of clouds and occasionally
emerged. From afar, in the constantly shifting atmosphere of light and dark,
Ishwarchandra’s statue sometimes looked happy like the morning and sometimes
dejected like the dusk. Manaki approached it but couldn’t look it in the eyes.
There was tenderness in those eyes. Manaki felt as though they were looking at
her accusingly. Tears of regret and shame began to flow. She fell at the feet of
the statue and shielded her face as she cried. She was overcome with emotion.
It was nine o’clock when she got home. When he saw her, Krishnachandra
said, ‘Mother, where have you been?’
Cheerfully, Manaki said, ‘I went to pay my respects to your father’s statue. It
felt as if he were standing right there.’
‘It has come from Jaipur?’
‘People didn’t give him this much respect when he was alive.’
‘He spent his entire life fighting in the courts for truth and justice. It’s great
souls like him that are worshipped.’
‘But when did he ever practise law?’
‘True, he didn’t practise the kind of law that I and thousands like me are, the
kind that is murdering justice and religion. He practised a higher kind of law.’
‘If that’s the case, then why don’t you practise his kind of law, too?’
‘It’s very difficult. You have to carry the burden of the world’s problems, you
have to care deeply about other people, irrationally sacrificing your interest to
help the helpless, and the only reward for this is insult and torture and the
crushing of your dreams.’
‘But there is honour.’
‘Yes, there is honour. People offer their blessings.’
‘When there is so much honour to be had, you should follow his example. If
we can do nothing else for that noble soul we can at least keep the institution
running which he served with so much dedication and devotion in his own life. It
running which he served with so much dedication and devotion in his own life. It
will give his soul some peace.’
Krishnachandra looked at his mother devotedly and said, ‘I will, but it is
possible that the dazzle won’t last. It’s possible that things might be as bad as
before.’
‘That’s not a problem. At least we will be famous in this world. Today, I
might not even bow if the Goddess of wealth stands before me.’

Translated from the Hindi by Snehal Shingavi

 The Blessed Illness

It was nine at night. A young girl was sitting in front of the angeethi and
blowing into it, trying to keep the fire alive. Her cheeks were aglow in the blaze
of its fire.
Her gaze was stuck on the door, as if she was waiting for someone. At times
she would look at the courtyard and at other times towards the room. There was
a flicker of anger in her eyes at the delay of the people for whom she seemed to
be waiting.
In the meantime, there was a murmur of someone’s arrival. The palanquin
bearer could be heard snoring outside. The elderly Harnamdas kicked him while
coming inside and said, ‘Wretched fellow . . . it’s only evening and you have
slept off.’
Young Lala Haridas entered. He seemed worried. Devaki came and held his
hand, and in a tone mixed with love and anger, asked him, ‘How did you get so
late?’
Both of them were fresh blossoms—one had the freshness of dew, the other
had wilted under the sun.
‘Yes. I got late today. Why did you wait here?’
‘What else could have I done? Had I gone, the fire would have died out and
the food would have turned cold.’
‘You should not wait in front of the fire for such a long time for so small a
task. To hell with warm food!’
‘Okay, now change your clothes. Why did you get so late?’
‘What do I tell you? Pitaji is troubling me so much that it is difficult to say
 ‘What do I tell you? Pitaji is troubling me so much that it is difficult to say
anything. It’s better that I start working somewhere else instead of this everyday
nuisance.’
Harnamdas was the owner of a flour mill. When he was young, his had been
the only mill in the area. And so he earned a lot of money. But now it was a
different story. There were mills crawling all over, and that too with new
techniques and innovations. Their workers were also enthusiastic and young and
worked with great zeal. This was the reason that Harnamdas’s mill was, day by
day, experiencing a gradual downfall. He was also impatient with the new
things, which all elderly people seem to be. He was still continuing with his old
machines, and considered any progress or modification to be a sin. But
Harnamdas would also become cross at the slump in his business. Haridas had
gone to college against the wishes of his father and had intentions of taking
forward his father’s business on new principles. But every time Haridas
suggested a change or alteration, Harnamdas would get angry and reply with
pride, ‘One doesn’t get experience by studying in a college. You’re still young.
My hair has turned grey in this field. You needn’t advise me. You just work the
way I tell you to!’
There were many occasions when Haridas was scolded badly by his father on
minor issues for not working according to his wishes. For this reason, he was
depressed and wished to work in other mills where he could see his ideas taking
shape.
Devaki said sympathetically, ‘Why are you troubling yourself? Do as he is
saying. What will he say if you work elsewhere? Even if he doesn’t say anything
out of anger, what will the world say?’
Devaki was not a beneficiary of new education. She had not studied the lesson
of self-interest but her husband was a prestigious member of his alma mater. He
had confidence in his capabilities. He wanted to earn a name for himself. And
that is why he would lose his patience seeing his father’s traditional ways. He
did not care if the world criticized him for utilizing his qualifications for a
profitable venture. Annoyed, he answered, ‘I haven’t drunk nectar that I can
continue waiting for him to die. Should I waste my life in fear of the comments
of people? I know some people of my age who do not have the capabilities that I
have. But those people move in cars, live in bungalows and lead lives of
splendour. Should I just keep sitting with my hands in my lap, watching life go
splendour. Should I just keep sitting with my hands in my lap, watching life go
by? The age of patience has gone. This is the age of struggle. I also know that it
is my duty to respect my father. But in matters of principles, I will not surrender
to anyone.’
In the meantime, the palanquin bearer came, ‘Lalaji is asking for his food.’
Harnamdas was very particular about Hindu rituals. But he had been spared
from making visits to the kitchen because of his old age. Earlier he would eat
puris at night in the winters. As they were difficult to digest, he would ask for
chapattis in the living room. Harnamdas was compelled to do what was beyond
argument.
Devaki served food for Haridas as well. Initially, the gentleman looked sad,
but the aroma wafting from the kitchen perked him up. Very often, we use our
eyes and ears for digestion.

Harnamdas was hale and hearty when he went to sleep. However, either because
of his son’s mistakes or because of the slump in his business and his old age, he
was under great stress and had a paralytic attack before dawn.
His speech was affected and his face stiffened. Haridas ran to get the doctor.
He came, saw the patient and said, ‘There is nothing to fear. He’ll regain his
health but it will not take less than three months. This attack happened because
he has been worrying too much. We must see to it that he sleeps well and he
isn’t speaking even when his tongue relaxes.’
Poor Devaki was sitting and sobbing. Haridas came and consoled her. Then he
fetched the medicine from the doctor and gave it to her. After a while, the patient
regained consciousness. He looked around with searching eyes as if he wished to
say something and indicated that he needed some paper. Haridas handed him a
paper and a pencil. The old lala wrote very carefully—The management should
remain in the hands of Dinanath.
These words cut through Haridas’s heart. Even now he doesn’t trust me. It
means that Dinanath will be my master and I his slave. This won’t happen!
He came to Devaki with the paper. ‘Lalaji has made Dinanath the manager.
He doesn’t have any trust in me. But I will not let this opportunity pass. I am
saddened by his illness but maybe God has given me an opportunity to prove my
worth. And I will take advantage of it.’
worth. And I will take advantage of it.’
The workers at the mill were worried when they heard of this incident. There
were many worthless and lazy workers who only indulged in flattery. The
mistris picked up work at other workshops and would escape, giving some
excuse or the other. The fireman and the other workers would while away their
time pretending to clean the mill through the day and would work at night to get
overtime. Although Dinanath was a clever and experienced person, he too
enjoyed saying ‘Yes, sir’. Harnamdas was stingy with payments and would often
deduct money. He considered this to be a good principle of business.
The moment Haridas reached the mill, he made it clear that the workers would
have to work hard. ‘I will monitor the work this month and promote everyone.
But I will not accept any excuses. All those who have problems with this can
leave.’
Haridas called Dinanath and said, ‘Bhai Sahib, I know very well that you are
efficient and intelligent. You’ve been working according to the culture here. But
now I require your experience and hard work. Go through the accounts. It will be
my responsibility to get work, but you will have to look after the management
here. You will get a cut of the profits. I want to do some good work in the
absence of my father.’
The result of this promptness and smartness was soon visible. Haridas had
many advertising pamphlets distributed. This resulted in more work. Due to
Dinanath’s efficiency, the customers got their flour on time and at reasonable
rates. Before the first month came to an end, Haridas ordered a new machine. He
also hired a couple of experienced workers. The city was abuzz with talk of this
mill. Haridas would treat his customers so well that even if he talked to someone
only once, they would become his customer. He had a doctrine for the workers
—pay them the moment they finished their jobs. The impact of his personality
was visible. All other mills paled in comparison. He took up a lot of contracts on
very little profit. There wasn’t a moment for the machines to breathe. They were
working day and night. Carts and cars were seen the moment one entered the
compound. There was action at the mill. Everyone was busy at work. However,
all tasks were managed so efficiently that there was no sign of rush or hurry
anywhere.

3
Gradually, Harnamdas started getting better. After a month, he could stammer
and speak. The doctor had given instructions that he should live under peaceful
conditions. But the moment he could speak a little bit, he was very restless. He
would tell Devaki, ‘The entire business is going down the drain. I don’t know
what this boy is doing. He has taken all the work in his hands! I had instructed
him to make Dinanath the manager, but he did not pay heed to it. He is wasting
away my life’s earnings.’
Devaki tried to comfort him saying he shouldn’t worry. The business was
going on well, earning a lot of profit. But she was also scared to give importance
to this issue fearing another paralytic attack. She tried to divert his attention
every time. Harnamdas would shower Haridas with questions the moment he
returned from work and got angry if Haridas tried to change the topic. He said,
‘Worthless brat, you’re slashing my throat in cold blood. Wasting away my
wealth! Do you know at all how I have saved every penny? You’ve decided that
you will make me beg at this age.’
Haridas would not answer these allegations. He knew it would have only
aggravated the situation. Because of his silence, Harnamdas was sure that the
business was in tatters.
One day, Devaki mentioned to Haridas, ‘For how many days and for how long
will you hide things from Lalaji?’
Haridas replied, ‘I want to take him and show him once I repay the money for
the new machine. By then even the three-month period of rest instructed by the
doctor will be over.’
‘But where is the need to hide this? He talks about it through the day. This
increases his worry, it doesn’t decrease it. It would be better if he is told
everything.’
‘Will he believe me if I tell him? Yes . . . he might believe it if Dinanath tells
him.’
‘In that case, send Dinanath tomorrow. Lalaji will call him the moment he
sees him. You will be free from this scolding that you get every day.’
‘Now his scolding doesn’t bother me. The result of my labour and expertise is
in front of my eyes. The day I took the business in my hands, there was barely a
ratio between expenditure and income. Today there is a profit of five hundred
rupees. The third month is going to end and I have already paid half the amount
for the new machine. Most probably I will pay off the entire amount in the next
for the new machine. Most probably I will pay off the entire amount in the next
two months. The expenditure of the mill is probably three times more but the
income has increased five times. His eyes will open when he sees it. Once there
were owls hooting in the compound. He would nap at a table and Dinanath
would sit at the other end and clean his ears. The mistri and the fireman would
play cards. The mill would only work for a couple of hours of the day. Now
there is not a moment to breathe. I have managed what he couldn’t do his entire
life. He was so proud of his experience and actions. I do the same amount of
work in a day that he would do in a month.’
Devaki looked at him disapprovingly, ‘One should learn from you how to
praise oneself. As a mother always thinks her child is frail, a father also thinks
that his son is naive. This is their love. You shouldn’t feel bad about it.’
Haridas was embarrassed to hear this and he remained quiet.

The next day, Dinanath came with the excuse to pay a visit to Harnamdas. The
moment Harnamdas saw him, he sat up, resting against a pillow, and asked him
impatiently, ‘Has the business collapsed completely or is some of it still left? All
of you already consider me dead. You never took my advice. I did not expect
this from you at least. I would have died had my daughter-in-law not taken care
of me like this.’
‘Babu Sahib kept me informed every day about your health. I haven’t
forgotten the good deeds you have done for me. I am forever indebted to you. It
was just that there was so much work that I didn’t get time to visit you.’
‘How is the mill? How much time is left for it to go bankrupt?’
Dinanath answered in surprise, ‘Who has told you that it is going to go
bankrupt? You can see the profit in business in this period with your own eyes.’
Harnamdas answered sarcastically, ‘Looks like your Babu Sahib has promoted
you according to your wishes. Now stop hero-worshipping him and tell me the
truth. I had instructed that the running of the mill would be in your hands but I
believe that Haridas has kept everything in his hands.’
‘Yes. But I do not regret this. It is he who is capable of this work. I wouldn’t
have been able to do what he has done.’
‘I am surprised to hear this. Okay, tell me, what progress has he made?’
‘It is a long story. In brief, the work that we used to do in a month we do in a
 ‘It is a long story. In brief, the work that we used to do in a month we do in a
day now. A new machine was bought. Half of it has been paid for. Very often it
works at night as well. We had taken a contract for five thousand maund from
the thakur’s company. The delivery is almost complete. We also had a contract
with Jagatram Banwarilal. He has given us an advance for five hundred sacks of
flour per month. Similarly, many small jobs have increased considerably.
Expenditure has also increased, along with income. Many new workers have
been employed. Along with the wages, the workers get a share in the profit too.
The net profit is about four times more than before.’
Harnamdas listened to everything very carefully and looked closely at
Dinanath. Maybe he was searching for the truth. He added in a suspicious tone,
‘Dinanath, although you have never lied to me, it is hard for me to believe this. I
will only believe this once I see everything with my own eyes.’
Disappointed, Dinanath left. He was hoping that Harnamdas would be elated
to hear about the progress and compliment him on his hard work. He didn’t
know that the roots of suspicion are so deeply entrenched in some hearts that
even evidence and proof are not enough to make an impact. Even when they see
the changes with their own eyes, they feel that it might be some sort of magic.
Harnamdas remained in deep thought even after Dinanath left, and then, all of
a sudden, called out for the Kahar to take out his buggy. He went and sat in it
with the help of his lathi and ordered the Kahar to take him to his mill.
It was afternoon. Generally, at this time the workers from the mill are away
for their meals. But work was going on at Haridas’s mill. The buggy entered the
compound. There were flower beds on both sides and the gardener was watering
the plants. There was no place for the buggy to enter because of the number of
carts and motorcars parked there. Wherever one looked, there was cleanliness
and greenery.
Haridas was dictating a letter to one of his employees, when the old lala
entered the mill with the help of his lathi. Haridas got up immediately. Holding
his hand, ‘Why didn’t you send a message that you wanted to come. I could have
had the palanquin sent for you. You must have had a lot of trouble.’ Saying this,
he moved an easy chair close to him. The mill workers came running and stood
around him with great respect. Harnamdas sat in the chair, looking at the pile of
gunny sacks touching the roof and said, ‘Looks like Dinanath was speaking the
truth. There are many new faces here. How much work is done every day?’
‘These days there is some extra work, so about five hundred maund of flour is
 ‘These days there is some extra work, so about five hundred maund of flour is
prepared every day. But the average would remain at two hundred and fifty
maund. We often work at night as we have to pay off the new machine.’
‘Did you have to take out a loan?’
‘Not a penny. Only half the money for the machine has to be repaid.’
Satisfaction spread across Harnamdas’s face. Faith took the place of
suspicion. Lovingly, he looked at his son and said in a tender voice, ‘Son, I have
been very harsh with you. Forgive me. I was very proud of the fact that I
recognized people but I was often cheated. I should have moved away from this
work a long time ago. I have caused you enough harm. This illness turned out to
be a blessed one which gave you an opportunity to prove yourself and show your
worth. I wish I had had this attack five years ago. May God always keep you
happy and grant you progress. This is the blessing of your old father.’

Translated from the Hindi by Saba Mahmood Bashir

 Life Force

There was an orphan girl in my village named Gujrati. She didn’t even
remember her parents’ faces. She played with the village boys. Some would beat
her; she would cry and then resume playing. If someone felt sorry for her and
offered her something she ran to get it. Wherever she felt sleepy, she slept,
wherever she found food, she ate. She wore whatever dirty, old and tattered
clothes were available. If a person felt pity and lifted her on to his lap, her heart
overflowed with happiness. But she wasn’t leaner and gloomier than the other
children her age. On seeing her healthy body other mothers felt jealous. She
could melt people’s hearts. Upon seeing her, people lifted her on to their laps for
no reason.
When she grew up she started working as a wage earner in the fields. She
balanced the basket on her head and sang and irrigated the fields while chatting
with maids of her age. She was the girl of the village, dearest to the villagers.
She would go shopping for someone, babysit somebody’s child and pound rice
at someone else’s home. Some gave her used clothes, maybe an old tattered sari,
and she would be happy and content with that. She never shed tears at her
situation. If ever she heard a song or drumbeat she would be the first one to
reach there. Her heart was hungry for happiness. Life wasn’t lonely or
complicated for her. Life was a gift for her and she enjoyed it. She attained
womanhood. Her eyes sparkled. She was brimming with youthfulness. The
village dwellers started thinking about her marriage. How can a grown girl
remain unmarried in the village? Their morals did not allow this. They consulted
among themselves over the issue. Some gave grains, some gave money, and the
among themselves over the issue. Some gave grains, some gave money, and the
search for a groom commenced.

Gujrati’s condition at her in-laws’ house was worse than her condition in the
village. Her husband, Ram Ratan, was a water distributor at the nearby railway
station. He was rude and short-tempered by nature. Gujrati was self-sufficient
and earned her own bread by grinding wheat at the station. But this did not make
Ram Ratan any less dominant or strict with her. He appeared to be a very lively
and content man from the outside. But the moment he stepped into the house he
behaved like someone possessed by a spirit. Probably he was suspicious of her.
He didn’t want Gujrati to develop any kind of rapport with anybody. And this
was impossible for Gujrati. Till now she had led a free life. She couldn’t bear
this life of confinement. This freedom had kept her free of the worries of running
the house. Besides the regular wages, Ram Ratan earned something extra every
day. Moreover, he sold water at the price of milk. He called out to sell water and
paced from one end of the train to the other quite briskly. He probably thought
that his welcome voice was enough to soothe the passengers. People shouted
‘Water’ from all sides, but he didn’t pay attention to them until they stood up,
moved towards him and implored him for water. Even then, if he was not
content he would vent his anger at her. But for Gujrati this had become a day-to-
day affair. It had a minimal effect on her happy temperament and spirit of
freedom.

Gujrati had been married for five years when I returned to my village. Plague
had spread in the city. Otherwise what pleasure does the city dweller get in the
countryside? It was monsoon. Many married girls were back at the homes of
their parents from the houses of their in-laws. When they received news of my
arrival, all of them came to see me—Gujrati was also one of them. Her face
wasn’t as lively as before. It was the last night of the month. The morning wasn’t
as bright as the other days. She had a moon-like baby in her arms. I went to
embrace her and took the baby in my arms and froze for a moment. He was
completely blind. I asked Gujrati, ‘Did the child suffer a dreadful disease or has
completely blind. I asked Gujrati, ‘Did the child suffer a dreadful disease or has
he been blind since birth?’
Gujrati said with tearful eyes, ‘No, sister, he had smallpox that took away his
eyes. I prayed and made offerings but yet the Devi took away his eyes. His life
was spared, this is enough.’
‘The poor fellow’s life has been ruined.’
‘It was God’s wish, what could anyone do?’
‘Is his father working at the same station?’
Tears fell from Gujrati’s swollen eyes. She said, ‘God has called him. It has
been a year. He was still serving water to one of the passengers when the train
started. The passenger was taking out money from his pocket. He bent down to
take the money when the train picked up speed. I don’t know how he fell down.
He was crushed on the tracks. Seeing his face was also not in my fate. Since then
I’ve come here. I labour and work hard and somehow spend my days. May my
child live with your blessings! I don’t want anything else. I’ve been brought up
here and will die here.’
The following day was Naag Panchami.1 Girls of all ages from the village
decked themselves up and headed towards the fair with their pots. The fair was
held beside a lake. The naag was worshipped there. He was offered rice and
milk. Gujrati was also happy in the festive ambience. Her lyrical voice drew
people to her. She continued to do good work even though her mind was
burdened with sorrow.
I stayed in my village till the monsoons. Women gathered to sing every other
day. Swang and mimicry were held. Gujrati was the life and soul of these events.
I never saw her cursing her fate or destiny. Life is a gift. Her life was a living
example of this fact.
After this I didn’t get the opportunity to visit my village for a long time.
Plague broke out every year but now we had become used to it.
Ten years passed by. One day Gujrati sent me an invitation through a barber. I
read the invitation and accepted it unhesitatingly. Gujrati had built a new house
of her own. The house-warming ceremony was being organized with great
pomp. Gujrati implored me to come saying that if I didn’t she’d be sad and
wouldn’t ever show her face to me. I was wondering what had led her to build a
new house. It was difficult for her to afford two square meals a day. Why did she
build this house? I reached my village on the appointed day. Gujrati was
build this house? I reached my village on the appointed day. Gujrati was
extremely happy like a blind person whose sight has been restored. She fell at
my feet and said that she was sure that I would definitely come: ‘My heart said
that you haven’t forgotten me.’ She took me to her new house which was made
of mud but had a well-paved floor. There was a large courtyard at the doorway.
There was a cemented well on one end and adjacent to that was a Shiva temple.
The inner courtyard was also wide, there were verandas on four sides, the rooms
were well ventilated and a sweet smell emanated from the newly plastered mud
walls. Though the sun was strong outside, it was quite cool inside the room.
I said, ‘Such a building won’t be found in the entire village. I’m so happy to
see it.’
Gujrati replied gracefully, ‘It happened because of the strength of your
prayers. I had only one desire and that has been fulfilled. For the past eight years
I’ve been working tirelessly. I ground four kilos of wheat every night. I laboured
the whole day. I sewed clothes for the entire village. And to tell the truth, if it
hadn’t been for the kindness of the villagers, I don’t know what would have
happened to me. Someone gave wood, some gave bamboo and the house was
ready. The boy that I gave birth to has to be provided with a livelihood. Had he
not been blind, I wouldn’t have been so worried; he would have worked and
earned his bread. But since God took away his eyes, it’s my responsibility to
provide him with a place to live. Or else who will take care of him? Had his
father been alive he would have discharged this responsibility. Now I have to
take up this responsibility. Nothing can be gained by mourning him and cursing
one’s fate.’
Meanwhile, Gujrati’s son also arrived. He had a saffron-coloured kurta on
him. The dhoti was yellow in colour and he was wearing kharau. His face
radiated innocence. Gujrati said, ‘Son, your aunt has come. Read out something
to her.’
Immediately, the boy lowered his head to touch my feet and started chanting a
holy verse in Sanskrit. His voice and articulation was so touching that I couldn’t
stop my tears. I wish he had eyes, who knows what he would have done? Nature
had balanced this loss by giving him such a voice.
Gujrati looked at the boy with motherly pride in her eyes and said, ‘Sister, I
have started sending him to Shastriji to study. I take him to his house in the
morning and bring him back in the evening. He takes his lunch at Shastriji’s
house. The priest is a good person. He is very kind to him. He says that within
two years the boy will be able to perform religious rituals. He can understand the
meaning of the Bhagavad Gita at this age. Someday I will make him recite a
katha to you. I thought he wouldn’t be able to do any other work. If he learns
this profession, he’ll somehow manage to survive.’ The women of the village
had gathered; I went and sat there with them. They were waiting for me. The
singing started. Gujrati went towards the storeroom. Food was being cooked in
the courtyard. Puris were being fried. Guests were milling around outside the
door. People from nearby villages had also been invited. It was evening. She
wanted the guests to finish their meal before it got too dark. She looked very
sprightly. There were no signs of ageing and laziness. The ceremony was
conducted in such a way that there was no reason for complaint. On the third
day, after much persuasion, Gujrati bade me farewell.

But this new house didn’t suit Gujrati. An old sadhu came and stopped at the
village. Gujrati served him well. Her son Satya Dev often went to the baba and
sat with him. One day Babaji disappeared with him. People looked for them
everywhere. His physical features were reported to the police. I also had this
publicized through many newspapers but there was no clue. This boy was her
lifeline. I feared that she wouldn’t be able to overcome this grief. A few days
later when I came to know that she had left on a pilgrimage, my doubt was
confirmed. I felt very sad. The once lush garden had turned desolate. A helpless
widow’s wishes and courage had been trampled upon mercilessly.
It took Gujrati a year to complete her pilgrimage. She had assumed that she
would find out something about Satya Dev in the holy places. But after a year’s
search, she returned. When I heard the news of her arrival I made plans to visit
her. I wanted to commiserate with her. But one or the other obstacle came up. I
couldn’t free myself for six months. However, in the seventh month I set aside
my other responsibilities and arrived in my village.
I had thought that Gujrati’s door would be desolate and lifeless, and that she
would be sitting with a grief-stricken face like other illiterate people. But when I
arrived at her door, quite contrary to my expectations, I found the surroundings
bustling and lively. In the courtyard outside, rose and jasmine had bloomed in
flower beds. Creepers crawled over the temple arches. Two or three sadhus were
sitting near the well and smoking ganja. I stepped inside, there were many cows
and buffaloes tied in the inner courtyard. The calves were mooing. It was nine
o’clock. On one side curd was being mixed. On the other side, milk was boiling
in large pots. There were cages hanging on the four sides of the veranda with
birds inside them. In one corner, a baby deer was having milk from a bowl. The
moment she saw me, Gujrati ran to me and embraced me. There wasn’t a single
piece of jewellery on her body, save for the kanthi around her neck and the silver
bangles on her wrist. But her face was suffused with liveliness. Her big eyes
were soulful. The words of condolence came to my lips but I couldn’t utter them.
She sensed what was on my mind and broke the ice and said, ‘Come, sister. My
heart was longing to see you. You made me wait a lot. Is everybody well at
home? Are the children fine?’
I said, ‘It seems an entire cowshed has been set up at your place.’
‘Yes, this is the cowshed for all the children of the village. People should do
some good work in their lifetime. This milk is fed to the children of the entire
village. Sometimes sadhus and saints pay a visit. I give some to them also. I have
kept the birds so I don’t get bored. My days are spent in the upkeep of these
animals. I don’t hide things from you. I can’t just sit moaning and stay idle. And
why should I weep? Earlier I used to do everything single-handedly for Satya
Dev. Now I do it for all the children. When they come and have their share of
milk, I cannot describe the happiness I feel in my heart. Had Satya Dev been
alive I would have missed this. Sometimes even bad may lead to good. The
village people provide fodder. I do not do anything but my heart feels content,
now my only desire is to build a small dharmashala in the village. I think about it
day and night. Let us see when God fulfils my desire. If I could accomplish this
before death, my life would be meaningful. You will also have to help me in
some way.’
Such pious desires and courage! If I were in her place I would have either
wept till death or, even if I lived, I would have been worse than a corpse. I said,
‘Yes, you start the work. I will help you in whatever way I can. It’s through your
strong courage that you have taken up such hard tasks. How will you go to
heaven leaving all these good tasks behind?’
 5

Within a few days Gujrati laid the foundation stone for her dharmashala.
Landlords and merchants from near and far offered help. The work commenced
and within a few months a solid two-storey building was erected that could
lodge fifty people without any hassle. While the dharmashala was being
constructed, Gujrati had a paralytic stroke. Her daily routine became even more
burdensome. Her treatment went on for a year. There were no chances of
survival; her body was giving way. But still she was alive. She survived, but
both her hands became inert and she started losing her eyesight. The cowshed
was destroyed. The fountain of bounty had dried up. The birds were set free;
dogs, cats, deer and mongoose wandered around. Once again the lush garden
wore a deserted look. I went to Gujrati to inquire about her health. Her fortune
had reversed. She looked frail, with a pale face and sparse hair, as if somebody
had stripped a plant of its branches and leaves, exposing its bare stem. Her eyes
were sunken. Seeing her condition I broke into tears. Gujrati said, ‘It is good that
you have come. We have met. Who knows whether we’ll meet again or not? I
am a guest here only for a few days now. Just do me a favour, kindly see that the
dharmashala keeps running and every year maintenance is carried out.’
I asked her not to worry. ‘I’ll donate a part of my property to the village for its
upkeep. You’ll continue to worry if you’re left alone here. There is nobody to
look after you. Why don’t you come along with me to my place? There are kids
in the family who won’t let you feel lonesome and I will be able to take care of
you. There won’t be any problem.’
Gujrati smiled wanly and said, ‘I can’t start doing something that I have never
done my entire life—worry about my health.’
I said with concern, ‘What’s wrong if you do? I can’t see you lying here in
this condition.’
Before Gujrati could answer, four or five veiled women arrived and said,
‘Buaji, aren’t we going to have the bal kaand today? A little bit is yet to be
done. Let’s finish it today.’
Gujrati gestured towards the alcove and said, ‘Yes, it’ll be done today. Bring
down the Ramayana.’ One woman brought it down. They began reading a verse
each. Gujrati interpreted the verses. I started listening attentively.
The holy recitation of the Ramayana went on for about an hour and a half to
 The holy recitation of the Ramayana went on for about an hour and a half to
two. While the women were still sitting, a few girls from the village also arrived.
Gujrati became quite absorbed in teaching them. This went on till the afternoon.
In the meantime a few women came to show her their children also. Gujrati
observed them and prescribed medicines. Having spent some time with the
sadhus she had also mastered this art.
After their departure Gujrati said to me, ‘If I come along with you, who will
do this work? I can’t be happy sitting idle and simply eating without doing
anything.’
I understood her feelings and said, ‘I didn’t know that even in such a
condition you could manage so much work.’
My eyes opened. This was a moment of epiphany for me: It is her lively heart
and carefree spirit that have kept her alive. No matter what the circumstances, if
people have good intentions they find a way to serve humanity. The harder the
times, the stronger they emerge.
Gujrati is still alive and my village continues to benefit from her as before.

Translated from the Urdu by Shaheen Saba

 The Problem

There are four peons in my office. One of them is Garib. This person is
extremely simple, obedient, an alert and efficient worker and one who would
take any scolding without complaining—the name ‘Garib’ and these traits
indeed go well together in his case. I have been in this office for a year and never
found him absent. I am so used to seeing him perched on his worn-out mat at
nine in the morning, as if he were an integral part of the office building. So
innocent is he that he cannot say no to anyone or anything.
There’s another peon, a Muslim. The whole office is scared of him, one
wonders why. I cannot think of anything in his case but that he is loud-mouthed.
He boasts of having a cousin who is a qazi in the state of Rampur and an uncle
who is a magistrate in the state of Tonk. Our office has conferred on him the title
of ‘Qazi Sahib’.
The remaining two come from the Brahmin caste. People rate their blessings
higher than the duties they may perform. Both are shirkers, arrogant and lazy.
You ask them to do something and they make faces before carrying it out. They
care two hoots for the clerks. Only the head of the office makes some difference,
but sometimes they mess with him, too.
In spite of all this, no one is treated as shabbily as poor Garib. When it’s time
to get a promotion, the three avail themselves of it; no one thinks of Garib. All
three have risen to ten rupees a month, yet Garib is stuck at seven. From
morning till evening, he is on his feet—even the three fellow peons order him
about. They also make an extra buck, in which he has no share. On top of this,
everyone in the office—from the diarist to the head clerk—has a grouse against
everyone in the office—from the diarist to the head clerk—has a grouse against
him. There have been endless complaints against him and many a time he’s been
fined, too, in addition to the regular admonitions. I never understood the secret
of this. I did sympathize with him and also indicated that his place in my heart
wasn’t lower than that of the others. On a few occasions, I have fought with
others on this count.

One day, the office head asked Garib to clean his table. Immediately, he set to it.
Accidentally, the duster touched the inkpot and it tumbled, the ink spilling all
over the table. The head was beside himself with rage. He caught Garib by the
ear and showered him with the choicest of abuses culled from the many
developed Indian languages.
Poor Garib! He stood still with tears in his eyes, as if he had committed
murder. I didn’t like this violent, unacceptable behaviour of the head. If another
peon had been involved and had done still worse, the head wouldn’t have shown
such anger. I said to him in English, ‘Sir, your behaviour is scarcely appropriate.
He didn’t spill the ink on purpose. You should have treated him with regard.
Your act is against all principles of fairness.’
The head lowered his tone and said, ‘You do not know him. He is a rascal.’
‘I do not see any such trait in him.’
‘You do not get it, sir. He’s one of a kind, owns a large tract of land and deals
in thousands. He has two ploughs for the fields, many buffaloes. This has turned
him insolent.’
‘If that were the case, why would he be a peon here?’
‘Believe me, the fellow is worth a lot and on top of it he’s tight-fisted.’
‘This is no crime, is it?’
‘This is beyond you. Wait a little more and you will realize how mean and
stingy he is.’
Another one from the office butted in, ‘Sir, he had tons of milk and curd at
home, tons of peas, maize and gram. Still, he never so much as gifted a little of it
to the people in the office. We pine for these things here. Why shouldn’t we be
jealous? And all his prosperity is due to the present job. Earlier, he was no better
than a wretch.’
 The head was cautious. ‘That’s not the issue. It’s all his and he may not give it
to one or the other. Yet, the fellow is insensitive, a brute.’
I grasped the matter vaguely and said, ‘If he’s so small a person, then he is an
animal. I didn’t realize this.’
The head opened up. The caution gone, he said, ‘Not that his gifts will matter
to others, but they surely will reveal a shinier side of his self. You also expect
from someone well-provided. What will a starveling afford?’
The secret was out. The head quite easily showed us our place. Prosperity is
everyone’s enemy, not just of the lower-ranked. If our in-laws, either from the
father’s or the mother’s side, are poor, we do not look for anything coming from
there, and in fact forget that they exist. However, if they are rich and yet do not
care about us, do not remember us on the day of the festival or a special
occasion, we get furious. We visit a poor friend and happily accept a rolled betel
leaf from him. But where’s the person who returns from a rich friend sans dinner
and doesn’t curse him? Nay, he’ll be angry with him all his life. If poor Sudama
had returned empty-handed from Lord Krishna, he would have considered him a
worse enemy than Shishupal and Jarasandh.

A few days later, I asked Garib, ‘Tell me, do you own fertile land?’
Garib said meekly, ‘Yes, sir, I do. I have two labourers who work in the
fields.’
‘You have cows and buffaloes, too, that give milk?’
‘Yes, sir, I have two milk-yielding buffaloes. The cow is pregnant. It’s
because of people’s kindness that I manage to have two square meals a day.’
‘Do the office people receive offerings from you occasionally?’
He replied sadly, ‘What do I have to offer to government people? What does
my land yield but barley, gram, maize and jowar? You are all kings. At home I
have only coarse grains. Think of giving you that! That may be an affront to you.
I dare not offer milk and curd, could I? One should be worthy before gifting.’
‘Where’s the harm in trying? See what happens. The city people do not get to
see these things. They are curious enough about bran and husk to enjoy the
change.’
‘Master, if I ventured and someone minded? If he went and complained to the
 ‘Master, if I ventured and someone minded? If he went and complained to the
sahib! Where do I go then?’
‘Leave that to me. No one will say anything to you. I shall explain if someone
asks.’
‘Well, sir, there’s the crop of peas these days. Gram is also sprouting. The
cane crusher is operative. There’s nothing more, sahib!’
‘Just bring these.’
‘If things go wrong, you will have to rescue me.’
‘Yes, I will take charge.’
The next day Garib came to the office. Accompanying him were three young
men. Two had on their heads baskets filled with pods of green peas. The third
carried a pitcher of sugar cane juice. All three had a bundle each of sugar cane
held under their arms. Garib moved quietly to stand under the tree facing the
veranda. However, a sense of guilt prevented him from entering the office. Just
then, peons and other office workers walked in and surrounded him from all
sides. One peeled and sucked the sugar cane as others attacked the baskets. It
was a scene to be watched. On hearing the commotion, the head clerk strode to
the place and inquired, ‘What’s all this? Come in and get to your jobs.’
I whispered into the head’s ears, ‘Garib has brought all these presents from
home. You take some and distribute the rest among the others.’
Feigning anger, the head asked sharply, ‘Garib, why did you bring these here?
Take them away or else I shall lodge a report with the sahib. Who do you think
we are—beggars?’
Garib went white in the face and trembled with fear. He wasn’t able to utter a
word and looked towards me for help.
I apologized to the head on his behalf. After much cajoling, the head was
brought around. He took half the things from each basket and bundle and sent
them home. The remaining was evenly distributed among the rest. This is how
the farce ended.

The incident was followed by the rise of Garib in the office. Now, no one found
fault with him, nor did Garib have to run errands. He was spared, too, the biting
remarks of the colleagues. The other peons provided help to him in his job. His
name, too, underwent a change—from Garib, he transformed into Garibdas. This
name, too, underwent a change—from Garib, he transformed into Garibdas. This
affected his temperament. Self-assurance took the place of meekness. Also, his
alert efficiency gave way to laziness. The change showed in his arriving late to
the office quite often. On certain days, he would skip office with the excuse that
he was unwell. No one in the office minded his lapses and mistakes. He had
found the key to success and prestige. Every week or fortnight, he would get
milk, curd, or something else as an offering to the head. He had learnt the art of
propitiating the gods. His new strength was manipulative skills rather than an
innocent way of life.
One day, the head sent him to the railway station to bring a delivery of parcels
arriving from the government farms. There were a number of big bundles. These
were carried on the carts. Garib had settled with the cart drivers a price of twelve
annas for the cartage. When papers were sent to the office, Garib appropriately
charged twelve annas from the office. When he came out, his mind changed. He
asked for a share of four annas in payment. The carters were aghast and refused
to part with the sum. This angered Garib, who put the entire sum in his pocket
and said rudely, ‘I won’t pay you a paisa. Go tell anyone.’ Realizing that unless
they paid his share from their amount, they would lose everything, the carters
reconciled. Garib gave them eight annas and asked them to sign on a receipt of
twelve annas. Then the receipt was deposited with the office.
This curious scene left me awestruck. This was the same Garib who, some
months ago, had been an embodiment of humility and honesty, who hadn’t had
the courage to claim even his own rights from the other peons. He hadn’t known
how to bribe others or accept bribes. I felt saddened seeing this change in him.
Who was responsible for this change? Yes, I was responsible and I had taught
him this lesson of low-level manipulation and villainy. I started thinking—
compared with this cynicism that places one’s hand on someone else’s throat,
how was that naivety bad that had made him accept injustices from others in the
past? It was an inauspicious moment when I guided this man to the path of
success and false respect. In reality, the path was of horrific degradation. I had
sacrificed his self-respect for the sake of him gaining hollow success.

Translated from the Hindi by Anand Prakash

 A Special Holi

It was the day of Holi, the carnivalesque spring festival. Mr A.B. Cross had gone
out hunting and his groom, orderly, sweeper, waterman, milkman and dhobi
were all celebrating Holi. No sooner had the sahib left than they had drunk a
deep draught of bhang and were now sitting in the garden singing the lusty songs
of Phaag. They glanced at the gate every now and then to see if the sahib had
returned. But it was Sheikh Noor Ali who presently came and stood before them.
The groom asked him, ‘So Khansamaji, when is the sahib coming back?’
Noor Ali said, ‘The fellow can come back when he likes, but I am quitting
today. I shan’t serve him any more.’
The orderly said, ‘You will never find a job like this again. The pay is good
and you can also make a bit on the side. No reason why you should leave it.’
Noor Ali responded, ‘Hang it all, I say. I shan’t be a slave any more. They
kick us around all the time and yet we go on slaving for them! I am quitting this
place today. But come, let me give all of you a treat first. Follow me, be seated
and feel at home in the dining room, and I shall serve you such fine drinks as
will truly warm your hearts.’
‘What if the sahib were to return all of a sudden?’
‘He won’t return for a while yet. Come right in.’
Servants of British masters are often drunkards themselves. As soon as they
enlist to serve the sahibs, they too become subject to the same affliction. When
the master swigs bottle after bottle, why shouldn’t the servants do the same? At
this invitation then, all of them brightened up. They were already high on bhang.
They left their drums and cymbals right there and, following Noor Ali, went and
sat at the dining table. Noor Ali opened a bottle of Scotch whisky, filled the
glasses and they all began to quaff. When those used to coarser stuff found such
fine liquor flowing they began to empty glass after glass. The khansama too did
all he could to abet them. In a short while they had lost their heads and lost all
fear too. One started to sing a traditional Holi song, and another joined in. The
singing picked up. Noor Ali brought in the drums and cymbals and a concert got
under way. As they sang on, one of them got up and began to dance. Another
joined him. Soon all were cavorting around the room. A big hullabaloo arose.
They proceeded from singing Kabir1 to Phaag2 to Chautal to trading abuses and
even roughing each other up. Fearless, they felt truly at home. Chairs were
knocked down, pictures came off walls, and someone even upturned the table.
Another began throwing plates in the air and juggling them.
Such were the uproarious goings-on when Lala Ujagarmal, a rich man of the
city, arrived. When he saw this strange sight he was dumbfounded. He asked the
khansama, ‘What’s all this commotion, Sheikhji? What would the sahib say if he
were to see all this?’
Noor Ali replied, ‘But what can we do if these are the sahib’s own orders? He
has decreed a feast for all his servants today and asked us to celebrate Holi. We
hear the Lat Sahib, his lordship the viceroy himself, has issued orders to all
sahibs to socialize with the people and participate in all their festivals. That’s
why our sahib has given this order, though normally he wouldn’t even look at us.
Come in, please, and be seated. What can I get for you? A new consignment of
liquor has just arrived from England.’
Ujagarmal, who had been awarded the title of Rai Sahib by the British, was a
gentleman of liberal ideas. He attended British dinners without any qualms,
followed a Western lifestyle, was the moving spirit behind the Union Club, was
thick with the British generally, and regarded Mr Cross as an especially dear
friend. In fact, he had always been close to the district magistrate, whoever he
might happen to be. On Noor Ali’s invitation he took a seat and said, ‘Is that so?
Right, then, bring on something special. And let someone sing a ghazal.’
‘Yes, sir, anything for you, sir.’
Ujagarmal had already had a couple before leaving home; when he’d had a
few more, he asked unsteadily, ‘So, Noor Ali, will the sahib too play Holi
today?’
today?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘But I haven’t brought any colours or anything with me. Send someone at
once to my bungalow to fetch some, and some water pistols.’
He joked happily with the groom, Ghasite, about what fun it all was.
Ghasite exclaimed, ‘What fun, what fun. Happy Holi!’
Ujagarmal began to sing. ‘I’m going to play Holi with the sahib today, I’m
going to play Holi with the sahib today, oh, I am going to aim my water pistol at
him.’
Ghasite: ‘I’ll smear him with coloured powder.’
Milkman: ‘I’ll cover him in a cloud of colour.’
Dhobi: ‘I’ll guzzle bottle after bottle.’
Orderly: ‘I’ll sing Kabir after Kabir.’
Ujagarmal: ‘I’ll play Holi with the sahib today.’
Noor Ali: ‘Hey, watch out, everyone! I can hear the sahib’s motorcar entering
the compound. Rai Sahib, here, I’ve got your colours and water pistols, so just
start to sing a song now and, as the sahib enters, shoot your water pistol at him.
All of you now, go ahead and cover his face with colour. The sahib will be
beside himself with joy. The car is in the driveway. Ready, steady . . .!’

Mr Cross got out of the car with his gun in hand and began calling for his
servants, but with the Chautal song in full flow, no one could hear him. Puzzled,
he wondered at first what was wrong. Was that singing coming from his
bungalow? This was too much! His face contorting with rage, Mr Cross took
hold of his riding whip and approached the dining room, but no sooner had he
stepped in than Ujagarmal discharged his water pistol. He was utterly drenched
and some coloured water got into his eyes. As he was wiping his eyes, the groom
and the milkman and all the others ran up, got hold of the sahib and rubbed
coloured powder all over his face. The dhobi picked up some oil and soot and
blackened the sahib’s face with it! The sahib’s rage knew no bounds, and he
began thrashing around blindly with his whip. The poor souls had thought that
the sahib would be pleased and give them a big tip, but on being whipped instead
they quickly came to their senses and ran helter-skelter.
When Ujagarmal saw things take such a turn he realized at once that Noor Ali
 When Ujagarmal saw things take such a turn he realized at once that Noor Ali
had taken him for a ride. He shrank into a corner. When the room had emptied of
all servants the sahib advanced towards him. Ujagarmal was scared out of his
wits. He bolted out of the room and ran as fast as his feet could carry him, with
the sahib close on his heels. Ujagarmal’s carriage was parked outside the gate.
Sensing the commotion, the horse gave a start, pricked its ears and ran off with
the carriage behind it. What a scene it was, with the horse and carriage in front,
Ujagarmal chasing it, and Mr Cross chasing him, whip in hand. All three were
bolting as if they had broken free of their reins. Ujagarmal tripped but promptly
picked himself up and was off again before the sahib could catch up. The chase
lasted till they were out of the grounds and on to the open road. Finally, the sahib
stopped. To proceed further with soot on his face would be ridiculous. In any
case, he thought Ujagarmal had probably been punished enough. He decided to
go and sort out the servants, and so turned back. Ujagarmal breathed again; in
fact, he sat down right where he was to catch his breath. The horse too stuttered
to a halt. The coachman got down, attended to Ujagarmal, picked him up in his
arms and deposited him in the carriage.

Ujagarmal was the leader of the all the cooperators and collaborators in the city.
He had complete faith in the continuing goodwill of the British and always sang
praises of all kinds of progress being made under their rule. In all his speeches,
he took the noncooperators to task. Recently he had risen further in the esteem of
the British and had been given several government contracts which had
previously been the preserve of British contractors. As cooperation with the
British had brought him both honour and wealth, he secretly wished the
noncooperators to carry on with their ways even as he denounced them. He
thought of noncooperation as a passing fad and was keen to make hay while the
sun shone. Even as he carried exaggerated reports of the doings of the
noncooperators, he secretly laughed at the British for giving credence to such
reports. As he rose in the esteem of the British, so he rose in his own esteem. He
was no longer as timid as before. As he sat in his carriage and his breath returned
to normal, he began to reflect on what had just happened. Surely Noor Ali
played a trick on me, he thought, ‘He must be in league with the noncooperators.
But even if the British do not play Holi, flying into such a rage shows that they
But even if the British do not play Holi, flying into such a rage shows that they
do not look upon us as any better than dogs. How proud they are of their
authority over us! He chased me with a whip! Now I know that whatever little
regard he showed for me earlier was merely a pretence. In their hearts they must
think of us as low and mean people. That little spurt of red colour from the water
pistol was no bullet; it wouldn’t have killed him. Don’t we go to church at
Christmas and send them baskets full of gifts, though that’s no festival of ours?
But this fellow got so mad just because I squirted some coloured water on him!
Oh, what an insult! I should have stood up to him and openly confronted him. To
have run away was cowardice. That’s what encourages them to roar like lions.
There can be no doubt that through winning some of us over they want to crush
the noncooperators. All their courtesy and civility is only a ruse to serve their
self-interest. They are still as haughty and they are still as tyrannical; there is no
difference.’
The more Ujagarmal reflected on the matter the more agitated he grew. Such
utter humiliation! The thought of his insult would not go away and quite
overwhelmed him. ‘This is the fruit of all my cooperation,’ he lamented. ‘This is
just what I deserve. How pleased I was at their expressions of goodwill. How
stupid of me not to realize that between the master and the slave there can be no
friendship. How I laughed at the noncooperators for wanting to have nothing to
do with the British. It turns out that it’s not they who are laughable, it’s I who
am ridiculous.’ He did not go home but went straight to the office of the
Congress Committee. There he found a huge assembly. The committee had
invited everyone, the high and the low, the touchables and the untouchables, to
come together to celebrate Holi. Hindus and Muslims sat together playing Holi
with the greatest love and warmth. A feast of fruits had been laid out, so that all
castes could partake of it. When he arrived, someone was in the middle of
making a speech. Ujagarmal got out of his carriage but felt embarrassed to go
forward and join the meeting. Walking in gingerly, he went and stood in a
corner. Everyone was shocked to see him there and stared at him, wondering
what on earth this archpriest of the sycophants thought he was doing here.
Shouldn’t he have been at some meeting of collaborators passing a resolution
pledging his loyalty? ‘Maybe he has come to spy on us,’ they thought, and to
bait him shouted, ‘Victory to Congress!’
Ujagarmal shouted loudly, ‘Victory to noncooperation!’
 The response came, ‘Down with sycophants!’
Ujagarmal shouted even more loudly, ‘Down with lickspittles!’
So saying and filling everyone with amazement, he went up to the platform
and said in a contrite tone, ‘Gentlemen, friends, forgive me for having
noncooperated with you so far. I beg your forgiveness from the bottom of my
heart. Do not think of me as a spy or an infiltrator or a betrayer like Vibhishana.
Today the veil has been lifted from my eyes. Today, on this sacred day of Holi, I
have come to embrace you in love and affection. Kindly treat me with
indulgence and generosity. Today I have been punished for having betrayed you.
The district magistrate today humiliated me dreadfully. I was whipped by him
again and again and I have now come here to seek refuge. I have been a traitor to
the nation, an enemy of my people. For the sake of my selfishness and because
of my distrust of you, I have done a great disservice to the nation and put hurdles
in your path. When I think of all my misdeeds I wish I could smash my heart to
pieces.’ (A voice piped up: ‘Go right ahead! And just let me know if you need
any help!’ The chairman: ‘This is no time for bitter words.’) ‘No, I need no help
from anyone, I can do the job very well myself; but first I must do great penance
and atone for all my sins. I hope to spend the rest of my days doing just such
penance, washing the muck off my face. All I beg of you is to give me a chance
to reform myself; please trust me and consider me a humble servant of yours.
From now on, I dedicate myself to you with body, soul and all I have.’

Translated from the Hindi by Harish Trivedi

 The Hidden Hand

Lala Jeevan Das has been lying on his deathbed for six months. His condition is
deteriorating every day. He has lost all faith in the hakims, only his belief in fate
is left. When any sympathizer names a vaid or doctor he simply turns away. He
is certain of his impending death, so much so that any mention of his illness is
anathema to him. The awareness of his condition is so depressing that inquiries
about his health to him feel like rubbing salt into a wound. He wants to forget for
a moment that he is on the verge of death. He is longing to be rid of this heavy
burden just for a moment to be able to breathe freely. He always despised
politics. His personal affairs were enough to keep him busy, but now he has
started to take special interest in the situation in the country. He listens intently
to anything that is not related to his illness, but as soon as anybody, out of
sympathy, mentions a medicine he gets angry. In darkness a voice of sympathy
is not as welcome as a ray of light.
He was a steadfast type. He did not ponder about punishment and requital,
chastisement and heavenly reward, he was not even filled with awe for unknown
terrors. The future did not worry him, which was not due to mental immobility—
the affairs of the world had left no room for a concern about the hereafter. His
family was very small, just a wife and one small child, but he was domineering
and high-handed in nature. He tended more towards negation than acceptance.
His protracted and terminal illness had considerably increased this negative
attitude. When he thought about what would become of his poor family after his
death a commotion began to fill his heart. How would they survive? To whom
would they hold out their hands? Who would look after them? Oh, why had he
would they hold out their hands? Who would look after them? Oh, why had he
married? Why did he start a family—only to make it dependant on charity?
Should he allow the honour and dignity of his family to meet the ground like
this? Would the daughter-in-law and the grandson of Durga Das, from whose
generosity the whole town had profited, have to go from door to door begging?
What would happen? There was no help in sight, no prospect of livelihood,
only a terrifying wilderness without any signs of bloom.
They were known to conduct themselves with dignity; they did not bow
before anybody, did not need anybody’s favour, always went around holding
their heads high, and now circumstances were such that they were not sure of
even a shroud after their death.

It was past midnight. Today Jeevan Das’s condition was critical. Again and
again he lost consciousness, his heartbeat stopped, and he felt that now the end
was near. A lamp was alight in the room. Prabhavati and his son were sleeping
close to his charpoy. Jeevan Das looked at the door despairingly like a stray
wayfarer looking for shelter. After looking all around, his eyes came to rest on
Prabhavati. Alas, in a few moments this beauty would be destitute! The child
would be an orphan in a few minutes! These two had been the centre of his life.
Whatever he did, he did for them. His whole life had been devoted to them, and
now he would have to leave them as helpless victims in this maelstrom. These
ideas tore his heart. He began to cry. How much pain filled these eyes, how
much love and devotion! Suddenly, his thoughts took a new turn. Instead of pain
a firm resolve appeared on his face, like the new sternness showing on the face
of a begging dervish who has been scolded by the master of a house. No, no
way! He would not allow his dear ones, his lovely wife, to fall to a cruel fate, he
would not allow the honour and dignity of his family to go to pieces. He was
half-dead, destitute, on the brink of death, but he would not bow before destiny,
he would not be its slave but its commander. He would not succumb to it, he
would make it bow down before him, he would guide his boat safely through the
elements!
Surely the world would find fault with his actions, call him a murderer and
slaughterer because there would be one attraction less for its satanic curiosity
and its blood-freezing amusements. So what! He would have the satisfaction that
the cruelties of the world would not be able to touch him.
A pale resolve shone on Jeevan Das’s face, a resolve foreboding suicide. He
got up from his charpoy, but his hands and feet were shaking. Everything in the
room seemed to be staring at him with eyes wide open. He saw his reflection in
the mirror of the cupboard and was taken aback. Who was this? But then it
occurred to him that he saw his own shadow. He took a cup and a spoon from
the cupboard. The cup contained a poisonous medicine which the doctor had
prescribed for rubbing on his chest. Holding the cup firmly in his hand he looked
fearfully around and went to stand at the head of Prabhavati’s bed. His heart
filled with remorse. What a terrible fate! These dear ones would have to die at
his own hands. He would be their angel of death. This was the punishment for
his character. Why had he closed his eyes and entered the fetters of family life?
Why had he not thought about what was to happen? At that time he had been so
happy and carefree as if life would be a perpetual melody, a rose garden without
thorns. It was the punishment for his lack of foresight and his thoughtlessness
that he now had to face this black day.
Suddenly he felt his feet shake. Everything turned black before his eyes. His
pulse stopped. These were the signs of unconsciousness. The depressing
thoughts left his mind. Who knows, perhaps this attack was the message of
death! Quickly he stood up again and put a spoonful of the medicine into
Prabhavati’s mouth. In her sleep she made two, three munching movements with
her mouth and turned to the other side. He opened the mouth of Lakhan Das and
fed him a spoon of the medicine, then he knocked the cup to the ground. His legs
no longer shook. His mind and heart were overcome by a feeling of self-defence.
He could not stay in the room for one single moment. The fear of being detected
was even stronger than the fear of the deed itself. He did not fear punishment,
but he wanted to be spared the hassle. He did not want to become the victim of
malicious gloating. But, alas, he didn’t know that destiny was playing tricks with
him. What he had taken for poison actually was a tonic meant to strengthen his
heart. He left the house as if driven out by force. He had never felt so strong and
healthy. The house was on the roadside. He got a tonga at the door and jumped
inside. An electric current coursed through his nerves.
The tonga driver asked him where to go. He replied, ‘Wherever you like.’
‘To the station?’
 ‘To the station?’
‘Why not!’
‘Should I take the by-lane or the main road?’
‘The one where I get a train as soon as possible.’
The driver looked at him with astonishment. Recognizing him, he said, ‘You
are not in good health. Is nobody accompanying you?’
‘No, I am going alone.’
‘Where do you want to go?’
‘Don’t talk so much, move on!’
The tonga driver whipped his horse and went towards the railway station. As
soon as they reached the station Jeevan Das jumped from the tonga and ran
towards the station. The tonga driver asked for his money. Only then did Jeevan
Das remember that he had not taken anything from the house, and he was not
even dressed. He said, ‘I will pay you later.’
‘Nobody knows when you will return.’
‘My shoes are new. Take them!’
The tonga driver grew even bolder. He thought Jeevan Das must be drunk and
not in his senses. He took the shoes and went off.
The departure time of the train was still hours away. Jeevan Das went to the
platform and started to stroll up and down. Gradually, his steps grew faster, as if
he wanted to escape from persecution. It did not worry him at all that his hands
were empty. It was winter, and people were shivering from the cold but he was
oblivious to the need to dress warmly. His ability to think was gone, only some
sense of what he had done remained. He felt as if Prabhavati was following him,
or sometimes it seemed that Lakhan Das came running. Sometimes he thought
he was hearing the lamentations of his neighbours. An obsession started to get
hold of him, so much so that he tried to hide behind a heap of sacks. He started
up every moment, looked around in terror and hid again. Now he no longer knew
why he had come here. Only his sense of survival was left. Bells rang. Throngs
of travellers arrived. The noise of porters and shouting passengers, the hooting of
engines, the ringing of bells, all combined to create a sound like on the Day of
Judgement, but Jeevan Das was shifting between lifeless mounds as if he wanted
to surround and capture them.
Finally, the train arrived at the platform. Jeevan Das pulled himself together.
Memory returned, and he leapt from his place of hiding to sit in the train.
Right then there was a knock at the door. Jeevan Das bounced up, looked at
 Right then there was a knock at the door. Jeevan Das bounced up, looked at
the door, and saw the ticket checker standing there. Immediately his distraction
disappeared. The sense of danger revived his memory. No intoxication can stand
the fear of death! The sensation of impending harm awakens the senses. He
quickly opened the door to the washroom and hid in a corner. The ticket checker
asked whether anybody else was in the compartment. The passengers had seen
Jeevan Das fleeing to the washroom, but they said with one voice that there was
nobody else. The common people have always loathed the authorities.
When the train started to move Jeevan Das came out. The passengers
welcomed him with a laugh. This was Dehradun.

Jeevan Das could not escape his imagination. When he reached Haridwar his
terror had somewhat subsided. The reality of the elements came home to him.
The cold had frozen him even before, and now hunger began to torment him. He
had never relied on alms before, but now there was no way out but to bow to his
necessities. He ate at a public kitchen and also took a blanket from there.
Some days passed in this manner, but there was no mention of death at all.
The ailments which had made him despair of life gradually disappeared. With
every day he felt stronger. His face lost its pallor, and his appetite returned to
normal. His confusion also subsided. It looked as if the sacrifice of his dear ones
had pacified Death.
To Jeevan Das his steadily improving health seemed more mortifying than his
previous attacks. He now appealed to Death, he prayed for the deadly symptoms
to reappear, he practised all kinds of unhealthy eating habits and forsook all
precautions, but to no avail. Those mental blows had really mollified Death.
Now he began to fear that he might really stay alive. All signs pointed in this
direction. His conviction grew day by day. He had wanted to bend destiny to his
will, but now he found himself trampled beneath its feet. Time and again he
cursed himself. Sometimes he got up with the intention to end his life to
demonstrate that he was still able to challenge his fate, but after one heavy defeat
he was afraid that this attempt could have even worse consequences. He had
come to acknowledge the power of destiny.
These ideas began to awaken some philosophical doubts in him. A
materialistic education had made him a sceptic from the start. Now the whole
materialistic education had made him a sceptic from the start. Now the whole
world order began to appear deceptive and cruel to him. There was no justice, no
mercy, no sympathy. It was impossible for this order to be following any
benevolent power, for all these heresies, cruelties and wonders to happen with its
knowledge. It could be neither forgiving and merciful, nor omniscient. This
power was certainly nasty, mean, mischievous and malevolent. Fearing its evil
power mankind must have taken recourse to flattery and made it into the epitome
of everything good and bountiful, into the source of holiness and beauty, of
goodness and blessing.
This admission of our humbleness, this utter helplessness, we call worship and
take pride in it. The philosophers say: The universe is run by incontrovertible
laws. They are always enforced. That, too, is their gullibility. Laws are
insensitive, unchangeable and blind, they are incapable of cruelty. They are not
interested in inflicting pain. If they are nobody’s friend, they are nobody’s
enemy either. Somebody must be the initiator of these laws, must be the conjurer
of this spectacle. There’s no denying this. But this hidden power is not an angel,
nor a human being, but Satan himself.
These thoughts and doubts gradually made their presence felt. Neither does
striving for good elevate us, nor does doing wrong demean us. The boat of
Jeevan Das’s life had lost its anchor. Now it had lost its balance and was adrift
amidst the tumultuous waves.

4
Fifteen years went by. Jeevan Das was now living in great splendour. He had
carriages and servants, and held soirees every day. He lived only for his
pleasure, selfishness was his only creed; he felt free of the bonds of conscience
and morality. His sense of good and evil had died. He also did not lack the
means. Shrewd lies, secret falsifications, clandestine deception—how could a
servant of so many masters be short of anything! He cared only about outward
respectability, and this he guarded quite jealously. Nothing else stopped the free
rein of his personal desires. His friends and companions were of the same kind—
some skilled only in one art, others jacks of all trades.
Jeevan Das was no longer troubled by the grief about his wife and son. He did
not care about the past or future, only the present had any meaning for him. He
thought of religious reward as torture, and of torment as reward, and to him this
seemed the fundamental principle of the world. He himself was a living example
of this principle. Having broken the fetters of conscience he had arrived at
heights which he could hardly have even thought of as long as he was confined
within its boundaries. Everywhere around him he saw the proof of this
deception. Deceit and hypocrisy seemed to be decisive. They were the secret to a
life of plenty. The free were flying high, the fettered were living in misery. The
abode of trade and politics, the temple of knowledge and learning, the circles of
sociability, the clubs of friendship and union were all lightened by this candle.
Why should one not worship such a Devi?
It was a summer evening. Pilgrims filled the railway station at Haridwar.
Jeevan Das, wearing a saffron-coloured scarf around his neck and gold-rimmed
glasses, looking like the embodiment of piety and otherworldliness, was strolling
on the platform with his friends. His probing eyes were searching the pilgrims.
Suddenly he discovered a victim in the second-class waiting room. It was a
good-looking, well-dressed young man. His every feature revealed money. His
watch-chain and the buttons of his jacket were made of gold. His luggage, too,
was very expensive, and he had two servants with him. Like a butcher
scrutinizes the flesh on an animal, Jeevan Das dissected human beings. He had
attained an extraordinary aptitude in reading physiognomy and never erred in his
judgement. He thought, This young man is definitely upper-class and very
innocent, but arrogant. Hence, he will be an easy prey. I must become friendly
with him. He is clever and quick-witted. I should win his confidence through
some jugglery and impress him with my esoteric knowledge. I should aim at his
gullibility by posing as a pir and presenting my two friends as disciples. We can
use the tricks of flying and making somebody fly and fool him by all kinds of
deceptions. We will amaze him with my deep knowledge and insight, my miracles
and wonders, my unselfishness and otherworldliness. I will present myself as a
superhuman being. Praise will be showered on me, all means of eloquence and
rhetoric will be used, and when some grain has been thrown to the bird it will be
caught in the net.
With this resolve Jeevan Das and his two servants entered the room. The
young man looked very attentively at him as if he wanted to recognize a long-
lost friend.
Suddenly, he said with excitement, ‘Mahatmaji, what is your abode?’
 Suddenly, he said with excitement, ‘Mahatmaji, what is your abode?’
Jeevan Das was jubilant. He said, ‘How can saints have an abode? The whole
world is our home.’
The young man asked again, ‘Your name does not happen to be Lala Jeevan
Das?’
Jeevan Das was startled. His heart was pounding. His face lost all colour. God
forbid that he was an officer of the secret police! He scrutinized the boy’s face,
not knowing whether to say yes or no. Both answers were dangerous. He was
lost in his thoughts.
When the young man noticed his confusion he said: ‘Maharaj, please excuse
my rudeness. I only had the courage to ask because you resemble my father who
went missing a long time ago. It is said that he became an ascetic. For years I
have been roaming around searching for him.’
Just as the waves of a storm appear rising from the horizon and then in the
twinkling of an eye cover the whole sky, similarly Jeevan Das felt strong
emotions flood his heart. His throat was choked, and everything was blurred
before his eyes. He looked at the young man with penetrating glances, and the
veil of strangeness disappeared. He embraced him and said, ‘Lakkhu!’
Lakhan Das fell at his feet and said, ‘Lalaji!’
‘I didn’t recognize you at all.’
‘It has been ages!’

5
It was past midnight. Lakhan Das was sleeping, and Jeevan Das was looking out
of the window lost in deep thought. He was confronted with destiny’s new
miracle. The convictions which had been guiding him for a long time were
shattered. How pride and vanity had misled him! He had seen himself as
managing the world, providing people their daily bread or pronouncing death on
them. He was certain that without him his bereft family would be destitute. How
wrong his vanity had proved to be! Those whom he had not hesitated to poison
were alive, happy and prosperous today. He would not have been able to provide
Lakhan with such a good education and teach him such a high morality. He
could never have dreamt of elevating him to such a high position. He had
understood that they would be ruined by his death. On the contrary, when he
disappeared things turned to the better for them. How well-behaved, sweet-
disappeared things turned to the better for them. How well-behaved, sweet-
tongued, friendly, pure-hearted his son had become, how modest and
understanding. Sitting in his company made him realize his own lowness. So
much good luck for a wicked, ignorant, selfish person like him! How sad that his
introspection had imprisoned him in a dark cave at the bottom of which he was
lying even more filthy and detestable than the creatures of darkness. He had
understood the world to be run by the forces of evil playing cat and mouse with
human beings. What ignorance! Today, he who had burnt his own nest was
among the luckiest of men. There could be no doubt that the world was ruled by
a force full of mercy and blessings, otherwise how could he be worthy of so
much good? In the morning he would see the Goddess with whom he had shared
the best part of his life. His grandchildren would play in his lap, his relatives and
friends would welcome him back and congratulate him. How he had mistrusted
such a benevolent, merciful power!
With these thoughts Jeevan Das fell asleep. When he woke up he heard
Lakhan Das’s familiar, sweet voice. He was startled. Lakhan Das was having the
luggage unloaded. His phaeton was waiting outside the station. Both men got on
to it. Jeevan Das’s heart was weighed down with joy. His face looked dejected
instead of happy. He was silent as if ignorant of the world around and devoid of
any feeling. It was strange that just when his heart was full to the brim he was
experiencing a sinking feeling.
The phaeton started to move. Everything appeared new to Jeevan Das. The
houses were not the same, neither were the bazaars and lanes or the people.
Everything looked completely transformed. Suddenly, he saw a clean, beautiful
bungalow which bore the inscription ‘Jeevan Das Pathshala’ in big letters on the
gate.
Jeevan Das asked, ‘What is this?’
Lakhan Das said, ‘Mother has opened this school in your memory. It provides
instruction free of charge, and some boys also receive stipends.’
Jeevan Das was even more depressed. A deep sigh escaped his mouth.
After a short while the phaeton stopped. Lakhan Das got down. Jeevan Das
saw a magnificent building. Nothing was left of his sweet old brick house, apart
from a neem tree as a last reminder. Several servants came running to unload the
luggage. Two rosy-cheeked boys came shouting, ‘Babuji, Babuji,’ and clasped
Lakhan Das’s legs. A commotion arose in the house. Neighbours came to inquire
about his health. The extravagantly decorated reception room was opened.
about his health. The extravagantly decorated reception room was opened.
Jeevan Das felt like he was lost in a miracle.

It was past midnight. Jeevan Das was unable to find sleep. He saw his past
before him. The thorns he had sown over the past fifteen years were now
pinching his heart. The caves he had dug were about to swallow him. In the
course of a single day he had been utterly transformed. Disbelief had been
replaced by a firm belief in a hidden hand, and this belief was not only
intellectual, but also spiritual. The fear of this hidden power was confronting him
like a black demon. He could not see any route of escape. So far this power had
been harmless like a spark of fire falling down in a desert, but now this spark
had fallen on a heap of straw which it could set alight at any moment.
As the night went by, this terror changed into remorse. He did not feel fit to
face this embodiment of mercy which had always kept him sheltered in its
kindness and let him see this blessed day. His black face was a stain on its
mercy. In his disgrace he was not even worthy to fall at its feet.
Should he demean himself in the eyes of this pure being? Would his evil
deeds not fall back on his family? Would the storms brought about by him not
devastate this flourishing garden?
Oh, to save the honour and esteem of this family he had become an
executioner. Should he now bring disgrace to this very family, should he blacken
their bright achievements with the blackness of his deeds? Should his life bring
more suffering and tragedy than his death could ever have done? His hands were
stained with blood. ‘Oh God, let this blood not spill over! My heart is rotting
because of my sinful crimes. Let this family not be contaminated by them!’
These ideas intensified Jeevan Das’s shame, regret and fear to such an extent
that he became terrified. As a seed grows with extraordinary speed in fallow
land, when faith awakens in a heart devoid of any belief it develops amazing
candour and direction. Action becomes more forceful than knowledge. Its
distinguishing feature is an intrepid passion. Jeevan Das felt an all-encompassing
existence, a hidden hand, a pervading gaze all around him, and this feeling was
growing stronger with every moment. The events of his unfortunate life seemed
to be leaping like flames towards the house as if they were about to devour it.
 Light started to appear from the east. Jeevan Das left the house. He had
decided to extinguish his ill-fated existence. He had made up his mind to save
his family from the fire of his sins. Wiping out his existence, he would erase his
shame.
As the sun came up behind the horizon, Jeevan Das vanished into the waters
of the Gomti.

Translated from the Urdu by Christina Oesterheld

 An Audacious Act

In the Naubasta mohalla of Lucknow there lived a lawyer called Munshi

Maikoolal. He was an extremely generous, compassionate and gentlemanly
person. So adept was he in his profession that there was rarely a lawsuit in which
he did not represent at least one party. He was also devoted to ascetics and
saints. In their holy company, he had acquired some knowledge of philosophy
and some practice of hemp and marijuana. As for alcohol, it was his family
tradition. His mind would be enlightened when he was drunk and in this
condition he wrote several legal drafts. Hemp and marijuana would so influence
his wisdom that after taking puffs of these, he would become renunciatory and
meditative. The residents of the mohalla held him in great awe. But this awe was
not a consequence of his legal expertise; instead it resulted from his generous
nature. The buggy pullers, milkmen and palanquin bearers of the mohalla were
obedient to him and would serve him even if they had to abandon hundreds of
other chores. His alcohol-induced generosity had enchanted everyone. Every
day, just as he returned from court, he would drop two rupees before Algu, his
palanquin bearer. Algu knew the meaning of this act and there was no need to
explicitly state anything. By evening, a bottle of liquor and some hemp and
marijuana would be placed before Munshiji. That was it. The party would begin.
Friends, too, would then show up. Munshiji’s clients would sit in one row and
house inmates would file in another. The conversation would veer towards
renunciation and true knowledge. Intermittently he would also discuss court
cases with his clients. The assembly would end as late as ten in the night.
Munshiji never bothered about anything other than discussing his profession
 Munshiji never bothered about anything other than discussing his profession
and philosophy. He was utterly unconcerned about any movement, meeting or
social reform in the country. On this count, he was really renounced. Be it the
partition of Bengal, the Moderate–Extremist split in the Congress, the beginning
of political reforms, the desire for Swaraj or the reverberating cries for self-
defence, Munshiji’s peace of mind remained undisturbed and unaffected.
Everything except the court and alcohol was maya. He remained indifferent to
everything else.

The lamps had been lit, Munshiji’s assembly had gathered and the devotees, too,
had deposited themselves before him. But the liquor Goddess was yet to appear!
Algu had not yet returned from the market. Everybody looked around with
expectation beaming forth from their eyes. One man stood waiting in the
veranda. Some two or three were even posted to scan the street, but Algu was
not to be seen. For the first time in his life, Munshiji had to wait this long. This
wait induced anxiety, and it manifested itself in the form of deep meditation. He
neither spoke nor looked towards anybody. All his faculties were now focused
on the anticipated object.
All of a sudden he was informed that Algu was on the way. Munshiji awoke
from his meditation, and the inmates lit up and with hopeful eyes they sat up
alert in their seats. Pleasure, of course, is enhanced when promising anticipation
is accompanied by delay.
Within a moment, Algu appeared before Munshiji. He did not scold Algu, for
he knew that he had committed this crime for the first time and there must have
been a reason. Munshiji looked at Algu’s hand with sunken yet yearning eyes.
His hands were not carrying a bottle. Munshiji was astonished and could not
believe what he saw. He once again surveyed Algu’s hands but the bottle was
just not there. Even though this was an unnatural occurrence, Munshiji did not
get angry but asked politely, ‘Where’s the bottle?’
Algu replied, ‘I couldn’t get it today.’
‘Why not?’
‘The Swarajis have blocked both the lanes leading to the vendor and are not
allowing anyone to go that way.’
 This enraged Munshiji. He was not angry with Algu, but with the Swarajis. He
thought, What right do they have to ban my liquor?
‘Didn’t you mention my name?’ He posed a logical question to Algu.
Algu replied, ‘Many times, but there nobody was listening to anybody.
Everybody was going back, so I too came back.’
‘Got the weed?’
‘There too it was the same story.’
‘Are you my servant or the Swarajis’?’
‘I am not your servant to have my face blackened.’
‘So are the ruffians blackening people’s faces too?’
‘I didn’t see, but everybody was saying so.’
‘Well, I’ll go myself. Let me see who is audacious enough to stop me. I will
have each one of them put in prison. The government’s rule is there, not
anarchy. Wasn’t there a constable around?’
‘The inspector himself told everybody that whoever wished could take and
consume liquor, but they still went back. Nobody was listening to him.’
‘The inspector is my friend. Eedu, are you coming with me? Rambali, Bechan,
Jhinku—everybody come with me. Let me see who can stop me. Tomorrow
itself, I’ll teach everybody a lesson.’

There was a large crowd at the mouth of the lane where the liquor vendor was
located when Munshiji reached with his four henchmen. Two benign figures
were standing in the midst of the crowd. One of them was Maulana Jamin, a
well-known scholar of Islamic jurisprudence, and the other was Swami
Ghananand, the founder of the volunteers’ association and a great well-wisher of
the public. The inspector was standing right in front of him with many
constables. Just as he spotted Munshiji and his men, he said gleefully, ‘Please
come, Mukhtar Sahib. Did you have to trouble yourself today? Aren’t these four
men your fellow travellers?’
Munshiji replied, ‘Yes, yes, I sent an errand boy earlier, but he returned
without success. I heard it’s mayhem out here. The Swarajis aren’t letting
anybody go in?’
‘No, sir, who can dare interfere in anybody’s work here? You go ahead
 ‘No, sir, who can dare interfere in anybody’s work here? You go ahead
comfortably. Nobody can utter a word. After all, why am I here?’
Munshiji proudly looked at his men and had just made for the lane when
Maulana Jamin addressed Eedu with great humility, ‘Friend, it’s time for your
prayers, how come you’re here? Is it with this religiosity that you will solve the
Khilafat issue?’
Eedu felt as if his legs had been chained. He stood shamed and lowered his
eyes to the ground. He did not have the courage to step forward.
Swami Ghananand turned to Munshiji and his men, ‘Son, accept this
charnamrita. You will attain bliss.’ Jhinku, Rambali and Bechan spread their
palms as if under compulsion and accepted the charnamrita and drank it.
Munshiji said, ‘You drink it yourself. I don’t need it.’
Swamiji stood before Munshiji with folded hands and pleaded wittily, ‘Have
mercy on this beggar, don’t go that way.’
But Munshiji brushed aside his hand and entered the lane. His three
companions remained fixed behind Swamiji with bowed heads.
Munshiji called, ‘Rambali, Jhinku, why don’t you come? Who has the
gumption to stop us?’
Jhinku: ‘Why don’t you go back? One ought to obey the saints.’
Munshiji: ‘So this is the morale with which you set out from home?’
Rambali: ‘We set out thinking we would fight if anybody stops us forcibly.
We didn’t come to fight saints and ascetics.’
Munshiji: ‘It’s rightly said that the ignorant are like sheep.’
Bechan: ‘Go ahead if you’re a lion, we’re good with being sheep.’
Munshiji entered the liquor shop haughtily. The shop itself looked depressing
and the vendor was sitting drowsily on his pouffe. Startled at hearing Munshiji’s
footsteps, he looked at him sharply as if he was a strange creature, filled the
bottle and dozed off again.
When Munshiji reached the exit of the lane, he could not find his companions.
Many people surrounded him from all sides and called him derogatory names.
One said, ‘A courageous man should be like him.’
Another said in Persian, ‘You can’t be shamed before men.’
A third said, ‘It’s some old drunkard . . . an absolute addict.’
Just then the inspector came and dispersed the crowd. Munshiji thanked him
and headed for home. A constable went along with him for protection.
 4

All of Munshiji’s four friends threw away the bottle and walked away.
Jhinku informed them, ‘Once when my buggy was hauled in for unpaid work,
it was this Swamiji who intervened with the government peon and had it
released.’
Rambali: ‘Last year when my house caught fire, he came along with the boys
from the volunteers’ organization to help. Otherwise there wouldn’t have been a
thread left in the house.’
Bechan: ‘This lawyer doesn’t think anything of anybody. If you have to do
something shameful, then you do it on the sly. You should not exhibit your
shamelessness.’
Jhinku: ‘Look, brother, you shouldn’t speak ill of somebody behind his back.
And whatever be the case, the man is full of determination. The way he just went
past so many men!’
Rambali: ‘That’s not determination. Had it not been for the inspector, the
mukhtar would’ve had it rough.’
Bechan: ‘I wouldn’t even step into the lane, even if anyone offered me as
much as fifty rupees. I was so ashamed I couldn’t look straight.’
Eedu: ‘I accompanied him and landed myself into trouble. The maulana will
have questions for me wherever he sees me. Why should we do such
blasphemous acts that leave us shamefaced? I was so ashamed of myself. I
renounce these from this day. Now I won’t even look that way.’
Rambali: ‘Drunkards’ vows are no stronger than a raw thread.’
Eedu: ‘Blacken my face if you ever see me drinking again.’
Bechan: ‘It’s decided then. I quit from today. Let alcohol be the same as
cow’s blood if I drink again.’
Jhinku: ‘So you think I am the biggest sinner here? Hit me fifty times with
your shoe if you ever see me drinking again.’
Rambali: ‘As if we don’t know! If Munshiji invites you to drink, you’ll run to
him like a dog.’
Jhinku: ‘Hit me a hundred times if you see me seated with the munshi. One
whose words and actions are not the same must be a bastard.’
Rambali: ‘Then it’s decided, brother. I also vow never to loosen my purse
strings for liquor, though I won’t decline a free drink.’
strings for liquor, though I won’t decline a free drink.’
Bechan: ‘When have you ever loosened your purse strings?’
While this was going on, Munshiji was seen sprinting towards them. Although
he had won the fight, frustration was spread across his face. He could not enjoy
his victory heartily because of some unmentionable reason. Shame, lurking in
some corner of his heart, was pinching him. Although unaware, regret for his
audacious act was making him miserable.
Rambali said, ‘Come, Mukhtar Sahib, you took a long time.’
Munshiji: ‘All of you turned out to be idiots. You were deceived by a sadhu.’
Rambali: ‘These people have vowed not to drink from today.’
Munshiji: ‘I haven’t seen a man who once addicted can quit. Shooting from
the mouth is different.’
Eedu: ‘If we live, you’ll witness this.’
Jhinku: ‘Nobody can quit his regular fare. But if something does affect you
deeply, then quit. There just needs to be one strike. Nobody dies from not being
an addict.’
Munshiji: ‘I’ll see how brave you are.’
Bechan: ‘What’s there to see? Quitting is no big deal. Just that one will feel
sad for a few days. If the English, who drink like water, could quit during the
war, then it’s nothing difficult for us.’
While the discussion was still on, they reached Mukhtar Sahib’s house.

The sitting room was forlorn. The clients had departed. Algu was sleeping on the
floor. Munshiji sat down on the mattress and started taking out glasses from the
almirah. He was still unable to believe his friends’ oaths. He was absolutely
convinced that merely a whiff of the smell and a glance at the colour of alcohol
would make everybody break their vows. The moment I prod them, they will all
come and plant themselves here and the party will be on, he thought. When Eedu
made a move for the door after bowing to him and Jhinku picked up his staff,
Munshiji grabbed their hands and spoke humbly and sweetly, ‘Friends, it’s not
good to desert like this. At least taste this liquor. This is especially good.’
He continued, ‘Come, come. It is meaningless to talk like this.’
Eedu retorted, ‘You stay happy. Let me go.’
Jhinku said, ‘God willing, I won’t go near it. Who wants to be thrashed with
 Jhinku said, ‘God willing, I won’t go near it. Who wants to be thrashed with
shoes?’
Saying so, both withdrew their hands and left. Munshiji followed this by
holding Bechan’s hand as he was stepping off the veranda and urged, ‘Bechan,
will you too betray me?’
Bechan replied, ‘I have taken a serious vow. Now that I have declared it to be
like cow’s blood, I can’t even look that way. However fallen I might be, won’t I
respect cow’s blood? You too should quit now. Devote yourself to God for some
days. You’ve been drinking for far too long.’
Saying so, he too bowed and left. Now only Rambali was left. Munshiji
addressed him sorrowfully, ‘Did you observe their betrayal, Rambali? I didn’t
know these people would be so weak. Let it only be us for today. Two true
friends are better than a dozen weak-willed ones. Come, sit.’
Rambali responded, ‘I’m present and available, but I too have vowed that I
won’t spend my own money drinking.’
‘Till I can support it, drink as much as you want. What’s the worry?’
‘But what if you’re not there? Where will I find such a gentleman?’
‘We’ll see to it then. It’s not as if I am dying today.’
‘You can’t repose such faith in life. You’ll definitely pass away before me.
Then who’ll offer me liquor? Then I won’t even be able to quit. So it’s better
that I worry about it from now on.’
‘Don’t dishearten me with such words. Come, sit, take just one glass.’
‘Mukhtar Sahib, please don’t press so much. Now that even addicts like Eedu
and Jhinku who have sold off their wives’ jewellery to fund their drinking and
are complete idiots have taken the oath, am I so shameless as to remain a slave
to liquor? Swamiji rescued me from complete disaster. I can’t ignore his
pronouncements.’
Saying so, Rambali also took his leave.

Munshiji put the cup to his lips, but his desire for liquor abated even before he
poured his second drink. It was the first time in his life that he had to sit by
himself and drink alcohol as if it was a medicine. First he expressed frustration
at his house inmates, inwardly saying, ‘I must have wasted hundreds of rupees
on these betrayers, but all of them just deserted me over such a minor issue. Now
on these betrayers, but all of them just deserted me over such a minor issue. Now
I lie here alone, like a ghost. There is nobody to converse or joke with. Liquor is
a thing enjoyed in company. When the pleasure of company is no longer there,
then what good can there be in drinking and lying on the bed here?
‘How I was insulted today! When I entered the lane, hundreds of men glared
at me with fiery eyes. If they had their way, they would have torn me to pieces
when I returned with the liquor. Without the inspector, it would have been
difficult to return home. Why this insult and public humiliation? Just so I can
enjoy this bitter taste for a moment and get heartburn? There is nobody with
whom I can joke and laugh.
‘Only today have I experienced how dispensable a thing people think alcohol
to be. Otherwise those habitual drunkards for years would not have betrayed me
only because of the mere gesture of a sadhu. The truth is, deep within their
hearts, everybody considers it detestable. When my milkmen, buggy pullers and
palanquin bearers can quit, am I worse than them? What greatness is achieved if
I get a bit tipsy in the head after withstanding so many insults, having fallen in
people’s eyes, becoming notorious in the entire city, and becoming stubborn? Is
it good to let one’s soul suffer such a downfall just to satisfy an evil passion? All
four of them must be condemning me at this very moment, must be calling me a
scoundrel, and must be thinking of me as fallen. I have fallen lower in the eyes
of those fallen ones. It is difficult to bear this condition. I will kill this passion
today. I will put an end to this humiliation.’
Within a moment, a crash was heard. Algu woke up with a start and saw
Munshiji standing in the veranda and the bottle lying broken on the floor!

Translated from the Hindi by Vikas Jain

 The Red Ribbon

Intelligence is not the birth right of any class and does not follow the rules of
inheritance. Mister Hari Bilas was the embodiment of this principle. He was a
Kurmi by caste. The hereditary family occupation was agriculture, but right from
his childhood his parents recognized his thirst for knowledge and took
appropriate measures to encourage it. They did not make him plough the fields.
While they ate the coarsest food, wore the coarsest clothes and did all the hard
work, there was no dearth of fine things for Hari Bilas. The father couldn’t hide
his joy when he saw his son read the Ramayana.
The father’s head rose with pride when the villagers came to Hari Bilas to
have their summons, letters or revenue receipts read out to them. The joy of
passing and the sorrow of failing moved the father more than the son. All this
further increased Hari Bilas’s craving for knowledge and made him pass all the
initial stages until he reached matriculation. Old Ram Bilas had thought that now
would be the time to reap the harvest. His enthusiasm cooled down when he
learned that this was not the end but just the beginning of education. Hari Bilas’s
zeal, however, was not diminished by heat or cold. He entered college with the
firm determination that often distinguishes poor but intelligent students.
Although he tried to cover his expenses by tutoring the son of a landlord he,
from time to time, needed certain sums of money. These had to be procured by
Ram Bilas. The poor soul was growing weaker. Farming is another word for
hard labour. Sometimes he could not irrigate his land, sometimes he was not able
to plough the fields in time, hence the harvest was spoilt. But he never failed to
fulfil Hari Bilas’s needs with faithful devotion. He had to sell some part of his
fulfil Hari Bilas’s needs with faithful devotion. He had to sell some part of his
land and mortgage some, and auction off another part to recover his debts.
Hari Bilas’s MA was the death knell for his property. Fortunately, in those
times, the doors to employment were not guarded by selection. Hari Bilas took
part in competitive examinations. His success was guaranteed. He got hold of a
magistrate’s post. When Ram Bilas got the news he came running to the thakur’s
house and fell at his feet. The next day he disappeared, nobody knew where he
went. Reality had turned out to be more enchanting than a dream.

Hari Bilas had been bestowed with a good disposition by nature. He was
outspoken, sweet-tongued and a friend of the poor. His most striking attribute
was his acute sense of justice. He never deviated an inch from what was lawful.
The common people were held in check by his authority, but they nevertheless
loved him. His superiors respected him and secretly mistrusted him at the same
time.
He had studied politics thoroughly. This was a field for which he had a special
aptitude. He was only guided by the law. He never followed personal orders
since he didn’t feel bound by them. He no doubt wanted to keep the officials
happy, but only as far as this did not mean transgressing the boundaries of the
law.
He had been working for five years and was now posted in Mathura. Thakur
Ajit Singh’s house was attacked by dacoits. The police suspected his tenants.
Tenants from several villages were questioned. Their testimonies were recorded,
and a case was prepared. The poor, accused peasants were innocent. The ruler of
the district was obliged to the thakur. Two or three times a year he feasted thanks
to the thakur, he hunted on his lands and went around in his car and phaeton. He
was angry at the boldness of the tenants. He scolded them and turned them out.
The situation worsened. The whole area was in turmoil. The case was heard in
Hari Bilas’s court. The sahib bahadur called Hari Bilas to his bungalow and
urged him to dispense justice with due expedience. Hari Bilas followed the
proceedings with full attention. It turned out that the testimonies were fabricated.
The thakur’s misdeed was unveiled. The accused were acquitted.
The collector did not like this verdict. He sent a report and Hari Bilas was
transferred. He had received the same reward for backing lower caste people at
another time as well. He had been posted in Lucknow at the time. Schools in
rural areas there did not admit boys from lower castes. In part this was due to the
reluctance of the teachers, but mostly it was due to opposition from students’
parents. When Hari Bilas toured the district he heard a number of complaints. He
reprimanded the teachers and fined some persons. When the zamindars of his
subdivision saw this state of affairs they were infuriated. Anonymous petitions
full of false allegations began to reach the officials. The tehsildars further fuelled
the rage of the landowners. All of them already found it an outrage to see a
Kurmi having achieved such a post. Some teachers handed in their resignations.
Hari Bilas’s reputation was sullied. The district collector realized that it was not
opportune to keep him there and had him transferred as well as demoted.
Despite all these failures no government servant in the entire province was as
honest and dutiful as Hari Bilas. The noble words of the royal proclamations
stating that the governance of the state was based on respect for the law and the
upkeep of justice were deeply engraved in his mind. The disregard of his
immediate superiors did not compromise his dedication. He saw it as a sign of
the blessing of the age that a person like him could occupy such a post which
would never have been possible before. The powerless and destitute had never
had so much support. Never had the principle of equality been heeded like this.
And when had education ever been promoted as much? These were the thoughts
which motivated Hari Bilas to prove his loyalty in every possible way during the
war in Europe, for which he was honoured with the title of ‘Rai Bahadur’.

It was Christmas time. Rai Hari Bilas was talking to his eldest son Shiv Bilas,
who was studying at Lahore Medical College and had come home for his
holidays. In the meantime two or three zamindars also arrived and started to talk
about hunting.
One khan sahib said, ‘Huzoor, there are a lot of wild ducks these days. This is
a good time for hunting.’
The other thakur said, ‘Whenever Your Honour says so, we will organize
labourers and get two or three small boats.’
Shiv Bilas asked ‘Do you still get labourers for free?’
 Shiv Bilas asked ‘Do you still get labourers for free?’
The khan replied, ‘Yes, with some beating and shoving we get them, and even
if we wouldn’t, it would be enough for the officials to give an order. But yes, we
cannot be sure about the future.’
The thakur added, ‘Since some of them have been recruited for Basra their
mindset has changed. They don’t listen to us any more. This war has ruined us.’
Shiv Bilas remarked, ‘Well, you people offer them very little pay.’
The thakur replied, ‘Your Honour, previously we used to pay two paise for a
whole day, now we give four.’
‘That’s great, you pay four paise for their labour and expect them to be your
slaves. In the towns labourers don’t get less than eight paise per day.’
The khan answered, ‘You are right, Your Honour, four paise is not enough to
fill a man’s mouth, but the tenants have become so used to force and coercion
that even if we would give them eight rupees they would not give in without
force. Forced labour is a bad word. But tell us, the schools and colleges were
closed, have they reopened? One hears that the people want to break up the
government courts to establish people’s courts, and to this end they are
collecting millions in donations.’
Hari Bilas knew how Shiv Bilas would answer. He was well aware of his
political views. Both often discussed these matters, but he didn’t want to express
his thoughts in front of these zamindars. Therefore, he did not give Shiv Bilas a
chance to speak. Instead he said, ‘I think this is madness. The people believe
that, if nothing else, in this way they will bring down the government. With this
in mind they are forming panchayats, Congress committees and national schools,
but they forget that the running of a state is always based on law and justice, and
as long as the authorities do not deviate from these principles it will be
impossible for the state to collapse. Our government has always held up justice
as its objective. Every individual and every community has the freedom of
speech and action as long as this does not harm anybody. This adherence to
justice is the strongest basis for power, and nobody can dare to say that the
government has in the slightest manner ever deviated from the path of justice.’
At this moment the postman came and placed a stack of mail in front of the
deputy collector. He had the habit of opening official letters immediately. Today
there was only one official envelope. When opened it revealed a government
circular bound by a red ribbon. He began to read it with full attention.
 4

It was after midnight, but Hari Bilas was still turning from side to side in his bed.
A lamp was illuminating the table before him. Again and again he looked at the
letter with the red ribbon and was lost in thought. The red ribbon appeared to
him as soaked in the blood of honesty and justice, like the bloodshot eyes of a
murderer or a blazing flame that was leaping at him to swallow his conscience
and his sense of justice. Until this moment he had understood his task to be to
dispense justice, but now it seemed that he had been mistaken. His work was not
to uphold justice but to kill it. He was supposed to keep an eye on those villagers
who were reading newspapers, to warn those who seemed inclined to side with
the peasants, and those who told them openly or subtly to stop giving rations and
forced labour, to interrogate the sadhus and ascetics who went around giving
moral instruction to the people, to note in his diary all those whom he saw
instigating the people to use spinning wheels and the loom and who were seen
wearing coarse clothes and khadi; to regard all those as rebels who helped in
establishing national schools, who participated in national associations, and even
those pure souls who risked their lives saving people from epidemics and
typhoid by distributing free medicine here and there; and without delay to put
under pressure everybody who fought against the use of drugs and alcohol. In
short, he was to become an enemy to the friends of the people and the servants
of the nation.
Once again he glanced at the red ribbon which looked like a fire serpent
creeping here and there with every blow of the fan. What was he to do now? He
was a government servant—not to instil in people the fear of the government,
but to serve the people. What option did he have other than refusing to become a
tool of government pressure when the conflict between the interests of the nation
and of the government was so great? His government employment was
temporary, but his link with the nation was permanent.
So should he kill his conscience for the sake of his personal interests? Others
devoted themselves fully to the service of the nation and endured all kinds of
suffering in return. He held himself as a better nationalist than them. He believed
that one honest government servant could do more for the people than ten
devoted nationalists. But what could be more degrading than remaining loyal to
the government when government service meant to act against the nation and the
the government when government service meant to act against the nation and the
country? No, no, he would not do this.
But how would he maintain his livelihood? He did not have enough money to
sustain himself for four months even. His children who had been brought up in
every comfort would now fall to destitution. His family which was used to a
lifestyle of grandeur would have to face poverty. The family property had been
sold for his education, otherwise he could have returned to tilling the soil. What
a simple life that was! One ate the bread earned by one’s sweat and slept
peacefully. Education had made him accustomed to extravagance and turned him
into a slave of pomp and vanity. He had grown used to unnecessary things. The
yearning for sophistication had ruined him. Now the thought of a simple life was
enough to make his heart sink.
What a pity! So many wishes he had nourished, so many castles in the sky he
had built. He had intended to send Shiv Bilas to England. Sant Bilas had decided
to become a lawyer. Hari Bilas was already dreaming of a magistrate’s post. All
right, leave the boys aside, they would somehow or the other go on with their
lives. But what about the girls? He had thought of marrying them off into high-
ranking families regardless of the expenses. All these wishes would end up
buried in his heart. If he went searching for employment he would not find a
salary like the present anywhere, and his access to the upper classes would also
become difficult. A person who had resigned from government service was not
welcomed anywhere. If anybody employed him out of kindness, he would be
obliged to suffer all his whims, which he had never done before. He would be
totally dependent on that person. How could he endure such a disgrace? He
prayed to God to release him from this dilemma and not to let him strangle
justice with his own hands.

One week had passed since the letter with the red ribbon had arrived. Hari Bilas
had not yet decided what to do. He remained depressed all the time, rarely
attended the court sessions and, when he appeared at all, he postponed the
hearings and left forthwith. To his children also, he talked very little. In
conversation he was highly irritable. He had told his wife about his difficulties,
but she did not approve of his idea of resigning, and he hesitated to mention the
matter to his sons because he was afraid of breaking their hearts. He no longer
matter to his sons because he was afraid of breaking their hearts. He no longer
believed in the noble intentions of the government. This employment no longer
appeared to him as an option. Every moment of it was a heavy burden on him.
He did not know any vocation or trade on which he could fall back. Even the
simplest trading transactions, by which thousands of barely literate people made
a living, were a closed book to him. He found himself unfit for any employment
other than government service. This inability further aggravated his torment. He
was torn between personal interest and duty. His situation was pitiable indeed.
On the eighth day he got news that a new panchayat for a ban on drugs and
alcohol was to be held in a village nearby. There would be moral instruction, the
chanting of religious hymns and a debate on the question of penalties for drug
users. He admitted that drug abuse was ruinous for the country and especially for
the lower classes and, therefore, any attempt to stop it should be welcomed.
Several years ago he had served as commissioner in the drugs department. At
that time he had looked at the problem from an official angle, regarding the
campaign against drugs as equivalent to pushing drug abuse and drug trafficking
underground and the well-meaning efforts of enlightened reformers as mainly
based on opposition to the government, but time and experience had
considerably changed his perspective. According to the letter with the red ribbon
it was his duty to observe the activities of the panchayat and to prevent anybody
from putting pressure or enforcing abstinence on others. Such an action appeared
thoroughly unacceptable to him. He was sitting tormented by the inner struggle
between his duty as a human being and his official duty when the local sub-
inspector of police arrived with some armed guards for his support. Seeing him
Hari Bilas became furious. He addressed him in an imperious tone: ‘What are
you doing here?’
The sub-inspector replied, ‘Your Honour must have received the
announcement of the panchayat. It is feared that there will be a riot. We have
come to accompany Your Honour.’
‘I don’t see any danger. Yes, there will be a riot when you interfere without
any reason.’
The sub-inspector looked at him with utter confusion and said, ‘I will remain
at Your Honour’s side.’
‘There is no need for you to accompany me.’
‘I have the written order of the Superintendent of Police to assist Your
Honour.’
Honour.’
‘You go back home and spend some days seeking redress for your sins. You
have looked after law and order long enough. It is wonderful how you ended
robbery and theft. For a long time you have been strangling the poor. Devote the
last days of your life to the remembrance of God. It is possible that on the way to
His court your burden will lose some weight.’
The sub-inspector was dumbfounded when he heard this crazy speech. He
thought this man must be drunk today, or perhaps he had received such a blow
that he was out of his senses. He bid goodbye and left.
These words expressed Hari Bilas’s inner turmoil as well as his final decision,
as though this was the declaration of his resolve. While the policeman bade him
farewell Hari Bilas began to formulate his resignation.
‘My dear sir, it is my firm conviction that the government order is the outward
expression of Divine Will and its laws are based on mercy, right and justice. I
served the government for fifteen years in which I honestly fulfilled my duties. It
is possible that the authorities were not always happy with me because I never
felt obliged to obey personal orders. Whenever I saw a conflict between my
understanding of the law and the command of an official I followed the law. I
always thought government service to be the best way of serving my country,
but the orders issued in a letter _____ dated ____ run counter to my conscience
and my principles. To my mind they are so unjust that I cannot bring myself to
implement them. These orders interfere with the rightful freedom of the subjects
and are meant to prevent their political awakening.
‘In view of these facts it would mean acting against my country and my nation
if I remained in government service.
‘Along with other rights the subjects also have the right to political action; and
since the government is bent on curtailing this right, I as an Indian can no longer
offer my services and, therefore, request to be relieved from office without
further delay.’

When his friends heard the news of Hari Bilas’s resignation they began to
admonish him but he remained firm in his resolve. Even then people hoped that
the government would not grant his application so soon, but the approval arrived
by cable the very next day. Hari Bilas was very happy. He went to his office in
by cable the very next day. Hari Bilas was very happy. He went to his office in
the best of moods early in the morning and handed over charge with a smile on
his face. But when evening came his cheerfulness waned and all kinds of worries
began to surround him. He owed hundreds of rupees to the cloth merchant. Some
wages of the servants were outstanding. For six months he had not paid the rent
for the house. The confectioner and the milkman also had to get some money.
Thinking of these creditors his heart began to sink. He had grown so used to his
monthly salary, it had become such a natural procedure for him to receive a
fixed amount on a fixed day that now he found it very hard to settle accounts in
the middle of the month, particularly when he already felt short of money. There
was no choice but to take money out from the bank to settle the accounts.
Earlier, he used to give some extra amount, according to his means, but today,
past and present obligations added up to such a sum as if a heap of dirt had
turned up below a clean carpet. He had never noticed before how deep in debt he
was. His bank account was reduced menacingly. He made up his mind to have
some furniture and other household items auctioned off. Now he would not need
them anyway. The public auction started the next day and things began to
disappear one by one. Hari Bilas was sitting on the veranda with a heavy heart
watching the devastation of his household. Many things had been with him for a
very long time. To see them go away now was very hard, but the worst came
when his horse and his phaeton were auctioned. He could not bear to watch this
scene. When he entered the house his eyes were wet with tears. Sumitra tried to
comfort him, ‘You should not take it to heart so much. There is no need to be
sad. You should rather be happy that you are relieved from work which went
against your dharma. Now nobody can force you to coerce others. This is not the
only way to earn a living. When God has created us He will also provide our
food. If you had tyrannized your own brothers then would this sin not have
fallen back on your own offspring? God intended for you to do some good, only
then did this idea enter your mind.’
Hari Bilas was somewhat pacified by these words. At first Sumitra had not
approved of his resignation, but the desire to see her husband’s inner turmoil
come to an end had compelled her to submit to his decision.
Hari Bilas looked at Sumitra admiringly and said, ‘Do you know how much
hardship we will have to endure?’
 She replied, ‘So what? For his dharma a person can endure all hardships and
not even care about his life. Finally we will also have to face God. If He asked
you why you have killed your atma for the sake of worldly comfort then what
would you answer?’
Hari Bilas said, ‘What shall I say? I don’t possess such a pure belief.
Materialistic education has turned me into a slave of selfishness and greed. I
don’t believe in God any more. Although I resigned for these very reasons, I
don’t feel this living faith in me; I have become an unbeliever. I still don’t have
any idea of how we will live in the future. Had Shiv Bilas continued his studies
for one more year he would have supported himself. Sant Bilas will need our
assistance for three more years at least, and poor Sri Bilas is still far behind.
Now the three of them are left with nothing. I don’t know what they will think.’
Sumitra said, ‘If God has given them any understanding, they will no longer
regard you as their dear father but as a deity!’
It was night. Shiv Bilas and his younger brothers were discussing these very
matters.
Shiv Bilas remarked, ‘Looking at father’s present situation I have decided not
to marry. Several times I felt like going to him to give him solace, but I feel like
crying when I think of facing him. After all, it is us he is worried about,
otherwise what would be there to think of. If he wants, he can take employment
in any college with his sound knowledge of philosophy and economics.’
Sant Bilas said, ‘There was no need for you to leave college. Medicine was a
good field. You could have worked from home. You didn’t even ask father. He
will be very sad to hear about it.’
‘That is the very reason I haven’t told him so far. However good the vocation,
I do not want to make it my source of income. I will stick to what I have
decided. Why, are you going to help me?’
‘I will hardly be able to help you before I finish my MA. For this year you
better excuse me. Later I will definitely give you my time.’
‘Are you so eager on an MA?’
Sri Bilas said with some mischief in his voice: ‘MA means . . . of . . .’
Sant Bilas said, ‘This has been my wish for ages, and having come so close to
my goal now I don’t want to draw back.’
Shiv Bilas added, ‘After that there will be the prescribed term of LLB, and
then you will set up a sign in big letters and start to brag in front of your clients.’
then you will set up a sign in big letters and start to brag in front of your clients.’
Sant Bilas remarked, ‘You are speaking with so much contempt as if doing so
would be a shame. I admit that I have this ambition, and I don’t think that I
deserve to be despised for it. I don’t feel any love for the legal profession. It is
possible that I may be forced to practise law out of necessity, but the degree I
love without any doubt. Today a person’s dignity depends on his degrees. You
will hardly have met anybody who out of his own free will has forsaken his
official degrees. Even those who pose as champions of education do not feel it
beneath themselves to attach the signs of their big degrees to their names. In
national schools and colleges, too, those gentlemen are valued most who have
degrees from England. This is the standard of our values. So then why should I
restrain myself? Don’t take it otherwise, but in the first weeks of the newspaper
you will most probably also print my degrees with my name.’
Shiv Bilas said shamefully, ‘Yes, my friend, you are right. This is called
spiritual slavery.’
Sant Bilas remarked, ‘You must have thought about your policy. If you adopt
the same stance as the other newspapers, then what is the need for one more?’
Sri Bilas added, ‘You don’t ask me anything! I am also about to leave school.
My name will also appear in the newspapers.’
Shiv Bilas offered, ‘Join my newspaper as a clerk.’
Sri Bilas replied, ‘Who will want to sit at a desk the whole day working his
mind away. I have decided to till the land. I will plough the fields and develop
new crops.’
‘Yes, I have not had time to discuss the paper’s policy with you. Instead of
meddling in politics I want to concentrate on cultural reforms. At the moment we
are blindly imitating Western society. I will speak up against extravagance,
pomp and show. My guiding principle will be “an enlightened and simple
society”. Aping the West has made wealth the measure of respectability,
humanity, honour and dignity. We have forgotten the modesty, balance and
purity of our forefathers. Wherever you look you see the display of capitalists,
rich men and zamindars. I will make the support of the helpless my code of
conduct. Although these ideas are not new, they have been discussed in
newspapers every now and then, but so far, they have not gone beyond academic
argumentations, and that too in imitation of some Western philosophers such as
Edward Cantor, Russell, etc. The proponents of these ideas do not display any
unity of words and deeds, and therefore their deliberations have no effect. My
life will be a living example of these principles. I will be frank with you:
Sometimes I lose all hope for my country when I see this run on wealth.
Everybody, the highest and the lowest, the poor and the rich, all are its slaves.
Respect for knowledge and perfection has gone. There were times when the
highest rulers would bow their heads before persons of excellence. And now
even religious movements are dominated by the rich. Our hermits, ascetics and
religious preceptors hardly ever turn to the rural areas. They prefer to speak in
beautifully decorated pavilions. They go around in motorcars and are invited by
the wealthy. Educated and learned people also worship a golden idol. Those who
are supposed to set examples of an awakened and simple society have become
slaves to their desires. The spirit of sacrifice has vanished from the world.’
Sant Bilas remarked, ‘Your ideas look like those of the Bolsheviks. Don’t you
know how they have honoured the learned and the educated?’
‘Yes, I know. But these people deserved no better. In the same manner in
which the landowners use their property and the merchants their goods to fulfil
their own needs, our clerics too sacrifice their expertise and knowledge for
worldly gain. They get regular salaries from educational institutions. This is the
level of their esteem and rank. Is this situation not deplorable?’
‘So is it your intention to return to the semi-barbaric civilization of two
thousand years ago? To bring back that simple society into this developed age is
a ridiculous idea.’
‘You involve me in a fruitless discussion. You call our times an age of
development because natural physics has made amazing discoveries. Human
knowledge has increased immensely, and limitless opportunities to earn wealth
have opened up. And you call the old times semi-barbaric because they didn’t
have such inventions, such practical discoveries, such opportunities for trade and
for acquiring wealth. May I ask you what in your opinion should be a person’s
aim in life?’
‘A person’s aim in life is to stay alive, to make use of the means given by
nature, to discover the hidden treasures of nature, and to make human life more
perfect, to extend and elevate it.’
‘I fully agree with you. The only difference is that you believe in physics and
in ideologies, and I believe in the purification and refinement of the self. You are
led by fantasy and I by reality. Look, father is coming!’
led by fantasy and I by reality. Look, father is coming!’

The three boys got up to pay their respects to their father and then sat down
again with their heads bent low. Hari Bilas looked at Shiv Bilas thoughtfully and
asked, ‘When is your college reopening?’
‘The college will open on the second, but I no longer want to go. I have
resigned.’
Hari Bilas was annoyed, ‘What folly is this? You ought to have asked me at
least. Did I not have the right to know?’
‘I admit my mistake, but in fact my course has ended. Now I only have to take
my exams, and because I don’t want to work in this profession I do not feel the
need to take the examination.’
‘But you will have to do something for a living. What have you decided for
that?’
‘This does not worry me too much because I can reduce my necessities and
can get by with very little. I can work as a gardener for a living. The rest of the
time I intend to devote to the service of the nation. My main aim is to bring out a
newspaper.’
‘Do you think it is easy to publish a newspaper? First of all you will need
enough capital, then you will have to face the adverse conditions in the country.
You still don’t have any idea of the difficulties. You think that this is an easy
path, but after a few steps you will realize that there are stumbling stones at
every step. I am not so selfish and opportunistic that I would like to suppress
your enthusiasm for service to the nation, but I think it my duty to advise you to
think well before entering this field. If not, you will stumble after a few steps
which will be an utter disgrace for all of us. Neither do I want any help from
you, nor am I not proud of my son who wants to be a fearless servant of the
nation. I just want to make you aware of the difficulties. When are you leaving,
Santo?’
Sant Bilas said, ‘My college is opening on 15 January.’
Hari Bilas asked, ‘How much money do you need?’
‘At least two hundred and fifty rupees because we will have to pay the fees for
six months right now.’
Hari Bilas shrugged his shoulders. ‘Do you really need so much? I am a bit
 Hari Bilas shrugged his shoulders. ‘Do you really need so much? I am a bit
short of money these days.’
‘You know my habits. I live as modestly as possible. It will not be possible to
do with less. Apart from the fees I also need a suit. I don’t have any good suits.’
‘My dear, forget about the suit for the moment. As soon as I get the means I
will think of it. But yes, I will arrange for fees and boarding. There is no way
out, whether you study or not.’
‘I do not want to burden you unnecessarily. If you can’t procure the money I
will find a solution, but there can be no cuts in my estimate.’
‘It is a bad habit of yours that you flare up so easily. You see my
circumstances, but even that is not enough to open your eyes. I do not know
whether I will be able to pay off all the creditors even after all the furniture has
been sold.’
‘If you wish that I also should leave the college I will not object.’
Hari Bilas was enraged. ‘Very well, have your name cancelled! I see that you
are becoming a slave to your necessities. Today not only in India but in Europe
as well, enlightened people are more and more inclined towards simple living.
From educated people one now expects dedication and service, not pomp and
display. Lawyers no longer command respect in society. People grow more and
more suspicious of them, and indeed this class does not deserve any better. In
accordance with common practice, I wanted to have you trained in this
profession, but now I see its drawbacks. Thanks to this profession it has become
so expensive to get justice in a court of law that it is almost unaffordable for the
common people. When two hundred or four hundred or even up to one thousand
rupees is charged for one hearing, then it is obvious that this is no remuneration
for time and labour, but just the cost for those people’s greed and selfishness. A
profession which is based on human meanness and weakness cannot bring any
good to society. I will not force you. If you choose a more legitimate profession
than law I would be happy.’
Sant Bilas did not answer. He left with a frown on his face.
Hari Bilas asked Sri Bilas, ‘Are you preparing for the examinations?’
‘What is the use of this kind of education which only aims at getting rich
when you say that nowadays nobody respects the wealthy? Please take me also
out of school. I want to profit from participating in your work. I would like to
take up farming. After all if you live in the village you will definitely have us
work in the fields. Let me do this work! I will practise agriculture according to
work in the fields. Let me do this work! I will practise agriculture according to
new experiences and principles. In my spare time I will teach the boys of the
village and will learn from you.’
In the meantime Sumitra had also come. Hari Bilas looked at her and said,
‘You see, Sri Bilas has put an end to your worries. You were wondering what
would happen. Now you can go to the village and live there peacefully. Store
your grains in big jars and remember Lord Rama!’

On the third day Hari Bilas arrived in his village. The house was in disrepair. It
was surrounded by grass on all sides. The villagers had thrown heaps of manure
and garbage in front of the door. Hari Bilas had not come to the house for years.
He felt a kind of disgust while entering the house. He had become accustomed to
living in clean bungalows. Shiv Bilas unloaded their luggage and began to sweep
the doorway clean. Hari Bilas’s eldest daughter Anjani started to sweep inside
the house. For some time Sri Bilas stood there watching them. Then he took a
basket and began to remove the garbage. Sant Bilas had not come with them. He
had somehow talked his mother into giving him money and had gone to
Allahabad.
As soon as the news of Hari Bilas’s resignation spread, people started to come
from here and there to inquire after his health. Hari Bilas was sitting outside on a
broken bedstead in a depressed mood thinking about how to retrieve the
ancestral property. Sumitra was standing inside wondering how to get rid of the
heaps of dung and garbage. When they used to come to the village before, the
villagers regarded them with amazed envy and looked at their possessions as if
they were items in a museum. They didn’t have the courage to talk to them. But
now everything was gone. Neither did the boys show any arrogance, nor did the
Deputy Sahib and Sumitra talk in a patronizing tone. The people felt some
sympathy for them. The women began to help Anjani with the cleaning. Some
men relieved Shiv Bilas of the broom and Sri Bilas of the basket. They were
both covered in sweat and were thinking that however noble hard labour may be
theoretically regarded in the world, in reality it was not so pleasant. Pandit Ram
Bharose told Hari Bilas, ‘Brother, it is good that you resigned. You were moving
around from district to district. Now you will stay put in your house. The house
was about to collapse. Now it will be settled again.’
Sheikh Idu said, ‘Employment, may it be high or low, after all, is
employment. Why should you be anybody’s servant when God has given you
everything!’
The watchman Gobar added, ‘But it was such a high post!’
Kurmi Bhoju said, ‘The post was high, no doubt, but it meant to cut many
poor people’s throats. You must have sent hundreds to jail. You will have forced
many to give loans to the government for the war. When you went on tour you
must have used forced labour. How many peasants will have lost their lands
because of you! When you stay at home you will be freed from these troubles.’
The watchman Gobar remarked, ‘But how much power and respect you had!’
Bhoju said, ‘Respect does not come from a post, it is based on being a good
person, on wisdom and dharma. What kind of post does Pandit Ram Bharose
have? Why then do people stand up respectfully for him? When the policeman
comes people feel it a burden to offer him even some tobacco for his pipe, but
when the shastri comes with five to ten pupils everybody praises his good
fortune. We have so many officers in our district, but none of them command as
much respect as the shastri. He would just have to say a word, and they would be
ready to jump into fire.’
Ram Bharose said, ‘Babu Sant Bilas is nowhere to be seen.’
Hari Bilas replied, ‘He has gone away to study law.’
‘Brother, it is not right of you to have him study this subject. It involves many
bad deeds. The solicitors have ruined the whole district. They have turned
everybody into beggars with their law suits.’
Idu pleaded, ‘Brother, try to get your land back and let me till it. You have
been in service for a long time. Now enjoy the life of a householder. Here you
won’t have so many things, but you will lead a healthy life. What you earned
away from home you must have spent on clothes, furniture, fruits, sweets, milk
and cream. Twenty, twenty-five must have gone for milk alone, and at least fifty
for renting a house. After the everyday expenses nothing would have been left.’
Hari Bilas asked, ‘From where should I get the money to release my land?’
Everybody looked at him in astonishment as if he had said something strange.
Finally, Bhoju said, ‘What are you saying, brother? That would not amount to
much. You will certainly have three or four thousand kept in your box. You
earned so much, and you must have made some money on the side as well.
earned so much, and you must have made some money on the side as well.
Where has all this money gone?’
‘I did not take any presents, gratuities and bribes. It was difficult to cover all
the expenses even with my salary. How could I have saved anything?’
‘How is this possible? You must have made at least ten or twenty thousand
extra.’
‘No, Uncle. Believe me! My hands are completely empty.’
‘Then what are you going to live on?’
‘God is my master. I don’t know yet.’
These talks were going on when Thakur Karan Singh, the biggest landlord of
the area, appeared on an elephant, accompanied by two companions. People got
up from their charpoys. As long as Hari Bilas was in office, countless zamindars
like him had come every day to pay their respects, but when he saw Karan Singh
he sat up respectfully. The elephant stopped when it had come close to them.
Karan Singh got down, made Hari Bilas sit on the charpoy and sat down himself,
saying: ‘Babu Sahib, today this village has been sanctified by your praiseworthy
step. When I opened the newspaper and saw the news about you I was filled with
pride. Praise to your courage and dedication!’
Hari Bilas said with thankful modesty, ‘Are you in good health? You are
looking a bit thin.’
‘Thanks to you I am feeling very well now. For months I have been ill. Seeing
your news today I immediately became well. God has given you the motivation
to succeed in our actions. Here we have formed a panchayat some days ago but
we haven’t found a sarpanch so far whom everybody would trust. The Lord has
sent you to end this crisis. I got up early this morning and went to meet Raja
Mala’un, Thakur Bagha and Duni Chand Shah. All three were delighted to hear
your name. I have come to ask you in their name to take up the position of the
sarpanch. It will be a great favour.’
‘I am at your service but I don’t think that I deserve this honour. I cannot dare
to become the head of a council which consists of men of such high standing.’
‘Don’t say this, Babu Sahib. You don’t have any idea how the people here
regard you. High and low, everybody has faith in you. Earlier you ruled the sub-
district, now you rule the hearts of the people. Please accept my humble request.’
Hari Bilas was so embarrassed by this honour that he could not raise his head.
His silence signalled consent. Karan Singh got up, took a garland of flowers
from one of his companions and put it around Hari Bilas’s neck. Then he
from one of his companions and put it around Hari Bilas’s neck. Then he
hesitated for a moment before he said in a slightly embarrassed voice, ‘Babuji,
you have accepted one of my requests, now please allow me to put forth one
more.’
‘With pleasure! I am at your service, body and soul.’
Karan Singh took an envelope from his pocket and said, ‘I ask your
permission to offer this at your feet.’
Hari Bilas looked at the envelope with curiosity. It was labelled ‘Ram Bilas
Kurmi’s letter of sale and mortgage, village Badukhar’.
His eyes filled with tears of gratefulness. He was searching for words to
express his gratitude, but Karan Singh did not allow him to speak. He picked up
the papers and tore them into pieces.
Hari Bilas looked at the people and said, ‘You know what papers these were?
These were my father’s mortgage documents.’ He was so moved that he could
not utter a word.

Translated from the Urdu by Christina Oesterheld

 When Rivals Became Friends

The families of Jokhu Bhagat and Bechan Chaudhary had been enemies for three
generations. The dispute was related to farm boundaries. Their great-
grandfathers had engaged each other in many bloody fights. The fathers began
litigation and even went to the high court several times. In the sons’ times, the
war escalated so much that both became powerless. At one time, each had
owned one half of the village. Now they did not possess any land except for the
disputed plot. Land, wealth, prestige—all was lost but the dispute stood as it
was. The legal luminaries of the high court proved incapable of solving a petty
land issue!
The two gentlemen had caused the village to be divided into two camps. If the
first group smoked its hemp at Chaudhary’s doorstep, the other smoked its weed
at Bhagat’s. The women and children, too, had their own camps. The antagonism
was such that the two gentlemen held opposing social and religious beliefs.
Chaudhary took his meals with his shirt on and declared Bhagat a pretender.
Bhagat would not even drink water without undressing and announced that
Chaudhary was morally corrupt. When Bhagat styled himself as a Sanatani
Hindu, Chaudhary turned himself into an Arya Samaji. For Bhagat, it was a sin
to even look towards the drapers, grocers and vendors whom Chaudhary dealt
with. And Bhagat’s confectioner’s confectioneries, milkman’s milk, and
oilman’s oil were dispensable for Chaudhary. The enmity was such that even
their theories concerning health were divergent. Bhagat was an Ayurveda fan,
while Chaudhary believed in the Unani tradition. They would not forsake their
principles even if they were to die of disease.
principles even if they were to die of disease.

When the buzz of political agitation for Independence started in the country, it
reached the village too. Chaudhary supported the movement and Bhagat turned
into an opponent. A gentleman arrived in the village to open a peasant forum.
While Chaudhary participated in it, Bhagat stayed away. As political awareness
increased, there was talk of Swaraj. Chaudhary became a Swaraji, and Bhagat
defended loyalty to the Crown. Chaudhary’s house turned into a Swaraji den,
and Bhagat’s house into a club of Crown loyalists. Chaudhary began canvassing
for Swaraj: ‘Friends! Swaraj means self-rule. Is it better to have self-rule in
one’s own country or someone else’s rule?’
The people cheered, ‘Self-rule! That is better.’
Chaudhary said, ‘So how can this Swaraj be achieved? Through self-power,
through human effort, through unity. Stop hating each other; resolve your
disputes through mutual consultation.’
Someone remarked, ‘You yourself go to court every day.’
Chaudhary replied, ‘Yes, but if I go to court any more, declare me as much a
sinner as a cow killer. You should use your hard-earned money to sustain your
wives and children, and any spare money should be spent in charity. Why should
you enrich lawyers and attorneys, bribe the police and supplicate the government
officers? Earlier, when our boys were taught the tenets of our dharma, they grew
to be ethical, sacrificing and hard-working. Now they study in English schools
and take up jobs, accept bribes, practise vices, ridicule our gods, smoke
cigarettes, celebrate the New Year and supplicate themselves before officials. Is
it not our duty to educate our boys in accordance with dharma?’
People: ‘We should collect donations and open a school.’
Chaudhary: ‘Earlier, we considered it sinful to even touch alcohol. Now,
every street in every village has liquor shops. We blow away crores of our hard-
earned money on hemp and liquor.’
People: ‘One who takes hemp and liquor must be penalized.’
Chaudhary: ‘Our forefathers, old and young, all wore handwoven coarse
cloth. Our grandmothers spun the charkha. Thus, all the wealth stayed in the
country, and our weaver brothers were happy and content. Now, we are almost
willing to give up our lives for foreign-made coloured fabric. It is thus that the
foreigners are draining our wealth. The poor weavers have become destitute. Is it
righteous of us to take away our brothers’ food and give it to others?’
People: ‘But coarse cloth is not available anywhere.’
Chaudhary: ‘Then wear homemade coarse cloth, don’t take your disputes to
courts, quit addiction, educate your boys in dharma and righteous action, stay
united. That—that is Swaraj. Those saying that blood will flow for Swaraj are
mad. Don’t pay any attention to them.’
People listened to this with fervour. The audience grew in size every day. All
turned into Chaudhary’s devotees.

Bhagatji also began preaching about loyalty to the Crown.

‘Brothers! The king’s task is to rule and the subject’s task is to obey his
commands. This is what loyalty to the monarch means. And our scriptures, too,
tell of the same loyalty. The king is God’s deputy. To disobey him is a great
crime. A traitor deserves nothing but hell!’
First interjection: ‘The king, too, ought to practise his dharma.’
Second interjection: ‘Our king is just ceremonial. The British businessmen
and bankers are the real rulers.’
Third interjection: ‘Businessmen only know how to earn money. What do they
know of governance?’
Bhagat: ‘People tell you not to go to courts and take your disputes to
panchayats. But where can you find the panch who can deliver true justice, and
separate milk from water? At the panchayat, people talk to please one another.
Those who can mount pressure will win, and those who can’t will lose. In the
court, all action is based on law. Everybody—high and low—is equal. The
hunter and the hunted sip from the same pond.’
Another interjection: ‘Court justice is all empty talk. Only the ones with fake
witnesses and experienced lawyers win. Who tests the true and the false? And
there is, of course, harassment involved.’
Bhagat: ‘We are told not to use foreign goods. This is gross injustice to the
poor. We should buy the cheap and nice goods available in the market, be it
Swadeshi or foreign. We don’t get our money for free that we should throw it
Swadeshi or foreign. We don’t get our money for free that we should throw it
away for useless Swadeshi goods.’
First interjection: ‘At least the money stays in our country and doesn’t go into
foreign hands.’
Second interjection: ‘Not getting a good meal in one’s own kitchen does not
mean that we’ll eat from the kitchens of other castes.’
Bhagat: ‘People tell us not to send our boys to government schools. Without
an English education, how could our brothers have found such prestigious jobs,
how could they have established such huge industries? It is not possible to cope
in the world any more without modern education. Old-style education can equip
you only to read the almanac and recite scripture. Will the interpreters of
almanacs and horoscopes rule us?’
First interjection: ‘We don’t want to rule. We are happy with farming; at least
we aren’t dependent on anybody.’
Second interjection: ‘It is better to stay ignorant than receive an education that
makes one arrogant. Modern education makes them don suits and boots, watches
and canes and hats, and fills the pockets of the foreigners just to satisfy their
fancy. They are traitors.’
Bhagat: ‘These days people are strict about hemp and liquor; everybody
knows that addiction is bad. The government earns crores of rupees annually
from shops that sell intoxicants. It would be good if people could quit addiction
by merely not visiting these liquor stores. But even if someone doesn’t visit
these shops, he will satisfy his urge somehow, on the sly, willing to be
imprisoned. Then why do something that will cause losses to the government
and also to the poor ryot? Also, some people benefit from consuming
intoxicants. I myself suffer joint pain, exhaustion and cold if I don’t take opium.’
A voice: ‘Taking liquor makes the body nimble.’
First interjection: ‘The government makes money by sinful means. It is
unbecoming of them. How can the subjects’ well-being be ensured under the
rule of an unrighteous government?’
Second interjection: ‘First they make people drink liquor and go mad. Once
addicted, there is loss of money. Who gets enough wages to support both food
and clothing, as well as intoxication? Either let your wife and children go hungry
or indulge in theft, gambling and cheating. What is a liquor shop? Nothing but a
den of our slavery!’
 4

People gathered in droves to listen to Chaudhary’s preachings. They could not

find enough space to stand. His prestige increased every day. The daily gathering
at his house discussed national development, which delighted people, and so
they participated zealously. Their political knowledge grew. He was aware of his
distinction and importance. He began to feel a sense of power. Tyranny and
injustice now made him scowl. He had tasted freedom. Homemade cotton,
homemade yarn, homemade food, homemade court; no fear of the police, no
supplication before government officials—he was living in pleasure and peace.
Many people quit their addictions and there was a wave of good faith.
However, Bhagat was not so fortunate. People became increasingly bored of
his preachings. So much so that his audience often consisted of nobody other
than the government accountant, sentry, teacher, and such others. Sometimes
some big officers showed up and honoured Bhagat. On such occasions, Bhagat
found some consolation and his tears would stop. But how could momentary
honour compensate for round-the-clock humiliation? There were fingers pointed
at him wherever he went. Some named him a supplicating mule, others called
him an informer of the secret police. All that Bhagat could do on hearing his
rival being praised and himself being condemned was grind his teeth. It was the
first time in his life that he had to lower his eyes in public. The family honour
that he had been guarding for ages, and for which he had sacrificed everything,
now lay in lowly dust. This fiery angst did not allow him a moment’s relief. His
everyday concern was how to restore the lost prestige, how to humiliate his rival,
how to shatter his confidence?
Finally, he decided upon beating the lion in his own den.

It was evening time. There was a huge meeting at Chaudhary’s doorstep.

Peasants from nearby villages were also in attendance, with the crowd
numbering thousands. Chaudhary was lecturing them on the subject of Swaraj.
Chants of ‘Victory to Mother India’ rent the air repeatedly. Women had gathered
on one side. Chaudhary finished his speech and sat down. Just as volunteers
were beginning to collect contributions for the Swaraj fund, Bhagat leapt in from
somewhere, stood in the audience and spoke in a raised voice:
‘Brothers! Don’t be surprised at seeing me here. I’m not an opponent of
Swaraj who is so fallen as to ridicule it, but it can’t be achieved through
Chaudhary’s means of which you all have become fans. What can panchayats do
when there are schisms and fights amongst us? How can addiction be stemmed
and liquor stores boycotted if the head is steeped in debauchery? How can
cigarette, soap, socks, vests and muslin be given up? How can government
schools be abandoned and freedom from foreign education obtained if there is
desire for glory and power? There is only one way to Swaraj and that is self-
control. Only this panacea will root out all your ills. Strengthen your soul, tame
your senses, control your mind. It is thus that you will engender brotherhood.
Only then will enmity decline, only then will jealousy and hate be destroyed,
only then will your heart turn away from luxury and indulgence, only then can
addiction be curbed. Swaraj can never be achieved without self-empowerment.
Self-service is the root of all sin. It is this that takes you to court; it is this that
has made you a slave to sinful education. Kill this demon through self-
empowerment and your wish will be obtained. Everybody knows I’ve been
consuming opium for forty years. From today, opium and cow’s blood will be
the same for me. I’ve had an enmity with Chaudhary for three generations. From
today, I declare Chaudhary to be my brother. From today, if you see me or
anybody from my family wearing anything other than cloth made from
homespun fabric, punish me as you like. This is all I have to say. May the
Almighty fulfil all your wishes.’
Saying this, Bhagat turned homewards and Chaudhary ran to embrace him.
The animus of three generations was destroyed in one moment.
That day onwards Chaudhary and Bhagat together started preaching about
Swaraj. They developed a strong friendship and it was difficult to tell whom
people respected more.
Rivalry was the spark that ignited the hearts of both the men.

Translated from the Hindi by Vikas Jain

 A Positive Change

There was a village by the name of Beera in the Patna region. An old, helpless
Gond woman known as Bhungi lived there. She didn’t have an inch of land or a
home to live in. She only had a parching oven. The villagers were accustomed to
having just one meal a day of parched grains or gram flour. That’s why there
was always a crowd around Bhungi’s oven. She ate whatever grains she earned
from parching the grains of others. Sometimes she ground them and ate the
powder. She slept in a corner of the shack beside the oven. She woke up early in
the morning to gather dry leaves from all around to light the oven. One always
saw a mound of leaves close to the oven. She lit the oven in the afternoon. But
on Ekadashi and Poornmasi, the oven was not lit, and on the days when Thakur
Veer Singh, the zamindar of the village, ordered her to parch his grains, she had
to go to bed hungry. Not only did she have to parch Thakur’s grains free of cost,
she also had to fetch water for his household. She lived in his village and, hence,
he had the right to extract work from her without payment. This could not be
considered injustice. The only injustice was that he never gave her a tip. He felt
that if he had to pay her something, then what was the point of unpaid labour?
After all, the farmer had the right to make his oxen work the field the entire day
and then tether them to the pole without giving them fodder. And if he did not do
that, it was not because of his kindness but because of sheer necessity. Thakur,
in principle, was averse to paying wages. He had no concern for Bhungi because
she wouldn’t die even if she went hungry for an entire day. Old people did not
die so easily; they were adept at giving the slip to the Angel of Death. And, God
forbid, even if she chose to kick the bucket then, in her place, another Gond
forbid, even if she chose to kick the bucket then, in her place, another Gond
woman could easily be installed at the parching oven.

It was the month of Chait and was one day before the festival of Sankranti. That
day, in Bihar and other districts, people partook of gram flour from newly
harvested grains and also gave it away as alms. People had not lit the stoves in
their homes. Bhungi’s oven was teeming with people. She didn’t have a moment
to spare. She was getting annoyed with customers for showing undue haste and
said, ‘I’ve just one pair of hands, not two. And if I don’t parch the grains well,
you’ll call me names!’ In the meantime, two big baskets of grains arrived from
the thakur’s house with the order to parch them immediately. Bhungi was
alarmed. It was already afternoon, and it was difficult to parch all the grains
before sunset. If she had had one or two more hours of work, she could have
earned enough grains to last the following eight days. But God didn’t show her
this much pity. Instead, He sent her these angels of death! Now she had to burn
herself at the oven through the night. On top of it, they’d find fault with her for
no reason—‘the grains have decreased in amount’, ‘you haven’t parched them
enough’, ‘you’ve parched them too hard’, ‘you’ve taken too much time’. She put
aside both baskets despairingly.
The servant warned her, ‘Don’t be late, you’ll regret it.’
Bhungi replied, ‘You can sit here and wait. When I finish parching, take them
along. Chop off my hands if I touch anybody else’s grain before finishing
yours.’
‘We don’t have permission to sit here, but see to it that they’re roasted by
evening.’ Warning her, the servant went away and Bhungi started parching the
grains. The other customers raised a clamour: ‘We’ve been waiting for two
hours and you haven’t parched our grains. How will we have flour tomorrow?’
Bhungi said peevishly, ‘What can I do? It’s Thakur’s job. If I don’t do it
where will I live? Didn’t you have a tongue in your head? Why didn’t you ask
his servants that if they dumped such a huge quantity of grain on me, how could
I parch yours?’
Helpless, people picked up their baskets and walked away. Bhungi became
busy in her work with frantic energy. But it was no joke to parch grains
weighing about a maund, especially when during the course of the work one had
to leave the roasting and rake the embers to keep the oven warm. By late evening
she hadn’t finished even half the work. She feared that the zamindar’s servants
would be on their way. And as soon as they arrived they’d start abusing her. She
became even more frantic. Her gaze was fixed on the doorway while she kept
working the oven. The sand cooled down and the grains came up half-parched.
Her hands were frozen from working the heavy iron ladle continuously. She
didn’t know what to do and began to weep. ‘I don’t know why God has forsaken
me! So many people die every day, even death has forgotten me. Those who
suffer in this world aren’t shown any mercy in the other world too. Who cares
for me? I shed my blood to earn some grains. But Thakur is always after my life,
simply because I live in his village. Is this small patch of land worth so much?
There are so many plots that lie fallow in the village, so many households that lie
deserted. Those lands do not produce kesar, then why should I live under threat
all the time? And at the slightest excuse they threaten to dig up my oven and
throw me away. If I had somebody to protect me then I wouldn’t have to put up
with their threats.’
She was engrossed in such thoughts when the two servants arrived and asked,
‘Have you roasted the grains?’
Bhungi said fearlessly, ‘I’m doing it. Can’t you see?’
‘The whole day is over and you haven’t yet finished parching the grains? And
are you parching the grains or just wasting them! These are just half-parched,
how will anyone make flour out of them? Just wait and watch how the thakur
deals with you today.’
The consequence was that the same night the oven was pulled out and the
hapless widow was left without shelter.

Bhungi had no means of livelihood now. With the destruction of the oven the
villagers also were much inconvenienced. Many families had to go without food
during lunch. The people went to Thakur and pleaded with him to allow Bhungi
to run the oven, but he couldn’t care less. ‘She’s a devil and a pig-headed crone.
She’ll come to her senses if she has to starve for a couple of days. She has spoilt
a sackful of my grains. Must be thinking what harm can I do her! She doesn’t
a sackful of my grains. Must be thinking what harm can I do her! She doesn’t
know that it is because of me that she has been living here peacefully.’ Hearing
these harsh words from Thakur the people went back to their homes.
One of them said, ‘Why show his authority to a woman who’s almost dead?
He should show it to someone who is his equal.’
A second one said, ‘All his authority consists of exploiting the poor. He
trembles at the sight of the government emissaries; what to speak of his peers.
Well, we live in his village. He can treat us the way he likes.’
Bhungi somehow managed to pass some days. She had earned more grains on
the day of Sankranti. When they finished she began to starve. Several people
advised her to go to another village and settle down. ‘We’ll go there to build a
shack where you can run your oven. You can stay in peace. All zamindars aren’t
alike.’ But Bhungi didn’t agree. She had spent fifty years of her difficult life in
that village. She had fallen in love with each tree and plant of the village. She
knew all the children of the village and they also knew her. The entire village
seemed like her house. She had seen many ups and downs in her life in that
village. Now, at the fag end of her life, she couldn’t sever her connection with it!
The mere thought of it seemed to give her pain. She would rather stay and suffer
in that village than leave it for the comforts of another.
An entire month passed in this way. It was early in the morning. Thakur Veer
Singh, along with two or three of his servants, was going around collecting
taxes. He didn’t trust his agents, and didn’t want to share the customary gifts of
money given by tenants to a landlord. Sometimes he’d say, ‘What’s left in being
a landlord? After paying off the government and the expenses of the court, one is
left with less than ten rupees out of a hundred. We can’t but depend on extra
income for all the pomp and show.’ He looked around himself arrogantly, smiled
at the greetings of his subjects and walked away. He had great authority and was
held in awe by his subjects. Women used to draw their veils and turn away their
faces at the sight of him. People sitting on doorsteps stood up in his honour,
adjusting their turbans. Some concealed their coconuts from his sight.
Wandering around the village with such swagger he walked past Bhungi’s oven.
As his gaze fell on the oven he was filled with rage. The oven was being made
anew. The old woman was placing heaps of clay on it swiftly. She had probably
started working in the dead of the night and wanted to finish it off before sunrise.
It was the day of the deity’s worship. As per custom, Bhungi wanted to feed
sattu to all the unmarried girls of the village on her chabutara. She always
parched grains in her oven on this occasion. She didn’t charge anything for her
labour. If the oven was not ready that day how would she parch the grains? If the
grains are parched in some other village the deity might get angry and the village
might be visited by some calamity. If the thakur got angry, it didn’t matter. The
deity must be pleased. If the thakur was displeased the worst he could do was dig
up the oven. However, if the deity was displeased, the entire village would
suffer. The thakur himself was a devotee of the Goddess; he wouldn’t dare act
against her wishes. Even the king is scared of the Goddess, what to speak of
Thakur? These thoughts led her to repair the oven. She was so lost in her work
that she didn’t realize the presence of the thakur. Suddenly, she heard a voice
say, ‘Who gave you permission?’
Startled, Bhungi looked up to see Thakur standing in front of her. She
couldn’t reply.
Thakur repeated his question, ‘Who gave you permission?’
Bhungi answered fearlessly, ‘The deity.’
‘I’m the owner of this village, not the deity,’ Thakur thundered.
Bhungi touched her heart with her hands and said, ‘Thakur, don’t utter such
words. The deity is the owner of the whole world, what to speak of you and me.’
Thakur said to his servants, ‘What a cantankerous old woman! She wants to
scare me in the name of the deity and lower my status in the eyes of others.
Smash her oven.’
His servants didn’t dare do this. Thakur was now furious. He called his
servants all kinds of names, got down from the horse and gave a mighty kick to
the oven. The clay was still wet, it flattened out. As he aimed a second kick, the
old woman stood right in front of him and it fell on her back. She stumbled to
the ground with her face down. Now, she was also angry. She stroked her back
with one hand and said, ‘Thakur, if you don’t fear humans at least fear the gods
and deities. What will you gain by destroying me thus? Will you dig up gold
from this palm-sized land? I’m saying this for your own good. The curse of the
poor will harm you. Don’t hurt me so much.’
Thakur asked, ‘I hope you won’t want to build an oven here again.’
‘What will I eat if I don’t build an oven?’
‘It is not my responsibility to provide for you. Get out of the village.’
 ‘Why should I go? If a subject ploughs a piece of land for twelve years he
becomes a shareholder. I have turned old living in this hut. My father-and
mother-in-law and their fathers and forefathers all have lived in this very hut.
Now only Yamdoot1 can take me away from here.’
‘So now you are displaying your knowledge of the law. If you had begged and
pleaded I might have allowed you to stay, but now I shan’t have a moment’s
peace until I’ve turned you out.’ (To the servants.) ‘Go now and set fire to the
heap of leaves. Let’s see how she ignites the oven.’
‘Today we’re offering puja to the deity. Let me light the oven. Do whatever
you want tomorrow.’
‘You think there’s only your oven in the world? Other villages too have
ovens.’

In an instant sparks began to fly and the flames rose up to touch the sky. They
also began to spread on all sides. The villagers gathered and stood around that
mountain of fire. Bhungi was sitting dejectedly near the oven and watching the
heart-rending scene. No one knew what thoughts ran through her mind. Such
anger against me! All because of this hapless belly. A curse on such a life!
Who’s there to call my own that I should bear with all this just to remain alive?
What support do I have now? The oven lies smashed. The leaves have turned to
ash. Shall I now resort to begging to fill my belly? I have lived most of my life
without stretching my hand before anyone. Shall I now live to be pushed around
as today? These thoughts brought tears to her eyes. She was overcome by her
helplessness and longing. She felt dizzy. Suddenly she ran and jumped into the
fire. People came running from all directions but nobody showed the courage to
go into the mouth of fire. Thakur was sitting on his horse and watching the
scene. The moment Bhungi entered the fire he jumped like lightning from his
horse and in an instant entered the flames. The crowd was stunned and stood
there with bated breath. In no time Thakur came out holding Bhungi in his lap.
His clothes had caught fire. Bhungi’s clothes, too, were in flames. She was
unconscious. People took off the blankets they were wearing and put them
around Thakur. Nobody bothered about Bhungi. They were all busy looking
after Thakur. Luckily, the fire didn’t cause any harm to his body, only his skin
was scorched in places. But Bhungi’s body was badly burnt.
Half an hour passed. The flames were still burning. Thakur still held Bhungi
in his lap as tears trickled down his face. The women of his house had also
arrived there. Someone was fanning Bhungi while someone else was applying
balm on her injuries. Others were suggesting home remedies.
Suddenly, Thakur said, ‘Send someone to the city to bring a doctor
immediately.’
His wife said, ‘She’ll be all right with the help of home remedies. Why should
you call in a doctor?’
‘If she dies I’ll drink poison.’
‘She won’t die now.’
Thakur said eagerly, ‘Yes, if I have my way, she won’t die of shock. She’ll
die a natural death.’

Thakur Veer Singh was not known to be a nice person in his area. This event
made him popular with the high and the low. All his subjects praised him for his
valour. But his fellow zamindars termed it as a temporary loss of judgement. To
them, it was pointless to jump into fire for such an old woman. Her death
wouldn’t have made the world bereft. She had no one in the world to cry over
her. But if the zamindar had died, he would have left his family without an heir.
A month had passed. Bhungi was lying down in Thakur’s house and Thakur
was sitting beside her bed. Bhungi said, ‘Brother, I’ve recovered now. Why
don’t you allow me to run my oven? How long will I stay here? It’s been a long
time.’
Thakur said, ‘Sister, are you bored? Do you have any discomfort here?’
Bhungi replied, ‘Yes, brother. I’m bored. Won’t one get bored eating goodies
and staying idle all day long? What discomfort can be greater than this? Brother,
didn’t you feel any fear when you jumped into the fire after me? Why should
you have risked your life for an old woman? I always wonder what thoughts ran
through your mind at that moment.’
Thakur said, ‘I had no time to think. It was as though I was in a trance. I was
not myself. My steps advanced towards the fire automatically. I didn’t care what
not myself. My steps advanced towards the fire automatically. I didn’t care what
I was doing and why. It was as though I had lost my senses. Everything
happened on its own. God wanted to save me from disgrace. What else?’

Translated from the Urdu by M. Asaduddin

 A Battle of Ideals

Mr Dayakrishna Mehta’s feet touched the earth no more. His ambition, his life’s
sweetest dream, had been fulfilled. He had achieved the position which, for
Indians, was heavenly bliss. The viceroy had appointed him a member of his
executive council.
His friends dropped in to congratulate him. The festive spirit was everywhere:
feasts thrown in his honour, congratulatory letters. It was not considered an
individual achievement but a national one. Even the English authorities walked
hand-in-hand with him.
Dayakrishna was a well-known barrister of Lucknow—large-hearted,
politically adept and socially responsible. He was eternally involved in social
activities. In the bureaucracy of the country, there was no one so detached or as
outspokenly critical. Nor was there among the public anyone so astute, so
trustworthy and so sympathetic.
There was a lot of activity in the newspapers regarding his appointment. One
set of voices said—‘We cannot congratulate the government for this selection.’
Voices from the other side said—‘This is a supreme example of the generosity
and social responsibility of the government.’ There was a third group, too,
which, in a subdued voice, said—‘Another pillar of the empire has fallen.’
It was evening. A party for Dayakrishna was held at Kesar Park by the
liberals! Important people from all over the region had gathered there. After
dinner, the president said in his speech, ‘We are confident that your initiation
into power will be beneficial for the masses, and that through your efforts,
improvements will be made in those laws that are detrimental to the life of the
improvements will be made in those laws that are detrimental to the life of the
nation.’
Dayakrishna answered, ‘The laws of the state are subject to contemporary
situations. As long as there is no change in these situations, it would be illusory
to expect progress in the legal system.’
The meeting got over. One group said, ‘How judicious and praiseworthy is the
political system!’ Another party said, ‘He has fallen into the trap.’ The third
party shook its head in disappointment but didn’t voice its opinion.

Dayakrishna had been in Delhi for a month now. It was a Phagun evening. He
was seated on a velvet reclining chair near the pond in a corner of his garden.
Mrs Rajeshwari Mehta was seated before him practising the piano and Miss
Manorama was feeding biscuits to the fish in the pond. She asked her father,
‘Who is the gentleman that just dropped by?’
‘A military member of the council.’
‘He must be under the viceroy, right?’
‘All of us are under the viceroy. Our salaries are all equal but no one can
aspire to his merits. Why, Rajeshwari, haven’t you noticed how gentle and well-
mannered the English are?’
Rajeshwari said, ‘I consider him to be the very embodiment of courteousness.
They are better than us in this aspect too. How lovingly his wife embraced me!’
Manorama was ecstatic. ‘I feel like falling at her feet.’
Dayakrishna added: ‘I have never seen anyone so noble, so refined, so sincere,
so virtuous. Our laws of kindness exist only in name. It gives me great sorrow to
realize that I have been suspicious of them for so long. In short, the complaints
that we have against them are simply because of a lack of mutual interaction. We
are not well-versed in each other’s character and nature.’
Rajeshwari averred, ‘We are in sore need of a union club where both groups
can have the pleasure of each other’s company. It is the only means of
dissipating misconceptions.’
Dayakrishna said, ‘I agree with you.’ He looked at the clock and continued,
‘It’s seven; time for the festivities of the business union. The Indians are in a
peculiar state. They believe that an Indian member of the council is the
representative of Indians and can work independently. They hope that he can
overturn the laws of the incumbent regime and create a new sky and a new sun.
They do not consider the limits within which such members function.’
‘But it’s hardly their fault. It is natural that people have all kinds of
expectations from one of their own. Now that half the members of the council
are Indians, won’t their decisions have any influence on the government’s laws?’
‘Of course they will. In fact, they are influencing laws. But a complete change
in the laws is not possible. Even if all the members are Indians, new laws cannot
be introduced. How can they forget that their membership in the council is
dependent on the grace and trust of the government? Apart from that, once they
get there and get to know the internal affairs, they realize that the majority of
their concerns are unfounded. The responsibilities of the post also bear down
heavily on them. While framing a new law, it is natural that doubts may arise in
their minds as to whether or not it will meet the expectations of the people.
Consequently, their independence is destroyed. They are wary of meeting those
people who have been their accomplices but who, due to their lack of restraint,
have become motes in the eyes of the government. They talk about justice and
truth in their speeches and in spite of knowing that the laws of the government
are injurious still voice their support of it. If they cannot do anything against the
system, why would they voice their dissent and suffer shame? In situations like
these, the only way is to save oneself through flattery. And the biggest problem
is that saying anything against such gentle, generous, and knowledgeable people
is like throttling humanity and good conduct. Oh, see, the car is here! Come on,
people must have already assembled at the business meeting.’
When they reached the venue, they heard the sound of applause. The president
had already read his address, the gist of which was that the government must
protect the handicrafts that are liquidated in the face of national competition. For
the economic uplift of the country, new factories must be opened and when they
turn successful, they must be handed over to economic unions. It is also their
responsibility to support those crafts which are still in their infancy so that the
public can feel encouraged.
After thanking the president, Dayakrishna announced the industrial laws of
the government by saying: ‘Your formulations are blameless. However, bringing
them into practice is very complicated. The government may supply you with
finances but taking forward the business initiative is the responsibility of the
finances but taking forward the business initiative is the responsibility of the
public. You must bear in mind the fact that even God helps only those who help
themselves. You are lacking in self-confidence and business sense. Stretching
out your hands before the government at each and every step shows your
inability.’
The next day, critiques of this speech were published. One party said, ‘Mr
Mehta has very lucidly and unambiguously explained the laws of the
government.’
The second group wrote, ‘We were stunned after reading Mr Mehta’s speech.
The business council has taken the very path shown by Mr Mehta. He has
proved the common saying, “Anything that enters a salt mine turns into salt.”’
The third group wrote, ‘We are totally in agreement with Mr Mehta on the
point that we must not grovel before the government at every step. This speech
must have opened the eyes of those who say that we must send our ablest men to
the council. We feel sorry for the members of the business council who travelled
from Kanpur to Delhi for a sermon about self-confidence.’

It was the month of Chait. Shimla had grown mellow. Dayakrishna was seated in
his library reading when Rajeshwari came in and asked, ‘What kind of a letter is
this?’
Dayakrishna replied, ‘This is a matter pertaining to business transactions. It
will be produced in the council next week. I had and still have reservations about
some of their propositions. Now, I do not understand how I can approve of them.
See, three crore rupees have been earmarked for increasing the salaries of high
officials. Already, the salaries of these officials are quite high. A further
increment is unnecessary, but how do I bring these words to my tongue? All
those who are to benefit from this are my daily acquaintances. Military expenses
have gone up by twenty crore. When our armies are sent to foreign countries, it
is judicious to assume our necessities will increase. However, if I make my
opposition to this known, the council will point fingers at me.’
‘It is not right for you to keep quiet out of fear. Besides, if you do so, of what
use is your being here?’
‘It is easy to say but hard to implement. Any respect I get here is due to my
supplication. If the viceroy’s attitude towards me changes, no one will come to
supplication. If the viceroy’s attitude towards me changes, no one will come to
me. See, Raja Badra Bahadur Singh is here.’
‘Is Shivrajpur a big kingdom?’
‘Its annual revenue is not less than fifteen lakh, and it is an independent state.’
‘Raja Sahib is quite attracted to Manorama. It seems Manorama has also
fallen for him.’
‘Nothing could be better than if this match were to happen. It is my authority
that attracts Raja Sahib here. Did we have this good fortune in Lucknow? Look,
the finance secretary Mr Kak is here.’
Kak shook Dayakrishna’s hands and said, ‘Mrs Mehta, I adore your dress. It is
a pity that our ladies do not wear saris.’
Rajeshwari said, ‘I would like to wear a gown.’
Kak didn’t like the idea. ‘No, Mrs Mehta, for the love of God, do not commit
such an outrage! Mr Mehta, I have brought you some very happy news. Is your
noble son arriving soon? Maharaja Bhind would like to consider him for the post
of his private secretary. Please inform him urgently.’
‘I am indebted to you,’ said Dayakrishna gratefully.
‘It would be nice if you sent him a telegram. You must have read the report
about Kabul. His Majesty Amir does not seem eager to enter into an agreement
with us. He has turned to the Bolsheviks. The matter is worth concern.’
‘I do not think so. In the past century, Kabul has not found the courage to
attack India. Even India has not taken a step forward. Yes, they are quite capable
of defending themselves.’
‘I beg your pardon, but you seem to forget that a coalition has been formed
between Iran–Afghanistan and the Bolsheviks. Is the assembly of so many
enemies at our border not alarming? It is our duty to be wary of them.’
By now, it was time for lunch. The party sat at the table. The conversation
changed to horse racing and dance.

Dayakrishna’s opinions on the budget raised a storm all over India. One group
took his opinions as the holy writ, the second, apart from disagreeing with him
on some clauses, largely accepted his opinions. However, the third group shook
its head in disappointment at each and every word of the speech and wept over
the downfall of India. They couldn’t believe that these words could come out of
the downfall of India. They couldn’t believe that these words could come out of
Dayakrishna’s mouth.
‘I am surprised that the non-governmental members have unequivocally
opposed those sections of the proposal on which are dependent the security,
peace and progress of the nation. They considered educational reforms, medical
reforms and the expansion of canals more important. They were more concerned
with the lower income employees. I had greater confidence in their political
knowledge. The chief duty of the state is to safeguard the country from internal
and external non-peaceful forces. Education and medical care, industry and
business, are basic duties. We can see the entire population of our country
blissful in a sea of ignorance, we can keep them under the threat of plague and
malaria, we can make the lower-income employees fodder for our thought, we
can leave the peasants at the mercy of the weather, but we cannot tolerate an
enemy standing at the border of our country.
‘If the entire national income is directed towards the security of the country, it
would not be a problem for you. You would say that we are not currently under
the threat of any attack. I believe that the world is one of uncertainty. Trains can
run in the air, water can catch fire, trees can hold a conversation. The roots can
be more alert. Does this secret not manifest itself to us each day? You would say
that the work of politicians is not to run after probabilities but to solve problems
of the present and the immediate future. I would not like to get into a debate
regarding the duties of politicians; however, everyone knows that prevention is
better than cure. Your responsibility is not merely to sanction military
expenditure but to present your own opinion! You would say that the strength of
volunteers should be increased. The government has just confronted an
uncomfortable issue in this regard. The educated class is debauched, cowardly
and self-serving. The people of the countryside are peace-loving, narrow minded
(I won’t call them cowards) and domesticated. Where is the self-sacrifice, the
courage, the courage of their ancestors? And it might be unnecessary to point out
that no pacifist public can be turned fighters within a couple of years.’

It was the month of Jeth but in Shimla, there were neither scorching winds nor
punishing heat. Dayakrishna was opening letters that had come from abroad.
Seeing Balakrishna’s letter he was delighted, but on reading it, sadness covered
Seeing Balakrishna’s letter he was delighted, but on reading it, sadness covered
his face. He took the letter to Rajeshwari.
She asked in enthusiasm, ‘Has a letter come from Bala?’
‘Yes, this is it.’
‘When is he coming?’
‘He has written nothing about it. The entire letter is a lament on my treachery
and denouement. According to him, I am an enemy of the nation, selfish, a
damned soul, all of that. I do not understand what has caused such a difference
in his thought. I used to consider him a very peaceful, grave, strong-willed and
ethical young man and used to take pride in him. And not satisfied with this
letter, he has published a detailed critique of my speech in an esteemed English
magazine. He has been careful enough not to publish the article under his own
name or I would not be eligible to show my face anywhere. I don’t understand
whose bad company has led to this. According to him, the job under Maharaja
Bhind is slavery and Manorama’s marriage to Raja Bhadra Bahadur Singh is
disgusting and shameful. He has grown so bold as to call me artful, crafty, a
seller of ideals, betrayer of the clan! Such shame! I do not want to see his face
again . . . ’
‘Here, let me take a look at the letter! He was never so bare-faced.’
Saying this, she took the letter from her husband’s hand and, after having read
half of it within a minute, said, ‘Where are the cruel words in it? I do not find a
single bad word in it.’
‘Look at the tone, do not go by the words alone.’
‘When there is a gulf between your ideals, how can he be respectful to you?’
However, Dayakrishna was losing his patience. He was further inflamed by
Rajeshwari’s words. He went to his office in this state of mind and started
writing a letter, each word of which was sharper than a knife or a machete.
Two weeks after this incident when Dayakrishna opened his outstation mail,
there was no letter from Balakrishna. He thought that his attack had worked, that
Balakrishna had returned to the straight path and had, thus, not been brave
enough to reply. He then opened the London Times (he read this paper with great
enthusiasm) and looked at the telegrams. A gasp escaped his mouth, the
newspaper fell from his hands, and opened at the first news story:
‘Meeting of Indian Patriots at London, Disappointment with the Speech of
Honourable Mister Mehta, Mister Balakrishna Mehta’s Opposition and Suicide’
Honourable Mister Mehta, Mister Balakrishna Mehta’s Opposition and Suicide’
Last Saturday, a mass gathering of Indian youths and leaders was conducted at
Baxton Hall. The president, Mr Talibaja said, ‘Even a prolonged search would
not reveal a speech so heart-rending and so cruel from any English member of
the council. We have not heard a more misleading, more tyrannical opinion from
the mouth of any statesman. This speech has proved that there is no salvation for
India other than self-rule, the essence of which is complete freedom of mind and
expression. If we had not lost faith in evolution so far, have we done so now?
Our illness has become malignant. This cannot be cured by powders and syrup.
It’s not recuperation that we need but rejuvenation. Higher posts do not make us
independent; instead, it increases the potency of our initial subjugation. It is our
firm conviction that Mr Mehta covertly considers false the very opinions he has
propagated; however, desire for respect, desire for credit and desire for the post
has compelled him to strangle his soul . . .’
[Someone said aloud: ‘This is a false accusation.’]
The people looked on in surprise as Mr Balakrishna remained standing in
position. His body trembled with rage. He wanted to say something but people
surrounded him and started blaming and showering indignities upon him. The
president managed to quieten the crowd with great difficulty but Mr Balakrishna
walked away.
The next day when his friends came to visit him, they found Balakrishna’s
corpse on the floor. Two bullets from his pistol had found their way to his heart.
On the open pages of the diary lying on his desk, they found the following lines:
‘My pride was let down at the meeting today. I cannot bear this insult. I do not
know how much blame I’ll have to face on account of my venerable father. It
would be better to end this battle of ideals. It is likely that my life will be an
obstacle on his unyielding path. May God grant me strength!’

Translated from the Hindi by Shalim M. Hussain

 A Philosopher’s Love

Lala Gopinath had been inclined towards philosophy right from early youth. He
had barely reached class twelve when names like Mill and Berkeley had become
quite familiar to him. He would stay away from any kind of recreational or other
activities of interest, to the extent that even a college cricket match could not
arouse his urge for entertainment. He would run away from the company of
spirited, interesting or light-hearted friends. Talking to him about the affairs of
the heart or women was like showing the cross to the devil. Tucking a volume on
philosophy under his arm, he would set out for a spot under some shady tree
outside the city, spending the day absorbed in deep study. He was the last person
to be interested in fiction, poetry or creative writing of any kind. Chances were
that he hadn’t read even a single work of fiction in his entire life. He regarded
the reading of such creative writing as not just a waste of time but also harmful
for one’s mental health. Added to this, he had no dearth of national fervour in
him, and had great interest in social service schemes. He wouldn’t let an
opportunity to serve his compatriots slip from his hands. Often, he would
ensconce himself in a joint of some small-time local shopkeeper and listen
avidly to tales of profit and loss and economic worries.
Gopinath gradually lost interest in college life. If any subject interested him, it
was philosophy. The college curriculum had become an obstacle in his
specialized pursuit of it. Quitting college, he was free to devote himself entirely
to the study of philosophy. But his enthusiasm for social service also began to
grow, along with his fetish for philosophy. As was inevitable, he soon began to
be seen in the company of the social workers of the city. Philosophy brought
scepticism and a feeling of being in the dark, and tension of the spirit, while
community service offered fame, honour and the benefits of both. His vitality
and vigour, which had lain buried beneath the veneer of philosophical debates
for ages, was reignited with a vengeance and Gopinath jumped into the scene of
community development with a bang. The scene was quiet and the field clear.
There was no dearth of flag-bearers, but a heart which held sincere desire for
service was hard to find. He found himself very much in demand. Before long,
he was pulled into becoming the secretary of one organization, president of
another, or playing some or the other such role. The penchant for philosophy got
lost somewhere in his enthusiasm for service. The bird that used to sing in
confinement forgot its melodies in the open fields. Though he continued the
practice of spending some time turning over the pages of his favourite
philosophy books for a short while every day, there was no scope for deeper
reflection or inquiry in this direction. However, he would often find himself in
the throes of a dilemma. Where should I head? This way or that? If philosophy
pulled him in one direction, love for community service pulled him in another.
One day, as he sat on the banks of the river Ganga, ridden with similar
confusion, he noticed that the river continued on its course, eagerly flowing
towards its destination, unaware of the din on its banks and unaffected by the
strong blowing wind. Why don’t I emulate the river, thought the philosopher. He
began to try and recall the name of some philosopher who had involved himself
in community service while also diving in the ocean of Reality. Pandit
Tribhuvan Nath Agnihotri, a professor at his college, strolled up just then.
‘So, how’s life?’ he asked.
Gopinath replied indifferently, ‘Nothing special, life goes on at its own pace.’
Tribhuvan Nath asked, ‘Whose name have you proposed for municipal ward
number twenty-one?’
Gopinath said in reply, ‘Let’s see who gets selected. Aren’t you one of the
prospectives too?’
‘I have been coaxed into it by the people, though I hardly have the time.’
‘I agree with you, I don’t think a professor should dabble in active politics.’
Tribhuvan Nath felt annoyed. After a moment’s silence, he spoke, trying to
get even with him, ‘Do you still spend as much time reading philosophy as you
did earlier?’
did earlier?’
‘Very little. I am caught in a state of indecision. Should I join the nationalist
movement full-time or devote my life to the pursuit of Truth?’
‘The time for you to dabble in nationalist movements will come later. Now is
the time for you to acquire knowledge and till such time as you achieve stability
and seriousness of belief you should not think of entering new fields
impulsively. You are still young. Serving the nation calls for great
responsibility.’
Gopinath made his decision. He would devote his life to the service of the
nation. Tribhuvan Nath made his decision too. He would show them how one
could combine teaching with serving the municipality.

Gopinath already occupied some status in life with a well-to-do family behind
him. They were dealers in sugar and gold and silver. His father was a renowned
businessman in his area. There were two older brothers who followed in his
father’s trade. There was unity in the family in addition to wealth. It was a
thriving family with several children. All that was lacking was education, and a
reputation in educated circles. Gopinath got them that too. His lack of
employment did not bother anyone. No one forced him to think of his bread and
butter. With no anxieties of any kind, he surrendered himself totally to social
welfare with complete freedom. He would collect funds for an orphanage at one
place or go asking for charity for a destitute girl’s marriage at another. His
selflessness, accompanied by strong determination, had infused new life into
social welfare activities. Such activities kept him busy from morning to evening,
sometimes even up until night. Seeing him standing, morning and evening, with
his donation notebook tucked under his arms at the doorsteps of the affluent had
become a familiar sight. Gradually, the number of his followers increased.
People described him as unselfish, selfless, sacrificing and a true servant of the
masses. It was rare to come across someone labouring so selflessly for a purely
social cause. Even such people who were not beholden to him in any way felt
inspired by him. At times, he would even have to endure indifference and
hostility at the hands of the wealthy, to the extent of putting up with rebukes and
censure. Every passing day, he realized that social service is more or less the
same as devoting oneself to the task of asking for donations. For this purpose, he
same as devoting oneself to the task of asking for donations. For this purpose, he
would have to pay court to the wealthy, in other words, flatter them. What a vast
difference existed between a disinterested study of philosophy and this social
begging. Sitting in seclusion and quarrelling with the likes of Mill, Kant,
Spencer and Spinoza over the truths of life and death, the spirit and matter was
one extreme, and bowing one’s proud head before haughty, undeserving and
crude businessmen another. He looked down upon them personally. ‘How are
they superior to me except for their wealth? Most of them have earned their
wealth through suspicious and underhand means. Nevertheless, all of them are
my benefactors. All my desires for service depend on them and their
benevolence. Could I possibly be rid of this dependence on them?’
Many years passed. Gopinath was now regarded as a respected citizen of the
city. He was a source of compassion for the poor and a patron of the needy.
Having crossed thirty years of age, marriage had become a raging subject in his
life. Gopinath had been postponing the issue all along, but matters had reached a
head now. One day his father issued the ultimatum of consuming poison if he
refused again. ‘At no cost will I tolerate disrepute. This will certainly lead to
scandal one day.’ Gopinath was caught in a fix. Weeks passed without his being
able to resolve the issue. Community and the self were battling with each other.
Marriage meant the narrowing of one’s concerns and restricting one’s vast world
within the four walls of home. It meant becoming as good as dead for the
community and living life only for the family. He considered it an insult to
descend from his elevated station now. Besides, he somehow knew that he didn’t
have what it takes. Qualities like effort, tolerance, persistence and forbearance,
required for earning a living, had become extinct in him. Social service too had
its share of running around and effort, but pretences of selflessness and elevated
thinking could still be maintained. It’s a matter of pride to beg for one’s
community but a shame to nurse a desire for returns for one’s labour. Having a
family would rob him of all his independence and his carefree lifestyle. A single
child’s illness could easily outweigh all the worries of an entire community.
Social service was an extremely suitable excuse for such shortcomings.
While on his routine walk one day, he met Professor Agnihotri, who was now
the secretary of the municipal board. He had been feeling inclined to become a
franchisee of intoxicating substances, but feared disrepute. He was on good
terms with the excise officer and was quite sure of getting the contract easily.
Despite all this, the fear of tarnishing his reputation and becoming an object of
Despite all this, the fear of tarnishing his reputation and becoming an object of
censure always got the better of him. He spoke, ‘How do you do, Lala Sahib?
Has your marriage been fixed? When is it expected to take place?’
Gopinath replied, ‘Although my father is insisting upon it, I have no intentions
of getting married.’
‘Don’t entertain this delusion. You are still young, and have no idea of the
lurking presence of the desires of the senses. I know of many cases where
celibacy has proved destructive rather than of any use. Marriage is the best
system that human beings have discovered of keeping themselves restrained. Of
what use is such bachelorhood that gives rise to duplicity?’
With a will to get even, Gopinath replied, ‘What have you decided about the
licence for intoxicating substances?’
‘I haven’t been able to come to any decision yet, but I don’t feel convinced
about this business as it would certainly taint my reputation somewhat.’
‘This would not just be a taint on someone who is a professor but something
all the more shameful.’
‘No profession is shameful by virtue of its nature.’
‘I don’t agree with you on this issue. There are countless such professions
which an educated person cannot adopt without becoming an object of censure.’
Gopinath went home and told his father, ‘I’m not willing to get married. If
you insist any further, I will renounce the world.’
Agnihotri applied for the licence the next day.

Two years passed. Gopinath became the manager of a school for girls which he
had established. He studied pedagogy and education in depth. He claimed to be
incomparable in this field of philosophy. He wanted to convert his high ideals
into reality through the school. This was a school which had been able to do
away with the inhibitions that parents of girl children usually have. Respectable
people of the city sent their daughters unhesitatingly to this school. The
educational method practised there was so attractive that any girl who stepped
into the school was charmed by it. She could not bear to stay back at home after
that. She received a fine education and acquire womanly skills in a period of
barely three to four years. Even more noteworthy was the fact that this school
did not ignore religious studies either. The course contained an identical set of
scriptures for all sects of Hindus but care was taken not to hurt any sentiments.
They had started English medium sections too that year. An English-speaking
educated woman of Gujarati origin had been invited for this purpose from
Bombay. Her name was Anandi Bai and she was a widow. She had written
several books in Gujarati but did not know any Hindi. She was an expert in the
area of education and its systems, and her presence enriched the school even
more. Many distinguished families who would normally have sent their children
to English medium schools in Nainital or Mussoorie had had them enrolled here.
Anandi Bai visited people’s homes to draw them to education. Extremely
graceful in appearance and hailing from a rich family, she earned a distinguished
reputation for herself in the city. All the girls adored her and fondly addressed
her as ‘Ma’.
Gopinath was beside himself with pride over his good choice in employing
her and sang praises of her grace and beauty to all he met. If a famous
personality were to visit the city, he would make sure to arrange a visit to the
school. Praise for Anandi Bai gave him as much joy as praise for his own self. In
fact, to him, praise for Anandi Bai meant indirect praise for himself.
Anandi Bai was also interested in philosophy, and what is more important,
Gopinath was an inspirational figure for her. She respected him from the core of
her heart. His patience and selfless social service had captivated her. Though she
avoided praising Gopinath to his face, she sang paeans of his glory in the homes
of the wealthy that she regularly visited. Where does one find such people these
days? Everyone runs after name and fame. Who wants to dedicate himself to
others? In her eyes, he was more than human—he was divine. How simple and
lacking in extravagance were his ways! He had no personal interests or elaborate
routines. Absorbed in work from morning till night, even his meals and bedtimes
were not fixed. Neither was there anyone to take care of his needs. When he
returned home after sweating out his blood, he would quietly accept whatever
was placed before him to eat. He would then leave once again for work soon
after that, picking up his cane resolutely.
It was the month of Kunwar. Preparations for Vijaya Dashami celebrations
were in full swing at the girls’ school, where a play was to be performed. The
building had been decorated with zest. All the well-to-do people of the city had
been invited. It was difficult to say if Anandi Bai was more excited or Gopinath.
been invited. It was difficult to say if Anandi Bai was more excited or Gopinath.
While Gopinath was busy arranging for materials, Anandi Bai would put them to
good use with full care and devotion. She was the author of the play too.
It was Dashami. Gopinath had been busy arranging for the floor mats and
chairs for the show till the afternoon. It was one in the afternoon and Gopinath
had still not gone home for lunch. Anandi then pleaded, ‘My dear sir, you are
getting late for lunch. The work’s almost over now. I’ll take care of whatever
little remains.’
Gopinath replied, ‘I’ll eat presently. I’m not bound by any fixed timings for
meals. Who cares about going all the way home? It’ll take hours. One would feel
tempted to take a short nap post lunch. It’ll become evening in the process.’
‘Food is ready at my place too. There’s a Brahmin lady who cooks. Come and
eat lunch there.’
‘What should I eat here? It won’t do any harm if I were to skip a meal.’
‘Why do you need to go hungry when food is available?’
‘I think you should go, no doubt you are getting late. I was so immersed in
this that I forgot about you.’
‘If you go hungry often, what harm would skipping a meal just once cause
me?’
‘No, no. You don’t need to do that. Honestly, having just one meal a day is
quite routine for me.’
‘Now I know why you refuse. I’m surprised that I couldn’t understand such a
simple thing earlier. I’m really stupid.’
‘What have you understood? You know very well that I don’t believe in
untouchability.’
‘I know that. But as for the reason you are not eating at my place, let me tell
you that I’m not just your employee. I’m your spiritual lover. Your refusal to eat
at my place amounts to breaking the heart of a true devotee, which is the eye
with which I view you.’
Gopinath could not make any further excuse and went and ate the food.
Anandi fanned him silently the entire time that he sat for the meal.
Tribhuvan Nath and other close friends had something like the following
observations about this incident: ‘Lala Sahib even eats his meals there now. And,
why not, both are spiritually involved. Let’s wait and watch the outcome of this
spirituality.’
 4

The veil of self-discipline and morality began to lift. Gopinath had developed a
passion for writing so that he could meet some financial needs. He would get the
required expenses from home, but often, he would be hard pressed to find money
for journals and books. Besides, his ego now came in the way of asking his
brothers for small needs. He wanted to be capable enough to fulfil his own
requirements. The children at home were noisy and a cause of disturbance for
him. It seemed that his principles had not been able to affect the behavioural
environment of the kids at home. As a result, whenever he felt disgusted with the
atmosphere there, he would head straight for the girls’ school. Anandi Bai lived
on the school premises. The silence in the environment helped him concentrate
on his work. If he happened to be there at mealtimes, he would eat too. Anandi
soon slipped into the role of his writer. She would write as Gopinath would
speak. It was due to Gopinath’s efforts that Anandi had learnt Hindi. She soon
acquired such expertise that she could write in it without hesitation. Sometimes,
while writing, she would come up with such vocabulary or idioms that Gopinath
was delighted, realizing that this would add great lustre to the writing. He would
comment that Anandi would make a better writer than him if she took to writing.
‘I am just a useless writer while you are divinely gifted,’ he would say. The
tongues of the respectable people of the town began to wag.
When have the conscience-clear lovers of philosophy cared for the evil
tongues of the envious? In Anandi’s opinion, the world was free to insinuate
what it may, but this would not make her refrain from interacting with one she
was spiritually tied to. Gopinath was not as daring, for his dignity rested on the
opinion of the masses. How could he possibly ignore them?
As a result, he changed the timings for his intellectual pursuits from daytime
to the night. There wouldn’t be anyone around at night in the girls’ school. A lot
of work would get done undisturbed. While he reclined on the easy chair all
along, Anandi would sit at the table, looking at him, pen in hand. Her gaze
would be dripping respect and reverence, faith and love. After he had formulated
a thought properly, he would glance at Anandi to check if she was ready before
speaking it aloud. Their eyes would meet at that time. So habituated had
Gopinath become to this practice that if, for some reason, he missed going there,
he would become restless and uneasy.
he would become restless and uneasy.
Prior to Anandi’s entry in his life, Gopinath had had no first-hand experiences
with the fairer sex. He had read past as well as contemporary philosophers on
this issue. Almost all schools described a woman as a deterrent to spiritual
evolution and an obstacle to a nation’s growth. She was portrayed as one who
directed the heart towards backwardness and narrow-mindedness, and as a
poisonous snake who led you towards carnal desire, a doubly charged wine and a
double-edged sword. Western thinkers, too, entertained a similar opinion. These
were some reasons which had prompted celibacy in him. But his personal
experience was now telling him that a woman could also perform socially
relevant tasks. She could also be a friend and companion on the path of Truth.
Her company could lend support to good actions, too. The thought then crossed
his mind that had Anandi been his proposed wife, he wouldn’t have had any
issues in marrying. Rather, he would have sailed through life comfortably with
her by his side.
Once, when he reached Anandi’s, he had a headache and didn’t find himself
inclined towards writing anything. Anandi began to massage his head with oil.
Much as he tried to find ways to resist her ministrations, she still managed to
pour the oil on to his head. Gopinath felt a strange feeling of comfort and
happiness envelop him and his emotions urged him towards speech but he did
not allow a single syllable of pain or yearning to escape. Yes, he stopped visiting
Anandi’s place from that day. An entire week passed without him visiting there.
Anandi wrote to him. I really need you to come over. I have to consult you over
certain administrative decisions regarding the school. Gopinath did not reply.
Anandi wrote again. Your book is lying unfinished. It can soon go to the press if
you complete it. He didn’t go over even then. She wrote a third time. It seems
you are upset with me. I haven’t done anything against your wishes on purpose.
However, I regard it below my dignity to stay here any more if you are angry
with me. I will hand over charge to the school teacher and leave if you still don’t
come.
Gopinath still did not relent. After two months of indifference towards
Anandi, it came to light that she was ill and hadn’t been attending school for the
past two days. He then found himself unable to offer any pretence or excuse and
approached her with some sense of hesitation and embarrassment. Stepping into
her room, he found her lying silently in bed with a pale face and spent body.
Seeing him, she tried to get up, complaint writ large on her face. Gopinath told
Seeing him, she tried to get up, complaint writ large on her face. Gopinath told
her to lie still, saying,
‘I’m sitting down. Did the doctor visit or not?’ The attendant woman replied
in the affirmative, saying that the doctor had visited twice and had prescribed the
medicine.
Going over the prescription, Gopinath guessed that the ailment seemed to
have something to do with the heart. Most of the medicines prescribed were
tranquilizers or resistance-building tonics. When he looked again at Anandi, her
face was streaming with tears. His heart brimmed over and finding himself in the
grip of strong emotion, he said, ‘Why didn’t you inform me earlier? Things
wouldn’t have taken such a bad turn had you done so.’
‘Never mind, I’ll get well. I’ll get well soon. And even if I were to die, who
would mourn me?’ She started sobbing loudly.
Gopinath may have been a philosopher, but his emotions hadn’t dried up
entirely yet. He said in a quivering voice, ‘There’s at least one person in this
world who can give up his life for you.’
He halted even as he uttered these words, finding his speech a little out of
tune. He would have preferred something far more profound and sophisticated
than the common vulgar statement he had made to express his feelings. But all
such words eluded him.
Anandi gave him a complaining look and said, ‘In whose care did you leave
me for the past two months?’
‘I didn’t abandon you, I was lamenting my destiny. I don’t know how I
managed to stop myself from committing suicide. I hadn’t realized that it would
be so difficult to remain true to my commitment. I didn’t write a single word
during this time or turn over a single leaf of a journal. I hardly slept a wink at
night. It was just one thought, one image. Just one desire had lodged itself in my
heart, day and night.’
Anandi took Gopinath’s hand in hers and said, ‘You won’t neglect me in this
manner ever again?’
‘What would be the outcome?’
‘Whatever.’
‘Come what may?’
‘Yes, come what may.’
‘Scandal, humiliation, ill fame, loss of face.’
 ‘I can endure anything and everything. And for my sake, you too have to be
willing to endure the same.’
‘I can put myself on offer for the sake of my love, but not so my good name. I
can’t tolerate the raised eyebrows of those who point fingers at me and humiliate
me with their insinuations.’
‘Then don’t, for you have earned your name through extreme sacrifice and I
don’t want to deprive you of it.’ (Taking Gopinath’s hand.) ‘I just want this. I
don’t harbour desire for anything more than this sacrifice.’
‘How can the two coexist?’
‘They can, for me, they can. I can even put my spirit on offer for your love.’

From then, Gopinath started speaking ill of Anandi. ‘She doesn’t pay attention to
work,’ he would tell his friends. ‘The earlier devotion is lacking.’ To someone
else, he’d say, ‘She’s not satisfied with this place now and wants to move on.
She is desirous of yearly increments, which this place can’t afford.’ He made
several inspections of the school and prepared a bad report. It was a sad state of
affairs, be it the administrative aspect or the academic. When some members
proposed advancements for Anandi in the annual meeting of the management,
Gopinath opposed it tooth and nail. Meanwhile, Anandi too had started making
noises about Gopinath. She would refer to him as a stone idol that lacked human
touch. It was impossible to please him. ‘I’m glad he never married, the poor
woman would have been sacrificed at the altar of his finicky ways. To what
extent can one show perfection in neatness and the general management of
things? He gets annoyed and frowns at me for the slightest patch on the wall, a
hint of cobwebs on a window or even a scrap of paper found lying in the
veranda. I’ve put up with him for two years but Lala Sahib’s intolerance is
increasing by the day! At this rate, I won’t be able to survive here much longer. I
receive summons from different quarters every other day. I can quit whenever I
want. Its only that I’ve become attached to such people as you all, and I care for
the girls here, so I don’t feel like leaving this place.’ What was surprising was
that no one else found any trace of careless management or bad teaching in the
place. Rather, things were decidedly better now.
He happened to meet Tribhuvan Nath one day. Tribhuvan Nath asked, ‘How
 He happened to meet Tribhuvan Nath one day. Tribhuvan Nath asked, ‘How
are things at the school these days?’
‘Don’t ask. The situation is deteriorating day by day.’
‘Anandi Bai has become negligent.’
‘Yes, absolutely. She’s not interested in work any longer and spends most of
the time reading books on religion and yoga. When I point it out to her, she
retorts, “I can’t do any more than this. One should worry about the hereafter and
not hanker after daily bread and butter all the time. Five hours are enough to
spend on one’s livelihood. Not any more than that. I used to devote up to twelve
hours earlier. But I can’t maintain that kind of schedule forever; I even ruined
my health. I had fallen seriously ill once. Did the management ever bother about
my treatment? No one ever looked me up. Why then, should I slog away?” I
believe she also talks ill of me to other women.’
Tribhuvan Nath replied, smiling knowingly, ‘These are the miracles of
spirituality. I had foreseen this earlier.’
Two years passed. It was night-time. In a room on the upper storey of the
girls’ school, Gopinath sat on the chair facing a table. On an easy chair close by
reclined Anandi, her face wan and pale. After a long silence, Gopinath said, ‘I
had told you so in the first month itself. You should go to Mathura.’
Anandi responded, ‘Where did I have that kind of money? Neither could you
arrange for it. As a result, I thought of staying on for a few more months and
putting together some money in the process. We were also expecting some
money for your book. I would have left for Mathura but who would have known
that I would fall ill just at this time. I had recovered slightly for a week but could
not leave then. Right now, it’s almost impossible for me to travel in this
condition.’
‘What I’m worried about is that your illness will extend too long. I’m afraid
that if you were to stay even a couple of months longer, it will be like spilling
the beans.’
Anandi was annoyed. ‘I’m afraid, I’m afraid. How long can one continue to
live in fear?’
‘I too wouldn’t have cared had many of the movements in the city not stood to
lose because of my bad name. This is why I care for a good reputation. I regard
these shackles of society to be utterly nonsensical and irrelevant. You are well
aware of my opinion on these matters. But I’m helpless. Unfortunately, I have
burdened myself with the task of serving the community. The result of this is
burdened myself with the task of serving the community. The result of this is
that I have to flout my own principles, and there is no way out except removing
that which is dearer to me than life in this manner, in order to protect it.’
Instead of improving, Anandi’s health kept deteriorating day by day. She
became so weak that she could hardly move about. She couldn’t possibly have
seen a doctor or vaid for fear of giving away her closely guarded secret.
Gopinath would get medicines, which Anandi would take in the privacy of her
room. Having grown weaker and weaker, she had resigned from the school and
gone into seclusion. Time and again she would resolve, ‘I’ll go away to Mathura.
But how will I live in an unknown city without any friend or accomplice?’ There
was virtually no one there to offer her even a cup of water. Another two months
passed in this confusion and dilemma. Anandi finally took the decision that she
would leave come what may. We tend to find succour in the postponement of
painful decisions. She now thought, ‘There’s no harm even if I were to die on
the way. His name will remain untarnished. I will escape ignominy. He will be
spared taint and disrepute on my account. No one would jeer at him.’ She began
her preparations. Had she made them about two months earlier, she might have
succeeded in her plans. Now it was only a case of saving a lost battle.
She intended to leave at night. The tonga driver had been instructed to come
on time. Suddenly, Anandi went into labour in the evening and, by eleven
o’clock at night, a tiny, young and helpless being came into existence. The
moment the newborn’s cry reached his ears, Gopinath hurried down and fled
home in panic. The poor Anandi hid the secret in her bosom till her last breath
and did not let anyone know of the searing pain in her heart. The servants had
already guessed and did not express much surprise. Anandi was lying
unconscious.

By ten o’clock the next morning, the news was all over the city. People
exchanged opinions in low tones, while one expressed disbelief, the other,
hatred, while yet another would scoff and jeer. Gopinath had his fair share of
enemies. With Tribhuvan Nath in the lead, the defamation campaign against
Gopinath was soon afoot. One could see small groups of people discussing this
event threadbare in secretive tones almost everywhere. Someone would say that
the woman was corrupt right from the very start, ‘Why else would she have
the woman was corrupt right from the very start, ‘Why else would she have
come here all the way from Mumbai?’ Someone else would respond that she was
not to blame. ‘It’s all the doing of that phoney bespectacled philosopher of a
man. He could jolly well have married her if he was up to all this. He was bent
upon committing the folly of remaining celibate and he has ended up with
promiscuity. He should blacken his face and go drown himself in a pond.’
People would drop in pretending to inquire about his welfare and then would
actually demean him. Everyone seemed to really enjoy slighting him. On the
other hand, they were all sympathetic towards Anandi. However, Gopinath, too,
had a large number of followers who refused to attribute this happening to
Gopinath and regarded it as the doing of some notorious character. How could
someone who even avoided the mention of women do such a thing? He could
very well have got married if this is the kind of thing he was interested in!
As far as he was concerned, Gopinath acquired a shroud of mystery around
him. He would listen to everybody but remain silent himself.
The question now was—of what should be done next. It wasn’t proper to
penalize Anandi; after all she was the weaker sex. The debate was about how
Gopinath should be treated. The general opinion was that he should get his just
deserts and keep Anandi at home with him according to propriety. But the
influential among them preferred an impartial attitude and said that it was none
of their business. It was between Anandi and him. However, he should certainly
be removed from the managerial responsibilities of the school.
Tribhuvan Nath and his friends didn’t want to let Gopinath off so easily. They
had an age-old envy in their hearts against him. How could yesterday’s chit of a
lad become a leader and strut around the city after reading a few books and
tinkering with some philosophy? Why shouldn’t one blow the whistle on such
people, who, spectacles and silk scarves in place, wear a patronizing look on
their faces and pretend to be paragons of virtue and forbearance? Why shouldn’t
the community be warned to steer clear of such double-faced and dishonest
social workers?
They set about quizzing the teachers, gatekeepers and ayahs of the girls’
school about Gopinath. How often did he visit? For how long would he usually
stay? What did he do there? Were you allowed in his presence or not? The
meagre-salaried workers of the school were quite fed up of Gopinath’s strict
ways. But they were reluctant to act as informants in this affair of personal
honour. Despite there being no evidence, public opinion had declared Gopinath
guilty. And there was no scope of any appeal against this judgement.
Meanwhile, Gopinath had discontinued visiting Anandi right from that very
day. The poor woman had barely spent two weeks in the girls’ school since the
birth when, on the fifteenth day, the management committee dispatched a letter
informing her of her expulsion from the school’s faculty. They didn’t even think
it necessary to give her a month’s due notice. Suffering silently, the unfortunate
woman shifted into a small house with a tiny, helpless baby in her arms. There
was no one to support her. The baby weak and she herself ill, she had no one to
tend to her or share her worries. Except for one maid to help her with the dishes
she had no one and she spent the night sitting all by herself with the baby in her
arms. It was an awful time for her. One could marvel at her patience, tolerance
and forbearance—she had no complaint against Gopinath on her lips, or even in
her heart. She thought, It is natural for him to avoid me in the present
circumstances. There is no other possible solution. The town would have
suffered such a setback if he were exposed. Not that a large number of people
aren’t suspicious of him even now. But no one can charge him publicly with
anything. As for me, what is my importance in the scheme of things and how
does my infamy harm the world?
Three months passed. It was past midnight, Anandi was sitting at her table
translating from a book by Swami Abhedananda. She would normally do her
translation work after putting the baby to sleep. This was her only means of
livelihood. Suddenly, there was a furtive knock on her door. Startled, she tiptoed
to the door and listened. It seemed like Gopinath’s voice. She opened the door
immediately. Gopinath entered, and glancing lovingly at the baby, said, ‘Anandi,
I’m not fit to show my face. I didn’t know I’d turn out to be such a moral
weakling, so cowardly and so shameless. But my lack of moral strength and
shamelessness could not protect me from disrepute. Whatever disrepute I could
earn and whatever losses the movements I was spearheading could bear have
already taken place. It’s impossible for me to show my face to the public now
and the community can never trust me ever again. Despite all this, I don’t have
the courage to take responsibility for my actions. Earlier, I was least bothered
about the narrow-minded concerns of society but now I shudder at every step
from fear of it. I curse myself for remaining aloof while you go through trials
and face destitution and defamation alone. You go through such trying times and
and face destitution and defamation alone. You go through such trying times and
I stay away, as if it’s no concern of mine. Only I know what I go through.
Countless times I resolved to come here and then I lost courage. It is now
apparent to me that all my philosophy is just an eyewash. I don’t have the
strength to practise it and I’m a mere bundle of words. I am a lifeless clod of
oppressive thoughts, absolutely insensitive, but, without you, my life is a curse. I
can’t live without you.
‘Innumerable times, I have craved for just one glimpse of my beloved child.
But how could I dare to hope that you don’t hate me even after being witness to
my flawed character in such a heartbreakingly stark manner?’
Anandi spoke with damp eyes, ‘You are being grossly unfair to me by
thinking like this, Swami. I’m not so immature that I would taint your reputation
for the sake of my own satisfaction and comfort. I regard you as my God. It is
my dearest wish that you grant me your presence here every day at this time.’
Gopinath felt ashamed at this childlike innocence and was overcome by a
desire to defy the meaningless restrictions of marriage and custom and sink this
hollow institution into the river of oblivion. He would build a home and Anandi
would be its Goddess. The baby would play happily within its confines. With the
sunshine of the child’s face, he would light up his dark life. But this surge of
personal honour disappeared in a moment and the fear of loss of face engulfed
him again. Philosophy bowed its head once again before meanness of action.
Fifteen years have passed since that day but you can still find Lala Gopinath
sitting privately in Anandi’s room every night. He’s willing to die for false
appearances, and Anandi can give her life for love. They both suffer disrepute.
However, people view Anandi with sympathy, while Gopinath has lost all favour
in their eyes. Agreed, some of his close friends still respect him and are willing
to excuse him for this human failing, but the general public is not half as
tolerant.

Translated from the Urdu by Baran Farooqi

 The Bridal Sari

It’s wrong to say that for marital happiness the temperaments of a man and a
woman ought to match. Mrs Gaura and Mr Kunwar Ratansingh had absolutely
nothing in common. Gaura was generous, Ratansingh held fast to every last
penny. She was cheerful, he a worrier. She would have laid down her life for
family honour, Ratansingh thought this mere ostentation. There were grave
differences in their social conduct and outlook, too. Here it was Ratansingh’s
turn to be liberal. Gaura objected to communal eating, was disgusted at the idea
of widow remarriage, and opposed the cause of the untouchables. Ratansingh
supported all these systems.
In matters of politics the differences between them were even more
complicated. Gaura regarded the present circumstances as fixed, eternal and
inevitable, which is why she was indifferent to the moderates, Congress, Swaraj,
and Home Rule. ‘What can they do, this handful of educated men?’ she’d say.
‘Can faith move mountains?’ Ratansingh was a true optimist, the occupier of the
front row at political rallies, the first to step into the field of action, a passionate
patriot and a complete votary of boycott. Despite all these differences, their
married life was happy. They quarrelled occasionally, of course, but these were
breezes that gently ruffle still water, not squalls that make the sea revolt. A little
goodwill would dispel all the discord and differences.

2
 Bonfires were being made of foreign clothes. Bands of volunteers stood like
beggars at people’s doors, asking for the alms of Western clothes, and there was
hardly a door from which they were turned away. The days of homespun cloth
had returned. Nainsukh no longer pleased the eyes, muslin felt dirty, and tanzeb
pricked the skin.
Ratansingh came to Gaura and said, ‘Get me all the foreign clothes from your
trunk.’
Gaura said, ‘Arré, is this very minute auspicious? Give them away some other
time.’
‘Wah, there are people in an uproar by the door and you say give them away
some other time?’
‘Here are the keys, take them out and hand them over. But these are all boys’
games. Swaraj has never been attained by burning down the house and it never
will be.’
Ratan said, ‘Just yesterday we spent hours debating this subject and you
agreed with me. Now you’re raising the same doubts?’
‘I went quiet from the fear of displeasing you.’
‘Okay, you can bring up your questions another time. Right now just do what
has to be done.’
‘But you won’t take my clothes, will you?’
‘You’ll have to give me everything; leaving even a thread of British cloth in
the house will destroy my vow.’
Just then Ramtehel, the syce, called from outside, ‘Master, people are getting
impatient; they say there are several localities left to cover. And if you have a
piece of coarse cloth might I get it, I’ve handed over all my clothes too.’
Kesar, the maid, was seen carrying out a bundle of clothes.
Ratansingh asked, ‘Are you also giving away your clothes?’
Kesar said shyly, ‘Yes, when the country is no longer wearing them, how can
I wear them?’
Ratansingh looked at Gaura meaningfully. She couldn’t put it off any more.
Her head bent with shame, she opened a trunk and started taking the clothes out.
When one trunk emptied, she opened a second. Right on top was a lovely suit of
silk which Ratansingh had had stitched in some English workshop.
Gaura asked, ‘Should I take out the suit too?’
‘Yes, of course. What will you save it for?’
 ‘Yes, of course. What will you save it for?’
‘If I’d known that the wind would change direction so quickly I’d have never
let you get this suit made. It was money squandered.’
Ratansingh made no reply. Then Gaura opened her own trunk and in a
frenzied rage began flinging out all the clothes, Indian and foreign. She had
many expensive, fancy jackets and saris, which had once given her so much
pride to wear. For certain saris, she’d had to make repeated demands of
Ratansingh. But right now, each one of them annoyed her. Ratansingh
understood her feelings. Her taking out the locally manufactured clothes irritated
him, but he felt that at this point keeping quiet would be best. Despite this, they
reached the point of argument a couple of times. He fought over a Benarasi sari,
wanting to snatch it from Gaura’s hands, but she was adamant, bent on throwing
it out. Suddenly there emerged a saffron sari of tanzeb from the box with a
border of expensive fabric sewn to it. Gaura quickly hid it in her lap.
Ratansingh asked, ‘Which sari is it?’
‘Nothing, it’s a tanzeb sari, but the border is expensive.’
‘If it’s tanzeb it must be foreign. Why have you put it aside? Is it better than
the Benarasi saris?’
‘It isn’t better but I’m not giving this one.’
‘Hey, I won’t let you keep a foreign thing. Give it here.’
‘No, for my sake let this be.’
‘You didn’t let one thing stay for my sake, why should I do anything for your
sake?’
‘I beg you, please don’t make a fuss.’
‘You can keep what you like from the locally made saris, but I won’t let you
keep this foreign thing. We’re slaves because of this cloth; I can’t let this stigma
of slavery remain. Give it here.’
‘I won’t give it to you. I say it not once but a thousand times that I will not
give it.’
‘I won’t give up till I’ve taken it away, this fetter of slavery, this bond of
servitude, there is just no way I’ll keep it.’
‘You’ve no right to make a fuss.’
‘Why, after all, do you love it so much?’
‘You always start splitting hairs. It’s not about a whole lot of clothes. So what
if I keep one sari?’
‘You still haven’t understood the significance of these bonfires.’
 ‘You still haven’t understood the significance of these bonfires.’
‘I understand very well. It’s all a farce. All the fervour will cool in a few
days.’
‘If you just told me why this sari is so dear to you, I might relent.’
‘It’s my bridal sari.’
Ratansingh thought for a while, then said, ‘In that case, I could never keep it. I
can’t allow foreign clothes this hallowed status, I can’t let this sullied memento
of a holy rite remain in the house. It’s the first thing I’ll gift to the fire. How
thoughtless had people become to unhesitatingly use foreign clothes even for
such sacred acts? I must feed this to the flame.’
‘Such inauspicious things you say!’
‘To have this kind of bridal sari in the house is what’s inauspicious and
undesirable.’
‘If you want you can force it away from me but I won’t give it willingly.’
‘In that case, I’ll have to use force. I’m helpless.’
Saying this he lunged at Gaura to snatch the sari from her. She held fast to it
and, looking at Ratansingh in distress, said, ‘Swear on my head.’
Kesar, the maid, said, ‘If the mistress wants it so, let it be.’
Ratan withdrew his hands, dejected. Saddened he said, ‘I’ll have to break my
promise and sign falsely on the pledge letter. Anyway, so be it.’

It was evening. The volunteers were making a racket at the door. ‘Kunwar Sahib,
come quickly and also tell the missus to accept our entreaties. It’s getting very
late.’
Inside, Ratansingh was in a dilemma over signing the pledge letter. How can I
honour the nationalist vow with foreign clothes in the house? I’ve taken a step
forward; I can’t move back now. But it’s not necessary to follow the pledge to
the exact letter, one should focus on its larger purpose. From that point of view,
I have every right to sign. No one can stand up to female obstinacy. If I wanted I
could get the job done with one taunt, but she’ll be hurt, she’s so sentimental. I
have to respect her feelings.
Gaura was worried, too. The bridal sari is an emblem of marriage. To burn it
would be so inauspicious. He’s sometimes as stubborn as a child; when he starts
singing his own tune he won’t listen to anyone else. Once crossed, it’s as if he’ll
never straighten up again. But poor thing, he’s helpless because of his
principles. He detests lies. He’ll have to write a false acceptance on the pledge
letter. It’ll torment him, he must be in a serious quandary. How can he, who’s
leading the whole city’s nationalist volunteers, make excuses about signing on
the pledge letter? He won’t have anywhere left to show his face. People will take
him for a fake. But how can I give away this auspicious thing?
Just then she saw Ramtehel, the syce, go out with a bundle of clothes on his
head. Kesar had a bundle on her head too. Ratansingh followed them, holding
the pledge letter. There was a hint of remorse on his face as if a truthful man
were on his way to bear false witness. Seeing Gaura he averted his eyes and
wanted to slip away without looking at her. Gaura guessed from this that his
eyes were wet.
She stopped him and said, ‘Please listen to me.’
Ratansingh said, ‘Let me go, don’t pester me. There are people waiting
outside.’
He wanted to hide the letter but Gaura snatched it from him; she read it
closely and after a moment’s reflection she said, ‘Take that sari, too.’
Ratansingh said, ‘Let it be, I’ve written lies already.’
‘How did I know that you were taking such a serious vow?’
‘I’d told you about it.’
‘It’s my mistake. Forgive me and take this with you.’
‘Since you think it’s inauspicious to give it away, let it be. I don’t have a
problem telling a few lies for you.’
‘No, take it. For fear of a bad omen, I don’t want to injure your soul.’
Saying this she placed her wedding sari in her husband’s hands. Ratansingh
saw the colour falling and rising in Gaura’s face, like a sick person trying to
suppress some harsh pain. He was ashamed at his heartlessness. Yes! Only to
preserve my principles, to honour my soul, I am murdering the feelings of this
Goddess! This is tyranny. Handing back the sari to Gaura he said, ‘You keep
this, I’m tearing up the pledge letter.’
Gaura said firmly, ‘If you don’t take it, I’ll go give it myself.’
Ratansingh was helpless. He took the sari and went out.

4
 4

Since that day there was a weight on Gaura’s heart. She tried different remedies
to distract herself: took part in meetings, went on outings, read entertaining
books and even, contrary to the norm, went to the theatre—all so that she could
somehow stop imagining bad omens. Yet these apprehensions continued
clouding her heart.
When a whole month had passed and her mental suffering increased by the
day, Ratansingh decided to take her to his country estate for a few days. In her
mind she constantly reproached him for his idealism. He’d often go to the
countryside to spread the word. But now he didn’t go further than the villages on
the lands he managed, and if he did he’d return by evening. His delay by a single
day, his ordinary headaches and colds would agitate her. She often had
nightmares. She was sunk in the darkness of imagined misfortunes.
Sitting in the countryside she became a slave to her forebodings, while her
bridal sari, burnt on the altar of patriotism, had turned to the benediction of
sacred ash.
At the end of the second month, Ratansingh brought her back.

It had been three or four days since Gaura’s return but she was so busy
managing the house and keeping her mind focused, that she hadn’t been able to
go out. The reason was that Kesar, the maid, had left the household just after
Gaura’s departure and they hadn’t been able to find a good replacement.
Ramtehel had also left. The poor coachman was doing the work of a syce, too.
It was evening. Gaura was in the veranda, staring fixedly at the sky, the only
recourse for worried souls. Ratansingh appeared suddenly and said, ‘Come, let’s
take you to the local produce bazaar. I’d proposed it myself, but it’s been four
days since we came back and we haven’t had a chance to go.’
Gaura said, ‘I don’t feel like going. Let’s sit here and talk a while.’
‘No, let’s go have a look. We can be back in an hour.’
Eventually, Gaura agreed. She hadn’t been out for a month. Everything
around her seemed strangely enchanting. The market had never seemed so
lively. When she reached the bazaar she saw the Muslim and Hindu weavers
sitting in their decked-up shops. Suddenly, an old weaver came up and greeted
sitting in their decked-up shops. Suddenly, an old weaver came up and greeted
Ratansingh. Ratansingh was startled and said, ‘Ramtehel, where are you these
days?’
Ramtehel looked happy. His whole being gave off the glow of self-respect.
His eyes shone with pride. Ratansingh had never noticed that old Ramtehel,
cleaner of stables, was such a dignified, gracious man.
He said, ‘Master, I run my own business now. Since I left your service, I’ve
been my own boss. You looked out for us poor people, so we’re making do,
otherwise you know very well the state I was in. I’m a weaver by caste but to
feed my sinful stomach I’d become a servant.’ Ratansingh said, ‘So sweeten our
mouths then. Setting up this market was my idea, the sales must be good.’
‘Yes, master! The sales are excellent these days. The goods are flying off the
shelves. I’ve been sitting here only for a month, but thanks to your mercy people
are spending with abandon the little money they have. I’m also able to get two
rough and ready meals a day by the grace of God. What else do I want? As soon
as the mistress’s wedding sari was put to flame, the market took off. People said,
such a big man and he did not care for this auspicious thing, so why should we
hold on to foreign clothes? The master went to his estate a couple of days before
the bonfire was lit. Even before that for many days the master hardly ever came
out of the house. I’d say this is the magic of that bridal sari.’
Meanwhile, a middle-aged woman came and stood before Gaura, saying,
‘Mistress, I hope you haven’t forgotten me.’
When Gaura looked up she saw Kesar, the maid. She wore a beautiful sari,
even some simple jewellery on her hands and feet, and her face was aglow. The
pride of an independent life was evident in each of her expressions.
Gaura said, ‘How can I forget so quickly? Where are you now? You didn’t let
us return, you took off before that.’
‘What to do, mistress? Seeing my own line of work going well, I couldn’t
hold back. While my livelihood was down, I was wretched. For the stomach’s
sake, I slaved for others, took up any job good or bad. Now, because of your
goodwill, our time has returned, so it’s hard to do any other work. If the market
stays this way, it’ll keep us going. All this is the wonder of your sari. Thanks to
it so many livelihoods have been restored. A month ago none of these
shopkeepers had any guarantee about where they would get their bread from.
Some were syces, some played drums, some even worked as sweepers. Many
begged. And now everyone’s back at their own trades. If you ask me, your bridal
begged. And now everyone’s back at their own trades. If you ask me, your bridal
sari has made us all brides, while earlier even as brides we were widows. I tell
you it’s true, hundreds of young people are constantly praying that your
marriage lasts forever—you who has given our widowed community the gift of
wifehood.’
Ratansingh sat at a shop and looked over some clothes. Gaura was ecstatic.
All her forebodings started to dissolve like dreams. Her own eyes became moist
as the Goddess of the wedded stood before those tearful eyes with her sari spread
out, handing out blessings.
She looked at Ratansingh devotedly and said, ‘Get me a sari too.’

6
By the time Gaura left, the electric lights had come on. The streets were lit up.
Her heart, too, was radiant with happiness.
Ratansingh asked, ‘Should we go straight home?’
Gaura said, ‘No, go past the cantonment.’
‘The bazaar was so festive,’ said Ratan.
Gaura said, ‘Build a permanent bazaar on this land. There should be shops for
locally made clothes and no one should have to pay rent.’
‘It’ll cost a lot.’
‘Sell the house, then there’ll be no dearth of money.’
‘And where would we live, under a tree?’
‘No, in the village house.’
‘I’ll think about it.’
After a while Gaura said, ‘Get plenty of cotton cultivated in the whole estate
and those who plant it should not have to go unpaid.’
‘Yes, it’s a good plan, there’ll be a double benefit.’
Gaura thought some more and said, ‘How would it be if you gave away the
wood for free? Whoever wants to can cut it down to make spindles.’
‘People will loot us.’
‘Nobody’s so dishonest.’
As she got off the vehicle and stepped into the house, she was suffused with
good feelings. It was as if, having escaped its stake, a lamb had started to
gambol.
Translated from the Hindi by Anjum Hasan
 Witchcraft

Doctor Jaypal had received a first rank certificate but thanks to destiny or
ignorance of professional principles he had never achieved prosperity in his
career. His house was in a narrow alley but it didn’t occur to him to get a house
in an open area. The cupboards, jars and medical instruments in his pharmacy
were quite grubby. In domestic matters, too, he was determinedly frugal.
His son had come of age but the question of his education had not yet arisen.
What great wealth have I gained banging my head against books for so long that
I should waste thousands of rupees on his education, he would think. His wife
Ahalya was a patient lady but Doctor Sahib had put such a burden on these
virtues of hers that her back too was bent. His mother was alive and would yearn
for a chance to bathe in the Ganga; as for visiting other sacred sites, the subject
never arose. Because of this severe thriftiness, there wasn’t the least joy or peace
to be found in the house. The happy odd man out was the old servant woman,
Jagiya. She had nursed the infant Doctor Sahib and come to love the family so
much that she withstood all manner of hardship but never considered going
away.

To make up for the shortage of income from his practice, the doctor had shares
in cloth and sugar factories. The Bombay factory had by chance that day sent
him his annual dividend of seven hundred and fifty rupees. Doctor Sahib opened
the insured parcel, counted the notes, and said goodbye to the postman. But the
the insured parcel, counted the notes, and said goodbye to the postman. But the
postman had too many rupee coins; he was sinking under the weight.
He said, ‘Huzoor, I’d be much obliged if you took the coins and gave me the
notes, it would lighten my load.’
Doctor Sahib used to keep the postmen happy and would give them free
medicines. He thought, Well, I’ll anyway have to call a tonga to get to the bank,
why don’t I make a virtue of a necessity.
He counted the rupee coins, put them in a purse and was just thinking that he
should go deposit them in the bank when a patient sent for him. Occasions like
these rarely arose. The doctor had no faith in the storage box but was helpless.
He put the purse in it and went to see the patient. It was three o’clock when he
returned and the bank had closed. There was no way the money could be
deposited that day. Like every other day he took his place in the pharmacy.
At eight when he was about to go into the house, he brought out the purse to
take with him and it felt somewhat lighter. He immediately weighed it on the
scales he used for medicines and was stunned. It was a whole five hundred
rupees less. He couldn’t believe it. He opened the purse and counted the money.
It did turn out to be five hundred rupees short. He agitatedly felt around the other
compartment of the box but it was useless. Dejected, he sat down, closed his
eyes in order to focus his power of recall, and started thinking. Did I put part of
the money elsewhere? Did the postman give me less? Did I make an error in
counting it? I’d laid out piles of twenty-five rupees each and there were exactly
thirty piles, I remember that well. I counted each pile and put it into the purse,
my memory isn’t fooling me. I remember everything clearly. I’d locked the box
too but . . . oh . . . now I know, I left the keys on the table, in my hurry I forget to
take them. They’re still on the table. That’s it—it slipped my mind to put the keys
in my pocket. But who took them, the outside door was closed. No one touches
money that’s lying in the house; nothing like this has ever happened before. For
sure this is the work of some outsider. It could be that one of the doors was left
open, someone came in to get medicine, saw the keys on the table, and opened
the box to lift out money.
This is why I don’t take rupees. Who knows, perhaps it’s the postman’s doing.
It’s very likely. He saw me putting the purse in the box. If I’d deposited the
money I’d have a whole thousand rupees, it would have been easy to calculate
the interest. What should I do? Should I inform the police? It’ll be a needless
complication. The people of the whole quarter will crowd at the door. Five or
ten people will have to suffer abuses and there’ll be no result. So then, should I
stay put and keep calm? How to stay calm! This was no wealth I’d got gratis. If
it was ill-gained money I’d say it’s gone the way it came. But every coin I’ve
earned with my sweat. Me, who lives so frugally, with so much hardship, who is
renowned for his stinginess, cuts corners even on essential household costs—for
what? So that I can amass goods for the enjoyment of some swindler? I don’t
hate silk, nor is fruit unappetizing, nor does cream give me indigestion, nor is
the sight in my eyes dim that I can’t enjoy the pleasures of the theatre and the
cinema. I fence in my mind from all sides in order to have a few extra coins so
that when they’re needed I don’t have to go begging. I could buy some property,
or if not at least have a nice house made. But this is the result of my abstinence
—the money made from hard-won effort looted. It’s so unfair that I should be
robbed like this in broad daylight and not a hair out of place on the head of that
villain. It must be Diwali in his house, celebrations must be on, the whole lot of
them must be blowing bugles.
Doctor Sahib started longing for revenge. I’ve never let any fakir, any sadhu,
stand at the door. Even though I wanted to, I’ve never invited my friends home;
I’ve always stayed away from relatives and associates. For this? If I could find
out who he is, I’d kill him with a poisoned injection.
But there’s no remedy. A poor weaver vents his anger on his beard. Even the
intelligence bureau is just so in name, they’re not capable of finding out. All
their intelligence is expended in political speeches and writing false reports. I
ought to go to someone who knows mesmerism; he’ll be able to solve this
problem. I’ve heard that in Europe and America robberies are often traced this
way. But who is such a master of mesmerism here, and besides, the answers
mesmerism gives are not always to be trusted. Like astrologers, they too start
taking plunges in the endless ocean of guesswork and conjecture. Some people
can divine names too. I’ve never believed in these stories but there’s an element
of truth in them for sure, otherwise in this day and age they wouldn’t exist. Even
today’s scholars concede that there is something like spiritual power. But even if
someone tells me the name, what means do I have at hand to take revenge? Inner
knowledge won’t suffice as evidence. Except for the moment’s peace my heart
will get, what else is to be gained from this?
 Yes, I remember now. That sorcerer who sits near the river—I’ve heard
stories about his feats. It seems he can trace stolen money, instantly make the
sick well, locate stolen goods and cast spells. I’ve heard praises of that spell—
the spell is cast and blood begins to spill from the thief’s mouth. Till he returns
the goods, the bleeding won’t stop. If this meets its mark then my heart’s desire
is fulfilled. I’ll get the outcome I want. The money is returned to me and the thief
is taught a lesson! There’s always a crowd at his place. If he isn’t capable why
would so many people congregate there? There is a glow on his face. Today’s
educated people don’t have faith in these things, but among the lower classes
and the society of the foolish there is a great deal of talk about him. Every day I
hear stories about ghosts and spirits. Why don’t I go to this sorcerer? Even if I
don’t gain anything what could be the harm? Where five hundred have gone, let
two or four rupees more be squandered. The time is right. The crowd will be
smaller, I should get going.

Having thus made up his mind, Doctor Sahib went towards the sorcerer’s house.
It was nine o’clock on a winter’s night. The streets had almost emptied. The
sound of the Ramayana being chanted was occasionally heard from the houses.
After a while complete silence descended. There were fertile green fields on
either side of the road. The wailing of jackals became audible. It seemed the
pack was quite near. Doctor Sahib had generally had the good fortune to hear
their melodious voices from afar. Not close up. Now, in this silence, to hear their
shrieks from so near frightened him. He repeatedly knocked his stick on the
ground and stamped his feet. Jackals are cowards; they don’t come near human
beings. But then he thought, If any one of them is mad, then his bite will be
lethal. As soon as he thought of this the memory of germs, bacteria, Pasteur
Institute and Kasuali began whirring in his head. He began to take hurried
strides. Suddenly, it occurred to him—What if someone from my own home has
taken the money? He immediately stopped but in a moment resolved this too.
There’s no harm; in fact, the family should get even harsher punishment. I can
have no compassion for the thief, but I have a right to the family’s sympathy.
They ought to know that whatever I do, I do for them. If I kill myself day and
night it’s for them that I kill myself. If despite this they’re prepared to betray me
then who could be more heedless, more ungrateful, more heartless than them?
They should be punished severely. So severely, so instructively, that no one ever
dares do something like this again.
Eventually he arrived near the sorcerer’s house. The lack of a crowd calmed
him. But his pace had slowed down a little. He thought to himself again—If all
this turns out to be a complete fraud, I’ll be needlessly shamed. Whoever hears
will take me for a fool. Perhaps the sorcerer himself will consider me a fool. But
now that I’ve come, let me try this. If nothing else, I’ll have tried it.
The sorcerer’s name was Budh. People called him Chaudhuri. He was a tanner
by caste. His house was small and dirty too. The thatch was so low that even
stooping one was in danger of knocking one’s head. There was a neem tree by
the door. Beneath that an altar. A flag fluttered on the neem tree. On the altar
were hundreds of clay elephants painted with sindoor. Several iron-tipped
trishuls had been dug into the ground too and looked like they were spurring the
sluggish elephants. It was ten o’clock. Budh Chaudhuri, a dark-complexioned,
pot-bellied and commanding man, sat on a torn sackcloth drinking from a
coconut. A bottle and a glass were before him.
As soon as he saw Doctor Sahib, Budh hid the bottle and, getting up,
salaamed him. An old lady brought out a stool for him. With some
embarrassment Doctor Sahib laid out the whole incident. Budh said, ‘Huzoor,
this is no big deal. Just this Sunday the police inspector’s watch was stolen,
several investigations undertaken but nothing found. They called me. I found out
as we spoke. I got five rupees as reward. Yesterday the Corporal Sahib’s horse
went missing. He was running around in all directions. I gave him the address
where the horse was found grazing. Thanks to these skills all the lords and
masters trust me.’
The doctor was not interested in this talk about the inspector and the corporal.
Whatever they are in the eyes of these illiterates, they are merely an inspector
and a corporal. He said, ‘I don’t just want to get to the bottom of the robbery, I
also want to punish the thief.’
Budh shut his eyes for a moment, yawned, snapped his fingers, then said,
‘This is the work of somebody from the house.’
The doctor said, ‘It doesn’t matter, whoever it is.’
The old woman said, ‘Later if anything goes amiss, huzoor will think ill of
 The old woman said, ‘Later if anything goes amiss, huzoor will think ill of
us.’
The doctor said, ‘Don’t you worry about that. I’ve given it a lot of thought. In
fact, if this is the mischief of someone from the house then I want to be even
stricter with them. If an outsider tricks me then he deserves pardon, but I could
never forgive a family member.’
Budh said, ‘So what does huzoor want?’
‘Just that I get my money and misfortune strikes the thief.’
‘Shall I cast the spell?’
The old woman said, ‘No, son, don’t go near the spell. Who knows which way
it’ll fall?’
The doctor said, ‘You cast the spell, whatever the fee and reward, I’m willing
to pay.’
The old woman said, ‘Son, I’m saying it again. Don’t go after the spell. If
something dangerous happens and this same babuji harasses you again, you
won’t be able to remedy a thing. Don’t you know how hard it is to reverse the
spell?’
Budh said, ‘Yes, Babuji! Think carefully one more time. I could cast the spell,
but I don’t take responsibility for undoing it.’
‘Didn’t I just say I won’t ask you to undo it? Cast it now.’
Budh made a long list of the necessary items. The doctor thought it might be
better to give him money instead of these things. Budh agreed. As he was
leaving, the doctor said, ‘Cast such a spell that by morning the thief is before me
with the money.’
‘Don’t you worry,’ Budh said.

It was eleven when the doctor took off from there. The winter night was bitterly
cold. His wife and mother were both up, on the lookout for him. To while away
the time they had put a brazier between them which affected their minds more
than their bodies. Coal was an item of luxury for them. The old maid, Jagiya, lay
nearby, huddled under a piece of torn matting. Now and again, she would get up
and go into her small, dark room, feel around for something in the alcove and
then return to lie down in her place. ‘How late is it?’ she’d ask repeatedly. She’d
start at the slightest sound and look around her with worried eyes. It surprised
start at the slightest sound and look around her with worried eyes. It surprised
everyone that the doctor was not back at his usual time. He rarely went out at
night to see patients. Even if some people had faith in his treatment, they dared
not enter this alley at night. And he had no taste for cultural clubs and societies,
or for the company of friends.
His mother said, ‘I wonder where he went, the food has gone completely
cold.’
‘If a person goes somewhere he informs and goes. It’s past midnight,’ said
Ahalya.
‘Something must have hindered him. Otherwise, when does he go out of the
house?’
Ahalya said, ‘I’m going off to sleep, he can return when he likes. Who’s going
to sit and keep watch all night?’
They were talking thus when Doctor Sahib returned. Ahalya stayed where she
was; Jagiya stood up and stared at him in fear.
‘Where were you held up for so long today?’ his mother asked.
‘You’re all sitting pretty, aren’t you! I am late but why should you care? Go,
sleep happily, I’m not fooled by these superficial demonstrations. If you got the
chance you’d cut my throat, and you’re making an issue of this!’
Pained, his mother said, ‘Son! Why do say these hurtful things? Who is your
enemy in the house to think ill of you?’
‘I don’t consider anyone my friend; all are my enemies, the destroyers of my
life. Otherwise, would five hundred rupees vanish from my table as soon as my
back was turned? The door was bolted from outside, no stranger came in, the
money disappeared as soon as I put it there. Why should I consider them mine,
those who are thus bent on slitting my throat? I’ve found out everything, I’m just
returning from a sorcerer. He clearly said it’s the doing of someone in the house.
It’s fine—as you sow, so shall you reap. I’ll show you how I’m no well-wisher
of my enemies. If it was an outsider I’d perhaps have let him go but if the family
for whom I toil day and night deceives me like this, they deserve no leniency.
See what shape the thief is in by tomorrow morning. I’ve told the sorcerer to cast
the spell. The spell is cast and the thief’s life is at risk.’
Jagiya said agitatedly, ‘Brother, a spell endangers life.’
‘That’s the thief’s punishment.’
‘Which sorcerer has cast it?’ she asked.
‘Budh Chaudhuri.’
 ‘Budh Chaudhuri.’
‘Arré Ram, there’s no taking down his spells.’
When the doctor went into his room, his mother said, ‘The devil eats the
miser’s wealth. Someone scavenged away five hundred rupees. For that amount
I could have visited all seven dhaams.’
Ahalya said, ‘For years I’ve been fighting for bangles. Good thing it’s my
curse.’
‘Who on earth will take his money in the house?’
‘The doors must have been left open, some outside person made away with it.’
His mother said, ‘How is he so certain that it’s one of us who stole the
money?’
‘Greed for money makes a man suspicious,’ said Ahalya.

It was one in the morning. Doctor Sahib was having a terrifying dream.
Suddenly, Ahalya came and said, ‘Please come and have a look at what’s
happening to Jagiya. It looks like her tongue has gone stiff. She doesn’t say a
thing. Her eyes have glazed over.’
The doctor sat up with a start. He peered around for a moment, as if
wondering if this too were a dream. Then he said, ‘What did you say? What’s
happened to Jagiya?’
Ahalya described Jagiya’s condition again. A faint smile appeared on the
doctor’s face.
He said, ‘The thief has been caught. The spell has done its work.’
‘And what if it was someone from the family who’d taken it?’
‘Then they’d be in the same state, they’d learn a lesson for life.’
‘You’d kill in pursuit of five hundred rupees?’
‘Not for five hundred rupees—if need be I can spend five thousand—but just
as penalty for deception.’
‘You’re so heartless.’
‘If I cover you in gold from head to foot, you’ll start thinking of me as an
angel of goodness, won’t you? I’m so sorry I couldn’t take this testimonial from
you.’
Saying this, he went into Jagiya’s room. Her condition was far worse than
what Ahalya had described. There was death shadowing her face, her hands and
feet had stiffened, and there was no sign of a pulse. His mother was repeatedly
splashing water on Jagiya’s face to bring her back to her senses. The doctor was
shocked at her condition. He ought to have been pleased with the success of his
remedy. Jagiya had stolen the money so there was no need for any more proof.
But he had no idea that a spell could work its effect so quickly and was so
murderous. He’d wanted to see the thief go down on his knees and moan in
agony. His desire for revenge was being more than fulfilled and yet it was a
bitter morsel to swallow. Instead of feeling happy, the tragic scene wounded
him. In arrogance we exaggerate the extent of our heartlessness and cruelty.
What eventually happens is so much more consequential than we think. The idea
of the battlefield can be so poetic; the poetry of the battle cry can generate so
much heat in us. But seeing the scattered limbs of the crushed corpse, which man
does not shudder? Pity is man’s natural virtue.
Apart from this, he had no idea that a frail soul like Jagiya’s would be
sacrificed for his rage. He had believed that the blow of his revenge would fall
on some spirited person; he even considered his wife and son deserving of this
blow. But to kill the dead, to trample on the trampled? He felt this contrary to his
natural inclination. This action of Jagiya’s should have been forgiven. One who
scrabbled for bread, longed for clothes, the house of whose desires was always
dark, whose wishes had never been fulfilled—it’s not surprising if such a person
is tempted. He immediately went into the pharmacy, mixed into a new blend all
the best medicines effective for reviving a person and poured it down Jagiya’s
throat. It had no effect. He brought out a defibrillator and tried bringing her back
to consciousness with the help of that. In a little while her eyes opened.
Looking at the doctor with a scared face, the way a boy looks at his teacher’s
stick, she said in a wan voice, ‘Hai Ram, my liver is on fire, take your money,
there’s a pot in the alcove, that’s where it is. Don’t roast me on coals. I stole this
money to go on pilgrimage. Don’t you have any pity, setting me on fire for a
handful of rupees? I didn’t think you such a blackguard. Hai Ram.’
Saying this she fainted again, her pulse died, her lips turned blue and her
limbs stiffened.
Looking at Ahalya meekly, the doctor said, ‘I’ve done whatever I could, it’s
beyond me now to revive her. How did I know that this accursed spell is so
destructive? If it happens to kill her, I’ll have to repent all my life. I’ll never be
destructive? If it happens to kill her, I’ll have to repent all my life. I’ll never be
free of the knocks of conscience. What should I do, my mind isn’t working.’
‘Call the civil surgeon, perhaps he can give her some good medicine. One
shouldn’t knowingly push someone else into the fire.’
‘The civil surgeon can’t do much more than what I’ve already done. Her
condition is worsening every moment. God knows what mantra that murderer
said. His mother kept trying to convince me but in my anger I didn’t pay her any
attention.’
His mother said, ‘Son, call the one who’s put the curse. What to do? If she
dies, her murder will be on our heads. She’ll torment the family forever.’

It was almost two in the morning; a cold wind pricked the bones. The doctor
took long strides towards Budh Chaudhuri’s. He looked around uselessly for an
ekka or tonga. Budh’s house appeared to be a long way off. He kept feeling that
he’d lost his way. I’ve come this way often, I’ve never passed this garden, or
seen this letterbox by the road, and the bridge was by no means there. I’m
definitely lost. Who should I ask? He was annoyed at his memory and ran in the
same direction for a while. Who knows if that wretch will be around at this hour,
he must be lying in a drunken stupor. And what if, back home, the poor thing has
passed away? He often thought of turning in some other direction but his inner
voice didn’t let him move from the straight path.
Soon, Budh’s house could be seen. Doctor Sahib breathed a sigh of relief. He
went to the door and banged the latch hard. From inside a dog answered
raucously but no human word was heard. He banged the door harder and the dog
became louder; the old lady woke up.
She said, ‘Who is breaking down the door so late in the night?’
‘It’s me, I was here a little while ago.’
The old lady recognized the voice; she understood that some calamity had
befallen someone in the family, otherwise why would he come so late. But Budh
hadn’t cast the spell yet, how had it taken effect? When she had tried to reason
he wouldn’t listen. Now they were properly caught. She got up, lit an oil lamp
and came out with it.
‘Is Budh Chaudhuri asleep? Please can you wake him?’ asked Doctor Sahib.
‘No, Babuji, I won’t wake him at this hour, he’ll eat me alive. Even if the
 ‘No, Babuji, I won’t wake him at this hour, he’ll eat me alive. Even if the
Lord Sahib came to see him at night, he wouldn’t get up.’
Doctor Sahib explained the situation briefly and implored her to wake Budh.
Budh came out on his own, and rubbing his eyes, said, ‘Tell me, Babuji,
what’s your command?’
Irritated, the old woman said, ‘How come your sleep broke today? If I’d tried
to wake you you’d have set upon me.’
The doctor said, ‘I’ve explained the situation to the old lady, you can ask her.’
‘Nothing,’ said the old lady. ‘You put the curse, his servant had taken the
money and is now about to die.’
‘The poor woman is dying. Do something to save her!’ said the doctor.
‘That’s a bad thing you’re telling me. Turning back a curse is not easy,’ said
Budh.
‘Son, one’s life is at risk, don’t you know? If the curse happens to fall on the
one who reverses it, then it might be difficult to survive,’ said his mother.
‘She can only be saved if you save her, please oblige me.’
‘For the sake of another’s life, should one throw away one’s own?’ asked the
old woman.
The doctor said, ‘You do this work day and night, you know all the tricks.
You can kill and you can bring to life. I never believed in these things but seeing
the miracle you pulled off I’m left dumbfounded. You’ve benefited so many
people, take pity on that poor old woman.’
Budh seemed to be melting a little, but his mother was much cleverer than
him in matters of business. She was afraid he would soften and mess things up.
She didn’t give Budh a chance to say anything.
She said, ‘That is all very well but we have children too. We don’t know
which way things will go. It will come down on our heads, won’t it? Once your
purpose is met you’ll move aside. It’s not a laughing matter to reverse a spell.’
‘Yes, Babuji, it’s a very risky job.’
‘If it’s a very risky job I don’t want it done for free, do I?’
‘How much will you give, fifty or hundred at the most? How long can we live
on that?’ said the old woman. ‘Reversing a spell is putting one’s hand in a snake-
hole, jumping into fire. Only by God’s grace can a life be saved.’
‘So, mother, I am with you. Say whatever you want. I just have to save that
poor woman’s life. We’re losing time on talk here and I don’t know what her
condition is like there.’
condition is like there.’
The old woman said, ‘You’re the one who’s wasting time. You decide the
matter and then he’ll go with you. For your sake I’m taking this danger on my
head, if it was anyone else I’d refuse outright. I’m drinking poison knowingly,
doing you this favour.’
Every second felt as long as a year to Doctor Sahib. He wanted to take Budh
with him right away. If she died, what would he mend when he got there?
Money was of no account to him at that moment. He was only concerned that
Jagiya be saved from the jaws of death. The frenzy of pity had made absolutely
insignificant the money for which he used to sacrifice his own necessities and
his wife’s desires.
He said, ‘You tell me, what can I say, but whatever you want to say, say
quickly.’
The old woman said, ‘Okay, then give us five hundred rupees, the work can’t
be done for less.’
Budh, looked at his mother in surprise, and Doctor Sahib felt faint.
Dejectedly, he said, ‘That is beyond my capacity. It seems she’s fated to die.’
‘Let it be then,’ said the old woman. ‘It’s not as if we’re burdened by our
lives. We took on the responsibility of this work because of your entreaties. Go
back to sleep, Budh.’
‘Old mother, don’t be so cruel, only man comes to the help of man.’
Budh said, ‘No, Babuji, I’m prepared in every way to do your work. She said
five hundred, you reduce it a bit. But yes, keep the danger in mind.’
The old woman said, ‘Why don’t you go and sleep? If money is dear to him,
isn’t your life dear to you? If tomorrow you start spitting blood then nothing can
be done. Who will you leave your children to? Do you have anything in the
house?’
Hesitating, Doctor Sahib said two hundred and fifty rupees. Budh agreed, the
matter was settled, the doctor and he set out for his house. He had never
experienced such spiritual happiness before. The man who goes to court and
returns having won the lost case could not be happier. He went along with a
bounce in his step and kept telling Budh to walk faster. When they got home
they found Jagiya at the brink of death. It appeared that her every breath would
be her last. His mother and wife were both sitting tearful and hopeless. They
gave Budh a desolate look. Doctor Sahib couldn’t stop his tears either. When he
gave Budh a desolate look. Doctor Sahib couldn’t stop his tears either. When he
bent towards Jagiya a teardrop fell on her withered, yellow face.
The situation had made Budh alert. Putting his hand on the old woman’s body,
he said, ‘Babuji, I can’t do a thing now, she’s dying.’
Doctor Sahib said entreatingly, ‘No, Chaudhuri, for God’s sake start your
mantra. If her life is saved, I’ll remain your slave for life.’
‘You’re asking me to deliberately eat poison. I didn’t realize that the gods of
the spell were so angry right now. They’re sitting inside me and saying, if you
snatch away our victim we’ll swallow you.’
‘Get the gods to come around somehow,’ said the doctor.
‘It’s very difficult to get them to come around. Give me five hundred rupees,
then she’ll be saved. I’ll have to exert great effort to bring down the curse.’
‘If I give you five hundred rupees, will you save her life?’
‘Yes, I promise.’
Doctor Sahib went like lightning into his room and, returning with a purse of
five hundred rupees, placed it before Budh. Budh looked at the purse
victoriously. Then he put Jagiya’s head in his lap and began moving his hand
over it. He would mutter something and say, ‘Chhoo, chhoo.’ For a second his
face became scary and what looked like flames leapt from it. He began to writhe
repeatedly. In this condition he sang a song off-key, but his hand remained on
Jagiya’s head. At last, after half an hour, like a dying lamp that has been
replenished with oil, Jagiya’s eyes opened. Her condition improved slowly. A
crow’s cawing was heard and she turned over and sat up.

It was seven o’clock and Jagiya was in a sweet slumber. She looked well. Budh
had just left with the money. Doctor Sahib’s mother said, ‘Before we knew what
was happening, he took off with five hundred rupees.’
The doctor said, ‘Why don’t you say that he brought the dead to life? Is her
life not worth even that much?’
‘Check if there are five hundred rupees in the alcove or not.’
‘No, don’t touch that money, let it stay there. She’d taken it to go on
pilgrimage, it’ll go towards that end alone.’
‘All this money was in her fate only.’
‘Only five hundred was in her fate, the rest was in mine. Thanks to it I learnt a
 ‘Only five hundred was in her fate, the rest was in mine. Thanks to it I learnt a
lesson I won’t forget all my life. You won’t find me tight-fisted over the
necessary things any more.’

Translated from the Hindi by Anjum Hasan

 Victory of the Defeated

Keshav was an old rival of mine and in every walk of life was one step ahead of
me. His accomplishments cast him as a bright star on the horizon. The brilliant
array of Keshav’s talents overshadowed my ordinary life, which paled in
comparison. If there was one longing in my mind, it was to outshine him in some
sphere of life. In spite of my best efforts this desire was not fulfilled. I did not
recognize it then but I was actually devoid of the natural talent that he possessed.
My only consolation was that though he outshone me intellectually I was sure I
would steal the spotlight in everyday life and hopefully in matters of love.
Unfortunately, when we both plunged into the sea of love it seemed that the
pearl had come to his hand and not mine and this filled me with despair.
Our professor, Babu Haridas Bhatia, though not aspiring to wealth in
principle, was not indifferent to it either. He preferred me to the brilliant Keshav
for his daughter, Lajjawati. One evening he came to my room and said in a
worried tone, ‘Sharda Charan, for months I have been worried about something
that only you can solve. I do not have a son of my own, and I have always
regarded you and Keshav as my sons. Though he is more brilliant and scholarly
than you, I feel that he won’t achieve worldly success as you would. I have
chosen you for Lajjawati. Can I hope that you will accept her?’
I was as free as a bird since my parents had left the world when I was a child.
There was no one in my family whose consent was necessary. Any man would
think himself lucky to have a wife as beautiful, affectionate and sweet-tempered
as Lajjawati. I was beside myself with joy. Lajjawati was like a garden in full
bloom with the refreshing fragrance of roses and the life-sustaining lushness of
bloom with the refreshing fragrance of roses and the life-sustaining lushness of
vegetation. There was the tumult of the morning breeze and the chirping of
lovely birds. She was also a thinker and believer in socialist ideologies. Several
times she engaged me in discussions about women’s rights and important
political issues. Unlike Professor Bhatia hers was not mere lip service to
principles. She wanted to act on them. The enlightened Keshav was her preferred
choice. However, I knew that Professor Bhatia’s wish was mandatory for her. As
for me, I respected her wishes and supported total freedom in this matter. That is
why I could not enjoy the discomfort and despair of Keshav as I had desired.
Both of us were drowned in our sorrows. For the first time I felt sympathy for
Keshav. I just wanted to ask Lajjawati why she considered me beneath her
attention. But I was hesitant to broach such a delicate subject with her face to
face. This was only natural, because no girl in such circumstances would like to
open her heart to anyone. Lajjawati thought that it was her duty to make her
secret wishes known to me. She was looking for an opportunity, and such an
opportunity soon presented itself.
It was evening and Keshav had gone to the Rajput hostel to read his article on
socialism. Professor Bhatia was chairing the session. Lajjawati was sitting in the
bungalow alone. Hiding my secret heartache and burning in sorrow and jealousy,
I sat beside her. She looked at me from the corner of her eye and said in a
piteous tone, ‘You are looking sad.’ I feigned indifference and said, ‘As if you
care!’ My eyes began to spit fire. However, I controlled myself and said, ‘I was
not feeling well.’ While saying this, tears began to stream down my eyes. I
didn’t want to awaken her sympathy with my tears. I always thought that crying
was reserved for women. I wanted to be angry, but tears began to fall from my
eyes. Emotion does not always obey one’s intention.
By now Lajjawati could guess my sincerity and love for her. She began to cry.
I’m not a mean person. I have never nursed any bitterness against anyone. But I
don’t know why at that moment I felt happy at Lajjawati’s crying. But even in
her state of distress I couldn’t resist the temptation to mock her. ‘Lajja, I’m
lamenting my fate. Probably I’m complaining against your cruelty. But why are
you crying?’
Lajjawati looked at me reproachfully and said, ‘You won’t understand the
secret of these tears because you have never tried to understand me. You try to
derive pleasure by mocking me. Who can I mock? How do you know how much
derive pleasure by mocking me. Who can I mock? How do you know how much
restraint I have to exercise on myself? How much patience, how many nights I
had to spend crying and turning from side to side before coming to a decision.
Your aristocratic family, your estate and wealth—all these stand as a barrier in
my way. I know that at this moment you are oblivious to your family and your
estate. But I also know that your thoughts nurtured in the cool shade of the
college cannot put up with the real challenges of life for long. You might regret
your decision afterwards and repent it. I don’t want to be a thorn in your flesh.
I softened a little and said, ‘The circumstances that you say would destroy my
thoughts, would they not have a similar effect on your thoughts too?’
Lajjawati said, ‘No, I am absolutely certain that they won’t have any effect on
me. My family never possessed an estate. My father has obtained his current
position through his hard work and by giving private tuitions. I will never have
the vanity of possessing estates and mansions. Just as you can never obliterate
vanity from your mind, I will never acquire it without destroying myself.’
I said in a spirited voice, ‘Well, I cannot obliterate family pride. This is
beyond my power. But I can give up the estate from today for you. I will donate
it to some good cause and both of us can earn our livelihood through our work.’
A cruel smile played on Lajjawati’s lips when she said, ‘This is an emotional
response. Emotion cannot guide us in a matter which determines the future of
two lives. Sharda, to tell you the truth I do not yet know in which direction the
boat of my life will sail. But I am constrained by circumstances. I do not want to
poison your life.’
When I left her I was more thoughtful than depressed because Lajjawati had
presented me with a new problem.

2
Sharda Charan

Keshav and I did our MA in the same year. Keshav passed in the first division, I
in the second. He got a job as a lecturer in a college in Nagpur. I returned home
and began to manage my estate. While parting we hugged and said a tearful
farewell to each other. We left behind our rivalry and jealousy in college.
I was the first landowner of the region who had obtained an MA. In the
beginning the government officials welcomed me enthusiastically, but when they
came to know about my ideological leanings, they turned rather cold. I also gave
came to know about my ideological leanings, they turned rather cold. I also gave
up socializing with them and spent most of my time on my courses.
In less than a year, a position in the council fell vacant because of the death of
a landowner. I did not make any individual efforts to enter the council, but the
farmers gave me the responsibility of representing them. Poor Keshav could be
giving lectures in his college; no one knew where he was and what he was doing.
I became a member of the council because of my family lineage. My speeches
were published in the newspapers. The questions I raised in the council were
appreciated. I gained a special status in the council; several gentlemen were
there who supported socialism. Initially they had been subdued because of the
controlling circumstances, but now they opened up. We formed a separate party
of socialists and became activists for the rights of the farmers. Most of the
landowners ignored me, and some among them threatened me. But I did not
leave my appointed path. How could I ignore this opportunity for service to the
people? Before the end of two years I began to be counted as one of the chief
leaders of the nation. I had to work hard, I had to read, write and speak endlessly
but that did not deter me. For this diligence I was indebted to Keshav as he had
made me accustomed to it.
Keshav and Professor Bhatia used to write me letters regularly. Sometimes I
also met Lajjawati. From her letters it was evident that her respect and love for
me were increasing day by day. She would describe my service to the nation in
very generous and encouraging words. Her initial apprehension about me was
disappearing. My dedication was bearing fruit. Keshav’s letters spoke of his
despair because his academic life was not prosperous and even after three years
he was not promoted. From his letters it seemed as though he was not content
with his life. Probably the main reason for this was that his golden dream
remained unfulfilled. In the third year, Professor Bhatia came to see me during
the summer vacation and returned very happily. After a week Lajjawati’s letter
came. The court had declared its verdict. I was awarded my degree and for the
first time in our competition Keshav was defeated.
There was no limit to my joy. Professor Bhatia had intended to travel to all the
corners of the country. He was writing a book on socialism for which he needed
to do research in every major town. He wanted Lajjawati to accompany him. It
was decided that in the next Chait season, after he returned from his travels, we
would be united. I spent the days of separation impatiently. So far I had felt that
would be united. I spent the days of separation impatiently. So far I had felt that
Keshav would win the battle. I was frustrated, but I had peace of mind. Now I
had hope but my peace would be disturbed.

It was the month of March and the days of waiting and hard work were over. It
was time to reap the harvest. The professor wrote a letter from Dhaka to inform
me that due to some unforeseen reasons he would not be able to return in March,
but would do so in May. In the meantime, the Diwan Sahib of the state of
Kashmir, Lala Somnath Kapur, came to Nainital on vacation. The governor
threw a party in his honour. All the members of the council received invitations.
Members of different parties made the customary speeches. On behalf of the
council I played the role of the host. Diwan Sahib was highly impressed by my
speech. While leaving, he shook hands with me as a special gesture and invited
me to come to his place. He was accompanied by his daughter, Sushila, who
stood behind him with her head lowered. I could not control my gaze. During the
conversation she stood up several times but drew back like a child who leaps
towards a stranger but withdraws to her mother’s lap, frightened. Sushila was an
undercurrent of cool water while Lajjawati was a flowering garden where there
were bowers of trees, lush vegetation, musical cascades and antelopes absorbed
in their games. The whole scene was tinted with the colors of nature that made a
deep impression on one’s mind. As I reached home I was so tired, as though I
had returned after a long journey. The appeal of beauty is eternal. I didn’t know
why its impact was so deep.
As I lay down, her image was before me. I wanted to drive it away. I was
afraid that even a moment’s lack of caution would drown me. I already belonged
to Lajjawati. She was the owner of my heart. I had no control over it. But all my
precautions and mental arguments were in vain. Who can stop the boat from
floating away in a flood? Helpless, I set my boat free to sail in the realm of
imagination. It floated with the waves for some time and then disappeared and
became a part of the deluge.
On the following day, I arrived at the bungalow of Diwan Sahib at the
appointed hour. I was hesitant and my feet trembled. Just as a baby shuts his or
her eyes at the peal of thunder, I was afraid that he might ask me questions. Even
a simple farmer would not be so afraid in a court of law. Actually, I was so
a simple farmer would not be so afraid in a court of law. Actually, I was so
overwhelmed that I didn’t have the strength to face the situation.
Diwan Sahib shook hands with me with great warmth. For about an hour he
talked about the problems of the nation and its economy. I was amazed by his
broad range of knowledge. I had never seen such a witty person with such a rich
repertoire of jokes. He was sixty, but his elegance and pleasant temperament had
their appeal. He knew by heart many poetic couplets and slokas. Diwan-e-Hafiz
was on the tip of his tongue. I glanced frequently in all directions with restless
eyes. My ears were alert to hear her voice. My eyes were here and my heart was
somewhere else. There was bitterness along with joy.
It was nine at night, time for me to leave. I was embarrassed because Diwan
Sahib might have suspicions about me. He might think that I have no other work.
Why was I not leaving? After two and a half hours, the discussions were over.
The fun of his jokes had also been exhausted. The visit was overtaken by
melancholy, as happens after a spirited conversation. Several times, I intended to
get up. But a lover cannot even die while waiting. By nine-thirty, I had no choice
but to leave. My longings came to an end.
When I left the bungalow, I was drowned in sorrow and felt so drained, as
though life had gone out of me. I began to hate myself. I reproached myself for
my stupidity. You think that you are somebody. But here no one cares about you.
No one cares about your existence or the lack of it. From all the signs she
appeared to be an unmarried girl but there is no dearth of unmarried girls in the
world. There’s no lack of beauty either. If the sight of every beautiful and
unmarried girl reduces you to such a state then your life will be destroyed.
This is how the heart responded. Her heart reacted in the same way. In all
probability her heart might also be presenting the same arguments. Why should
she be attracted towards every handsome and soft-spoken male that she met? If it
is a cause of infamy for man, it is simply ruin for women.
On the second day in the evening I was sitting on the veranda of my bungalow
and reading the newspaper. I didn’t feel like going to the club. I was feeling
lethargic. At that moment I saw Diwan Sahib riding on his phaeton and passing
by. Sushila was sitting by him. I had the impression that she was looking at me,
though I couldn’t say whether she raised her eyes. But I kept on staring at the
phaeton until it disappeared.
The next day I was again sitting on the veranda. My eyes were fixed on the
road. The phaeton came and left. Now it became their daily routine. My duty for
road. The phaeton came and left. Now it became their daily routine. My duty for
the day comprised of sitting on the veranda. I had no idea when the phaeton
would pass. I didn’t like to budge an inch from my position, particularly in the
late afternoon. A month passed and I had no interest in the affairs of the council
any more. I had no interest in debates, and the affairs of the nation did not
interest me. I also didn’t feel like travelling. I don’t know why lovers tend to
move towards the desert. It was as though my feet were chained. I sat on the
veranda, waiting for the phaeton. Probably my logical thinking had also stopped.
At least once a week I could have gone to Diwan Sahib’s place, and I could have
invited him to mine. But actually, I was still afraid and worried. I considered
Lajjawati to be my heart’s queen, even though another woman might have
occupied it for a couple of days. A full month passed and I did not write even a
letter to Lajjawati. Probably I had no strength left to write even a letter, or
perhaps I didn’t have the moral courage to do so. I was guilty and I didn’t like to
involve her even with my thoughts.
What will be the result of this? My heart was always bothered by this thought.
I had no interest in any object of the world and, day after day, I withdrew into
myself. My friends would often ask whether I was all right, because my face
looked pale and dull. I ate food as though it were medicine. When I went to sleep
it was as though someone had imprisoned me in a cage. If someone came to see
me it seemed as though creditors had come to demand money. It was a strange
situation.
One day Diwan Sahib’s phaeton came and stopped at my doorstep. He had
had a collection of his speeches published, and came to present me a copy. I
requested him to take a seat but he said, ‘Sushila might feel awkward to sit here.
She is sitting alone in the phaeton and might be worried.’ Saying this, he left. I
also went with him back to the phaeton. When he took his seat I looked at
Sushila without fear. I did not know when I would have another such golden
opportunity. The longing, yearning, restlessness, helplessness and devotion in
my glance could have melted even a stone. Sushila was, after all, a human being.
She looked at me candidly, fearlessly, with no trace of embarrassment. I felt as
though she had mesmerized me with her glance. She breathed new life into my
heart and my soul, as though she had saved a drowning man. When I turned back
towards the veranda I was so happy, as if I had acquired the wealth of the world.
That one glance was no less than the wealth of the richest person in the world.
 The next day I wrote a letter to Professor Bhatia informing him that I was
infected with a disease which could be the beginning of tuberculosis. I used the
illness as a reason to break the contract. I wanted to be separated from Lajjawati
in a way that my honour would not be lowered in her eyes. Sometimes I felt
annoyed by my own selfishness. Betraying Lajjawati lowered me in my own
eyes. I began to hate myself but I was also helpless. What a shock it must be to
her! This thought made me cry several times. Sushila was still a bundle of
secrets to me. I was sacrificing my long-time longing at the altar of her beauty
like children who spurn their milk and rice when they see sweets. I had
requested the professor not to mention my condition to Lajjawati. But on the
fourth day I received a letter from Lajjawati in which she poured out her heart.
She was ready to undergo all suffering because of me, even the travails of
widowhood. She expressed the desire that we should be united as soon as
possible. Even a day’s delay would be painful. I held the letter in my hand for
hours and sat as though in a trance.

4
Lajjawati

Didn’t Savitri marry Satyavan even after knowing his condition? Why should I
be afraid? Why should I stray from my path of duty? I will take vows for him,
will go on a pilgrimage and will undertake meditation. Fear cannot separate him
from me. I was never so deeply in love with him. I was never so restless. This is
the hour of my trial and I have decided what I have to do. Babuji has just
returned from his journey, his hands are empty. He could not make any
preparations for marriage! If there was a delay for two or three months he would
have found time for preparations. But I will not delay any more. He and I will be
united this month. Our souls will come together forever, and then no calamity,
no accident, can separate me from him.
Now, the delay of even a day is unbearable to me. I’m not a slave to rituals
and customs, nor is he. Babuji is also not attached to rituals, then why shouldn’t
I start for Nainital soon? I will look after him and give him solace. I will release
him from all worries and hurdles. I’ll take the management of the whole estate in
my own hands. He has come to this state because he was working day and night
for the council. The newspapers are filled with his discussions, his speeches and
for the council. The newspapers are filled with his discussions, his speeches and
his questions. I’ll request him to tender his resignation from the council for a
couple of days. How eagerly he listens to my songs. I’ll entertain him by singing
songs to him, reading stories to him, and thus keep him relaxed in all possible
ways. There is no proper treatment for this ailment available in this country. I’ll
fall at his feet and request him to go to some sanatorium in Europe and
undertake proper treatment. I’ll go to the college tomorrow and get some books
from the library on this disease and will study them carefully. The college will
be closed in two or three days. I will broach the subject of going to Nainital with
my father today.

When I saw him yesterday I couldn’t recognize him. How bright his face was
earlier, how well-endowed his body, he was the very embodiment of health.
Everything has changed in these three years—his face has become pale and the
body has shrunk to become like a thorn. His meal has reduced by half and he
always seems to be absorbed in some thought. He hardly goes out. He has so
many servants and the place is so beautiful. All objects of entertainment are
there, but he considers his life now enveloped in darkness. A curse on this
disease! If it had such hunger, why didn’t it prey on me? I would have welcomed
it eagerly. If there were some means by which the disease left him and caught
me! How he would brighten up and begin to smile at the sight of me! Every pore
of his body would be thrilled. And now, this is my second day here, but I have
not seen him smile even once. When I stepped on to the veranda, he did smile
for a moment but it was a wan smile. Babuji could not stop his tears; he went to
another room and kept crying for a long time. People enter the council to earn
fame and prestige, their only aim is to build a reputation for themselves. This is
such a cruel allegation on them. What ingratitude! One has to spoil one’s health
in the service of the nation. One has to burn one’s blood. And this is the reward
one gets in return! The servants here are absolutely careless. Babuji mentioned
his ailment to some of his acquaintances, but they did not pay any attention.
Such were his friends and their sympathy for him! Everyone was busy with their
own affairs with no concern for anyone else. I felt that he is only imagining that
he has tuberculosis. I can’t see any symptoms. I pray to God that what I think is
right and I feel that he is afflicted with some other disease. I took his temperature
right and I feel that he is afflicted with some other disease. I took his temperature
a couple of times. It was normal with no sudden fluctuation. If it really is
tuberculosis it must be in its initial stage. There is no reason it can’t be cured if
treated properly. From tomorrow I will take him out for a walk. There is no need
for the car; a phaeton will be more suitable for him. He appears to me to be
somewhat careless. I have seen patients of this disease taking utmost
precautions. They take their temperature at least twenty times a day. They take
great care about their diet. They take fruits, milk and other nutritious minerals.
They don’t eat whatever is presented to them by the cook. I feel that he’s
afflicted with some other disease. If I get time I’ll try to find out. Is he under
some stress? Does the estate have the burden of a big loan? Of course, there
might be small loans. This is common in the case of all aristocrats. If it is a loan,
it must be a huge one.

My mind is distracted by so many worries that I don’t feel like writing anything.
All my desires have come to an end. How lucky I considered myself to be! Now
there will be no one in the world as unfortunate as me. I could not obtain the
invaluable pearl despite my continued earnest devotion and meditation, and this
deer-eyed beauty has got it so effortlessly! Sharda has seen her only recently.
They hardly had any opportunity for conversation. But he is showing such
infatuation for her. He has become crazy for her. God has given man only eyes,
not heart. They do not know how to value the heart; they are sold on external
beauty. If I am somehow convinced that Sushila would make him happier than I
can, I would have no objection to her entry into his life. She is so vain and cruel
that I fear Sharda will regret his decision.
But it is my self-interest that is speaking. Sushila may be vain, cruel, given to
luxury, etc. but Sharda has expressed his love for her. He is intelligent, clever
and far-sighted. He knows very well what is good for him. He must have taken
the decision after weighing all the pros and cons. Now when he has already
taken the decision, I do not have the right to be a stumbling block in the way of
his happiness. I must exercise patience, self–restraint, and leave this place
broken-hearted, depressed and frustrated. I pray that God makes him happier. I
do not have a trace of jealousy or pride. I’d like to act according to his wishes. If
it pleases him to give me poison, I will drink that with pleasure. Love is life. We
want to live for it. If I have to die for it I would consider it my good fortune. If
things work out for him when I leave this place then I have no objection to it. It
must be God’s will, but how can a human being of flesh and blood be free of the
wiles of the world? My heart aches to abandon the long nurtured and burning
love that I feel. The paper is wet with my tears which I cannot control. I will be
separated from the one I had thought to be my own, at whose feet I dedicated
myself and whom I had made the deity of the temple of my heart. Ah! To whom
should I complain; on whose shoulder shall I cry? To whom shall I tell the tale
of my sorrows? My weak heart cannot bear this final blow. It will end up taking
my life. Good for me. For a loveless heart the world is like a dungeon; it is dark
and filled with despair. I know even today if Babuji insists that he should marry
me, he is sure to agree. He will risk his life just to please me. He is one of those
noble men who have not learned to say no. Till now he has not talked about
Sushila with Diwan Sahib. He is probably observing me. This indecision has
reduced him to this state. He will always try to please me. He will never hurt me,
and he will not talk about Sushila even by mistake. I know his nature. He is a
gem of a man. But I don’t want to be the chains on his feet. Whatever happens
should happen to me. How can I save him? If I have to sink, let me not drown
him.
I also know that if this shock takes my life, he will never be able to forgive
himself. His entire life will be one of guilt and regret. He will never find peace.
What a terrible situation! I do not have the freedom to die. To keep him happy, I
have to keep myself happy. I have to be cruel to him. I have to play womanly
wiles with him. I have to pretend that because of his ailment this marriage
cannot take place. I have to blame myself for breaking the promise. There is no
other way. I pray to God for strength in this trial.

7
Sharda Charan

Only one glance had done the trick. Lajjawati had won me over. Sushila had also
won me with a single glance. There was strong attraction in that glance, a
fascinating simplicity, a wellspring of joy that could not be hidden anywhere.
There was a childish thrill, as though she had got a new toy. Lajjawati’s heart
had forgiveness and pity, despair and pain. She was sacrificing her desires for
me. She knew herself well. She was intelligent enough to understand the
situation and took the decision promptly. She didn’t want to come in the way of
my happiness. Along with this she wanted to make it clear that she didn’t care
for me. If you go away from me by an inch I will draw away from you by a foot.
But feelings are like a fragrance that can’t be hidden. Her apparent cruelty
expressed pain and tears trickled from her smile. Why did she run away from my
presence to the kitchen and cook some dish that she knew I liked? Why did she
want to keep my servants in comfort? Why did she keep the newspapers away
from my eyes? Why did she compel me to go with her for evening walks? Every
act of hers lifted a veil off her heart. Perhaps she didn’t know that self-
knowledge is not one of the special qualities of women. One day, Professor
Bhatia made a jibe at me during conversation, and said that I was a slave to
prosperity and wealth and made fun of my socialist ideology. She deftly turned
away the conversation. I don’t know what she told him behind my back, but
sitting on the veranda, I could listen to the debate that was going on between
father and daughter. Is there a heartless person who can’t be conquered by
selfless service? I have known Lajjawati for a long time but I realize that I saw
her real nature during this meeting. Initially I was attracted by her beauty, high
values and gentle temperament. The heavenly flame that burnt within her was
hidden from my eyes. Now I realized the depth of her love, so pure and infinite!
In her place any other woman would have gone crazy with jealousy. She could
have taken out her anger on Sushila if not on me, and would have made her a
target of her mockery. She could have called me a hypocrite, stone-hearted and
cruel, but the candidness with which Lajjawati welcomed Sushila was something
I would never forget. She had no trace of meanness, jealousy or cruelty. She
took her around with such joy as though she was her younger sister. Sushila was
touched by this. Ah! That scene was so memorable when Lajjawati came to bid
me goodbye. Professor Bhatia was sitting in the car. He was annoyed with me
and wanted to run away as soon as he could. Wearing a bright sari Lajjawati
came and stood before me. She was an ascetic who had sacrificed her life at the
altar of love. She was a garland of white flowers lying at the feet of some deity.
She said to me with a smile, ‘Please do write letters from time to time, I think I
have this much right on you.’
I said eagerly, ‘Of course.’
Lajjawati said again, ‘Probably this is our last meeting. I have no idea where I
will go and stay and whether I’ll be able to come here again. Don’t forget me
entirely. Forgive me if I have said anything that hurt you. And do take care of
your health.’
Saying this she held her hands towards me, shaking. Her eyes were moist. She
wanted to run away from the room quickly. She had no control over her
emotions. She looked at me from the corner of her eye. There was a strong
tumult going on within her which did not leave me unmoved. Her glance won
for her the bet she had lost. I held her hand and said tearfully, ‘No, Lajja, there
will be no separation between you and me anymore.’
The servant came in and handed him a letter from Sushila. It ran thus:

Dear Shri Sharda Charanji,

Tomorrow we will leave this place. I have to wrap up so many things and will not be able to see you.
I have taken the final decision tonight. I don’t want to destroy Lajjawati’s life and family. I didn’t
know about her earlier. If I did, our relationship would not have been so close. My request to you is
that you don’t let Lajja slip through your fingers. She is a gem. I know that my looks are somewhat
better than hers, and you may have been infatuated with them. But I do not possess the same sense of
sacrifice and devotion as she does. I can keep you pleased, but I cannot uplift your life. I cannot
make it pure and ennobling. Lajja is a Devi, and she will transform you into a deity. I don’t consider
myself equal to her. Don’t think of meeting me tomorrow. What’s the point in lamenting and
shedding tears? Do forgive me.
Yours
Sushila

I handed over the letter to Lajjawati. She read through it and said, ‘I’ll go to
meet her today.’
Guessing her intent, I said, ‘You must forgive me. I don’t want to test your
generosity a second time.’
Saying this, I went up to Professor Bhatia. He was sitting in the car and
sulking. If Lajjawati had returned without me, he would have shouted at her.
I touched his feet and said, ‘You’ve always treated me as your son. Please
strengthen this relationship now.’
Professor Bhatia first looked at me with unbelieving eyes and then said with a
smile, ‘This was the deepest desire of my life.’
Translated from the Hindi by M. Asaduddin
 Defending One’s Liberty

Mir Dilawar Ali had a pedigree bay horse. Though he would often claim to have
spent half his life’s earnings on it, it was really just an easy bargain from a
regiment. Better still, you could say that it had practically been forced out of
there. Perhaps the officers of the regiment did not feel like keeping it any more,
and for that reason had decided to auction it.
Mir Sahib was a court clerk. He lived outside the city and had to travel three
miles just to reach the court. This had him worried about a means of conveyance.
The horse was a timely convenience, and so he bought it. Mir Sahib had been
riding it for the past three years. Though it had no faults whatsoever, the animal
seemed to bear perhaps an excessive measure of self-respect. Engaging it against
its will or securing its services for demeaning tasks was simply out of the
question. Anyway, Mir Sahib was unable to contain his joy because he had got a
pedigree horse for a nominal amount. He brought it with him and tied it at his
door. Now, finding a horse keeper was tricky. So, the poor fellow would himself
stroke it gently for a while in the mornings and evenings. The horse probably felt
pleased by such a gesture. It was because of this that it never seemed
discontented despite the exceptionally meagre amounts of food it would get. It
had developed a sense of sympathy for Mir Sahib. This devotion to its master
had made the horse quite weak. But it would happily carry him to the court at the
appointed hour. Its leisurely gait indicated spiritual contentment, since galloping
had always been against its natural sense of solemnity. There was a certain kind
of wilfulness in its eyes. In its devotion to the master, it had sacrificed so many
of its long-standing rights. The only privilege it was fond of now was its
of its long-standing rights. The only privilege it was fond of now was its
guaranteed Sunday rest.
Mir Sahib did not go to the court on Sundays. Rather, he would rub down his
horse, give it a bath, and allow it to swim on Sundays. And this really delighted
the horse. Otherwise, outside the court, it was tied to a tree and had to make do
with dry grass. The hot winds scorched its entire body. But on Sundays, it would
feast on fresh grass in the cool shelter of its shed. It thus considered resting on
Sundays a prerogative, and it was quite impossible to deprive the horse of it.
Sometimes, Mir Sahib would try mounting the horse to go to the market on
Sundays, only to be utterly unsuccessful in such an enterprise. The horse would
even refuse to wear its harness. Eventually, Mir Sahib made peace with his pet’s
obstinacy. He did not want to risk his limbs by hurting the horse’s sense of self-
respect.

Mir Sahib had a neighbour called Munshi Saudagar Lal. He, too, was somehow
related to the court, though he did not hold a position there. No one had ever
seen him reading or writing anything, but he was still highly respected in the
company of lawyers and solicitors. He and Mir Sahib were close friends.
It was the month of June and the mania for weddings was at an all-time high.
The obsessed ones went around the fireworks shops like Catherine wheels. The
jesters and storytellers had their own way with people. The ones who carried
palanquins acted like the stone gods—even presents and offerings did not melt
their hearts. It was during this auspicious period, amidst this uproar, that
Munshiji too decided to arrange for his son’s wedding. After all, he was an
influential person. He gradually made arrangements for everything that was
needed, except for a palanquin. The Kahars had returned his advance deposits at
the eleventh hour. Munshiji was furious. He even threatened them, but to no
avail. So he helplessly decided that his son would ride a horse for the ceremony
involving the groom’s journey to the bride. The marriage party was scheduled to
proceed at six. Around four o’clock, Munshiji went to Mir Sahib’s place and
said, ‘Dear friend, why don’t you lend me your horse so that it can carry the
groom to the station? I can’t seem to find a palanquin anywhere.’
Mir Sahib said, ‘But don’t you realize that it’s Sunday today?’
 Munshiji responded, ‘Well, why won’t I? But it’s only a horse after all. Some
way or the other, it can obviously manage a trip to the station. And it’s not as if
it’s far off from here.’
‘Be my guest, for what’s mine is also yours. But I doubt if the horse will even
be approachable today.’
‘Oh, come on! A sound beating can even drive away demons. You’re just
afraid of it, and for that reason it behaves wickedly towards you. Once I mount
it, it won’t be able to shake me off no matter how hard it tries.’
‘All right, suit yourself. And I’ll owe you one if you can bend it to your will.’

The horse grew suspicious the moment Munshiji entered the stable. It neighed
once as if to say he had no business spoiling its peaceful Sunday. The distant
cacophony of the wedding’s musical instruments made it even more anxious.
When Munshiji tried to untie the horse, it got vigilant and began devouring the
fresh grass with characteristic pride.
But Munshiji was also a shrewd one. He immediately ordered some straight
corn from his house and put it before the horse. It had been days since the animal
had had such food. It began eating with joy and looked gratefully at Munshiji as
if implying its consent.
At Munshiji’s house, the band was playing in full flow. The groom was
elegantly dressed, waiting for the horse. The women of the suburb stood there,
with the plates for the aarti ritual in their hands, waiting to see him off on his
way to the bride’s house. It was five in the evening. Suddenly, they saw
Munshiji coming their way, along with the horse. The band members marched
forward while someone got the rider’s equipment from Mir Sahib’s place.
It was decided that the horse should be strapped into its harness. But the very
sight of its bridle made it turn away. Munshiji coaxed and urged the horse. He
even patted its back and served it straight corn again. But the horse did not seem
remotely interested and it was then that Munshiji lost his cool. He immediately
whipped it several times. But when it still refused to be bridled, he unleashed the
whip baton relentlessly on its nostrils. The beast started bleeding. It looked
around helplessly with abject eyes. The problem was indeed a tricky one. It had
never received such a thrashing before, and had always been Mir Sahib’s
never received such a thrashing before, and had always been Mir Sahib’s
favourite. He had never been so merciless towards it. Realizing that things would
get even worse if it were to resist any further, the horse simply gave up. And that
was all that Munshiji had hoped for. He quickly saddled the horse while the
groom hopped on to it.

The horse woke up to its situation the moment the groom mounted it. It realized
that to forfeit one’s liberty for a small amount of straight corn would be like
giving up one’s birthright over mere trifles. Why should I do unpaid work today
when all this time I have been resting on Sundays? And there’s no telling where
these people will take me. The lad, too, seems like an expert rider. He’ll spur me
on, make me run, and whip me half-dead. And who knows if I’ll even be given
food or not? Thinking thus, it decided not to take even a step further. At worst,
they’ll beat me, but I’ll throw myself down and roll over with the rider. They’ll
spare me then. And my master, too, must be somewhere around this place. He’ll
never want me beaten so much that I won’t even be able to carry him to the
court tomorrow.
The women sang auspicious songs as soon as the groom mounted the horse.
Flowers rained down on him. The marriage party began to march forward. But
the horse was determined not to budge an inch. The groom spurred it on,
whipped it, and even tightened the reins, but it seemed as if the beast’s limbs had
been firmly cemented into the ground.
Munshiji was so furious that he would have shot the beast had it been his own
pet. One of his friends said, ‘It’s quite headstrong. This won’t work. Try beating
it from the back and it’ll change its mind.’
Munshiji welcomed this proposition. He struck the beast several times from
the back but to no avail. It only raised its forelegs towards the sky. Once or
twice, it even attacked with its hind legs, which meant that it was not completely
passive. Munshiji barely escaped the horse’s retaliation.
Another friend said, ‘Why don’t you light a fire near its tail? The fear of the
flame should do the trick.’
This proposition too was welcomed and the horse’s tail was completely burnt.
Twice or thrice, it jumped around the place in agony, but still refused to move
forward. The horse was a true satyagrahi and the torment had perhaps further
forward. The horse was a true satyagrahi and the torment had perhaps further
hardened its resolve.
Meanwhile, the sun had begun to set. Panditji said, ‘Hurry, or the auspicious
hour will soon pass.’ But how could one hurry? It was not as if anything could
be done about the matter. The marriage party had arrived outside the village.
Women and children had assembled there in large numbers. People began
murmuring, ‘What kind of a horse is it if it doesn’t take even a step forward?’
An experienced person added, ‘This beating won’t do. Order some corn.
Someone could lead the way with the corn in the nosebag. The bait should do the
rest.’ Munshiji even tried this idea, but he simply could not succeed. The horse
did not want to trade its liberty at any price. Another man suggested, ‘Give it
some wine. It’ll start prancing around once it gets drunk.’ A bottle of wine was
ordered. The liquor was poured into a trough and placed before the horse. But it
did not even sniff at it.
What could one do now? The evening lamps had been lit and the auspicious
hour had passed. The horse was quite pleased with itself, having successfully
endured these various misfortunes. It actually revelled in the wretchedness and
bewilderment of those who had disturbed its sense of peace. I’ll see what they do
next. It knew that it would not be beaten any more. People had already realized
the futility of this. The beast was just contemplating its own skills and ingenuity.
Meanwhile, a fifth person said, ‘Now, there’s only one way out. Put a cart
before the horse and place its forelegs inside it. That way it’ll have to move its
limbs the moment we begin pulling the wagon away. Once the forelegs start
moving, the hind limbs will inevitably be set in motion. The horse will be
walking before you know it.’
Munshiji’s situation was that of a drowning man who clutches at straws. Two
men fetched a cart while the groom tightened the reins further. A few people
stood before the horse with sticks in their hands. Two more forcefully raised its
forelimbs and kept them on the wagon. The horse had been under the impression
that it could spoil even such a plan. But once the cart started moving, its hind
legs were inevitably set in motion. It felt as if it was being carried away by an
unstoppable water current. The more it struggled to anchor its limbs, the more it
was at its wits’ end. Everywhere, one could hear the chorus, ‘It’s walking! It’s
walking!’ People clapped, guffawed, and made fun of the beast. This manner of
contempt and ridicule was simply insufferable, but what could the animal do? Of
course, it did not lose its patience. It reflected, How far can they carry me away
like this? I’ll stop as soon as the cart comes to a standstill. I made a huge
mistake putting my forelimbs on the wagon.
The situation unfolded exactly as the beast had expected. Somehow or the
other, people dragged the cart for a hundred steps or so and then gave up. Had
the station been only another one hundred or two hundred steps further, they
probably would not have lost heart. But it was still three miles away! Dragging
the horse for so long was simply out of the question. The horse stopped as soon
as the cart halted. The groom shook the reins again and tried to spur it on. He
whipped it several times but the horse was equally up to the task. Its nostrils
were bleeding, its entire body had been flayed and its hind limbs had suffered
bruises. But the resolute beast stood its ground, defending its dignity.

The priest concluded, ‘It’s almost eight now and the auspicious hour is way past
us.’ The frail and wretched beast had won the day. Munshiji’s anger, which had
been driving him insane, now made him weep as well. The groom could not take
a step further because it was considered taboo for him to keep his feet on the
ground after the marriage procession had begun its journey. It would be a cause
for criticism; one’s reputation would be damaged, and the family name
besmirched. But it now appeared as if walking was the Hobson’s choice.
Munshiji stood before the horse and said in a frustrated tone, ‘Oh boy, thank
your stars that you’re Mir Sahib’s property. Had I been your master, I would’ve
given you a sound thrashing. That being said, today I’ve seen how even a beast
can defend its liberty. I never knew that you’d stay true to your resolve. Son, you
can get off the horse now. The marriage party must be nearing the station. Come,
let’s walk along. The dozen-odd men that we have here are all like brothers to
one another. So, there’s no cause for humiliation. And why don’t you take off
this fine coat of yours? People on the way will make fun of us if they realize that
you’re walking to the bride’s house. And, you stubborn beast, come, let me take
you back to your master.’

Translated from the Hindi by Shailendra Kumar Singh

 Cobra Worship

It was morning and the first few showers of the month of Asarh were over.
Creepy-crawlies could be seen everywhere. Tilottama looked at the garden and
saw trees and plants washed clean just as dirty clothes are cleaned after being
washed with soap. They were bathed in a strange spiritual light, as though they
were yogis lost in divine joy. The birds were chirping around branches and
foliage. Tilottama went out into the garden, as restless as the birds. She looked at
plants, she shook drops of water collected on the flower petals and sprinkled her
face with the cool water. Little red velvet-skinned mites were crawling. She
picked them from the ground and placed them in her palm. Suddenly, she saw a
big, dark snake. She cried out, ‘Amma, naagji is coming, give me some milk in a
bowl for him.’
Amma said, ‘Let him be. He must have come out to take fresh air.’
‘Where does he go in the summer? He’s not seen then.’
‘He doesn’t go anywhere. He takes rest in his burrow.’
‘And he doesn’t go anywhere?’
‘Beti, he is our deity. Why should he go anywhere else? Since the year of your
birth he has always been seen here. He doesn’t speak to anyone. The children
might run past him, he doesn’t look at them. No one has seen him catch even a
mouse.’
‘What does he eat then?’
‘Beti, they live on air; that’s why their souls are divine. They can remember
their past birth. They also know what is going to happen in the future. When
some great yogi becomes vain, as a punishment he has to take this birth. As long
some great yogi becomes vain, as a punishment he has to take this birth. As long
as the penance is not complete, they have to live the life of a snake. Some of
them live up to one hundred or even two hundred years.’
‘If we don’t worship him, what can he do?’
‘Beti, what a childish question! If he gets angry then all sorts of calamities
may befall you. He was seen first in the year of your birth, from then on he has
been seen five to ten times a year. It is due to his influence that no one has had as
much as a headache in this area.’

Several years passed and Tilottama grew from a girl to a woman. The auspicious
occasion of her marriage came. The wedding party arrived and the marriage
ceremony took place. The moment finally arrived for Tilottama to go to her
husband’s house.
The new bride was being dressed and there was commotion both inside and
outside the house. It looked almost like a stampede. Tilottama’s heart was filled
with the sorrow of parting. She wanted to sit in a solitary corner and cry her
heart out. Today she would be separated from her parents, brothers and sisters
and friends. She didn’t know when she would be able to meet them again. She
didn’t know what kind of people she’d have to deal with now. What would their
nature be and how would they treat her? Amma’s eyes would not stop shedding
tears even for a moment. If I left home even for a day she would cry bitterly.
How will she bear this separation for life? If she had a headache she felt
comforted only when I gave her a gentle massage. Who will prepare paan for
Babuji? He didn’t find anything to his taste if I did not prepare the milk. Who
will prepare his meal now? How will I live without seeing him? Here, even if I
had a mild headache, Amma and Babuji would feel upset and call the hakim or a
vaid. I don’t know how they will treat me there. How will I live in an enclosed
house? I have no idea whether they have an open terrace. Even if there is one,
who will allow me to sleep there? I will die from suffocation. If I wake up a little
late, people will taunt me. Here if someone tries to wake me in the morning,
Amma asks him or her not to and allows me to sleep. If I wake up from
incomplete sleep, she says I’ll get a headache. There I’ll have to listen to
people’s taunts. ‘She’s very lazy, keeps on lying on her bed through the day.’ He
looks very gentle, but somewhat wan. What if he turns out to be cruel-hearted?
Suddenly, her mother arrived and said, ‘Beti, I forgot to tell you something.
You must worship the naag there and even if others in the family forbid you,
consider it your duty. A little while ago my eyes had closed for a moment. Naag
Baba had come to me in my dream.’
Tilottama replied, ‘Amma, he has also paid me a visit, but he showed me one
of his terrible forms. It was a nightmare.’
‘Just see, no one should kill a snake in your house. And here you are, keep
this mantra close to you always.’
Tilottama could hardly reply when someone among the bridegroom’s party
started crying. The atmosphere changed in a moment. There was a terrible
incident. The bridegroom was bitten by a snake. He was coming to arrange for
the departure of the bride. In the palanquin, under the seat, was a black snake.
The moment he sat in the palanquin the snake bit him.
There was commotion all around. It was as though Tilottama was struck by a
bolt of lightning. Her mother started crying and beating her head. Her father,
Babu Jagdish Chandra, lost consciousness and fell down. He was a heart patient.
The sorcerers and doctors were called but the poison was fatal. The lips of the
bridegroom turned pale. His nails became dark and he became unconscious. The
body slowly turned cold. While the twilight sun illuminated the surroundings
outside, this burning lamp was snuffed out.
Tilottama’s condition was somewhat like a man sitting in a boat loaded with
sacks who wonders irrationally why the boat is not going faster, why there is no
room for him to sit peacefully, and why it has tilted so much. But when the same
boat enters a whirlpool he catches the mast to save his life. Although Tilottama
was drowned in the sorrow of parting, she now realized that she was also
drowning along with the boat. She was thinking of the difficulties and
inconvenience that she would face in her husband’s house. The man she
considered to be a robber became very dear to her. Without him her life was
snuffed out like a lamp, like a tree without flowers or fruits. A moment ago, she
had been an object of jealousy, now she was an object of kindness and pity.
In a few days she realized that, deprived of her husband, she was robbed of all
the pleasures of life.
 3

A year passed. Jagdish Chandra was a truly religious person, but he couldn’t
bear Tilottama’s widowhood. He decided to get her married again. The fun-
lovers laughed but Jagdish Chandra took decisions from his heart. Everybody at
home was deeply attached to Tilottama. Nothing was done against her wishes,
and in fact she had been made the mistress of the house. Everybody took special
care to keep her sorrow at bay. But there was sadness all over her face, which
made the people around her sad.
Initially, even her mother didn’t agree to the idea of Tilottama’s remarriage,
but as opposition from the community increased, her resistance lost steam. In
principle, probably no one had any objection but nobody had the courage to
implement it. After several months of searching, a high-caste, idealistic and
educated groom was found. The members of his family also gave their consent.
It made Tilottama sad to see her name discussed in society. She felt bad that her
father was becoming a laughing stock. If I had domestic bliss in my destiny such
calamity wouldn’t have befallen me. She had the apprehension that she’d once
again become a widow. When the marriage was fixed and the groom’s
photograph was brought before her, her eyes filled with tears. There was
decency, strength of will and thoughtfulness oozing from his face. Carrying the
photograph she went to her mother, lowered her head in shyness and said,
‘Amma, I shouldn’t be opening my mouth, but the situation is such that I can’t
stay silent. Tell father my answer is “no”. I am satisfied with my fate. I’m afraid
that this time there may be another sad incident . . .’
Her mother looked at her with frightened eyes and said, ‘Beti, why are you
uttering such inauspicious words? Fear has taken over your heart. Whatever had
to happen has happened. Now will God be after your life?’
‘Yes, I feel so.’
‘Why, why do you feel so?’
‘I don’t know why. Something in my mind tells me that I’ll be visited again
by the calamity. Often I see nightmares. At night, I feel that some creature
resembling a snake is circling my bed. I keep silent because of fear and don’t tell
anyone anything.’
 Her mother thought it was all an illusion. The marriage date was fixed. It was
not only an effort to rehabilitate Tilottama but a shining example of social
reform. Teams of social reformers began to arrive from distant places. The
marriage was held according to the Vedic custom. The guests described the
incident in glowing terms. Newspapers carried accounts. Everyone praised
Jagdish Chandra’s moral courage. On the third day, it was the hour for the
bride’s departure. All preparations were made for the security of the
bridegroom’s party. Electric lights illuminated the place so well that it seemed as
though it was day and not night. Even the ants crawling on earth could be seen.
Screen walls were erected around the shamiana. There was no way for insects
and creepy-crawlies to come in, but fate is all-powerful. It was four in the
morning. The constellations of stars were disappearing from the sky.
Preparations began for the parting of the bride. On the one side, the music of the
shehnai was playing and on the other, one could hear the sound of lamentation.
But there were no tears in Tilottama’s eyes. Time was delicate because she
wanted to leave the house by any means. A sword was hanging over her head.
There was no pleasure in crying and hugging her friends. It is no surprise that a
creature with a burning boil will prefer the house of a surgeon rather than
walking in the garden.
People awakened the groom. The music started. He went to sit in the
palanquin so that the bride could be taken away. He had just put one of his feet
inside the shoe when he pulled it back with a shriek. It seemed as though his foot
had stepped on fire. He saw a black snake coming out of the shoe and crawling
away; it vanished in no time. The groom sighed and sat up. Darkness enveloped
his eyes.
In an instant, the news spread within the community. The medicines had been
kept handy. Several people who knew the mantra to ward off snakebite had been
called. The medicines were administered. Charms and incantations were tried,
but nothing could stand up to fate. Probably death had come in the form of a
snake. When Tilottama heard it she was stunned. Terribly upset, she ran towards
the janwasa, where the marriage party was staying. She didn’t have the sense to
wrap a shawl over her body. She wanted to kiss the feet of her husband that
would fulfil her status as a woman. The women of the family tried to stop her.
Her mother also tried to reason with her. But Jagdish Chandra said, ‘Let her go.
Let her see her husband. Let her desire be fulfilled.’ In this sorrowful state, she
reached the janwasa, but the person who could have provided her solace was
gasping for breath and was going to die. There was unbearable pain and despair
in those half-closed eyes.

The account of this strange incident spread far and wide. The positivists were
surprised at the happenings. The spiritualists nodded their heads knowingly as
though they were omniscient. Jagdish Chandra had tried his fate. It was proven
that his daughter was fated to remain a widow. The naag began to be worshipped
ceremonially twice a year. A special transformation took place in Tilottama’s
nature. Her days of fun and frolic were replaced by devotion and the worship of
gods. This is the last resort of frustrated creatures.
After three years, Dayaram, a professor at Dacca University, revived the
memory of this event. He was a veterinarian. He had studied the behaviour of
snakes closely and wanted to unravel this mystery. He sent a proposal of
marriage to Jagdish Chandra, who didn’t give a clear answer. Dayaram tried to
persuade him saying that he had undertaken this resolve in the interest of
scientific research. He wanted to fight this poisonous naag. ‘Even if he bites a
hundred times, nothing will happen to me. On the contrary, he’ll die after biting
me. Even if he injects poison into me through his bites, I’ve got such antidotes
that would neutralize his poison in an instant. Don’t worry about me. I’m
immune to poison.’ Jagdish Chandra couldn’t find any more excuses. Of course,
he made efforts that the marriage could be organized in Dacca. He arrived there
with his relatives a week before the wedding. While departing from home he
searched the boxes and beds thoroughly lest the snake lay hidden somewhere.
The marriage was solemnized at the auspicious hour. Tilottama felt unsettled.
Her face was losing colour every moment, but the rituals went on uninterrupted.
Tilottama went to her husband’s house. Jagdish Chandra returned home, but was
mortally worried about what was going to happen.
Tilottama’s nature underwent a strange transformation. She’d talk amiably
with others, enjoy her meals, go to the theatre and participate in social
gatherings. On such occasions, she behaved normally with Professor Dayaram
and was even affectionate. She took care of his comforts. She wouldn’t do
anything contrary to his wishes. On seeing her, any stranger would have said that
she was the ideal housewife. The life of this couple was an ideal one, but the
reality was quite different. When they were alone in the quiet of their bedroom,
her face grew tense, her eyebrows tightened, her head became heavy, her body
started burning like fire, fire came out of her eyes, and darkness covered her
face. There was no change in her appearance, but no one knows why suspicion
of her being a nagin arose. Sometimes she hissed. In this situation Dayaram
didn’t have the courage to go near her or talk to her. He was fascinated by her
looks, but repelled by her behaviour. He’d leave her in this possessed state and
step out of the house. He took advice from doctors, he studied many books to
gain insight, but couldn’t make any sense of the mystery. He had to admit his
lack of knowledge in physical sciences.
He found his life unbearable and regretted his bold decision. He had trapped
himself in the situation unwittingly. He suspected that there was definitely some
supernatural force at play. He was not superstitious, but where intellect and
reasoning fail, people turn superstitious because of helplessness.
Day by day, his condition became such that he was frightened of Tilottama.
Her deranged and distorted facial expressions didn’t leave his mind. He was
afraid that she’d kill him some day. Who knew when she’d be possessed by this
madness? This thought would not leave him in peace. Hypnotism, electric shock
and other procedures were tried on her. He had great hope in hypnotism, but
when this also failed, he was terribly disappointed.

One day, Professor Dayaram had gone to attend a science conference. It was
midnight when he returned. It was the monsoon season and the servants were
asleep. He went to Tilottama’s bedroom to ask where his food was kept. He had
just stepped in when he saw a huge, dreadful black snake sitting on her bed. The
professor stepped back quietly. He went to his room, gulped some medicine and
returned with a pistol to Tilottama’s bedroom. He was sure that this was his old
enemy. After a long time, he had found out where Tilottama lived. But why was
he so attached to her? He sat on her bedside and looked like a piece of rope.
What was this mystery? He had heard and read curious stories about snakes, but
What was this mystery? He had heard and read curious stories about snakes, but
never heard or seen one that was quite like this. When he returned to the room
suitably armed, there was no sign of the snake. Yes, Tilottama looked like one
possessed. She was sitting and looking towards the door with fiery eyes. Her
eyes were spitting flames. The heat could be felt two yards away. She looked
totally insane. The moment she saw Dayaram, she pounced on him like
lightning. She didn’t strike him with her hands but tried to bite him. She held
him tightly by his neck. Dayaram tried with all his might to free his neck, but
Tilottama’s grip was coiling like a snake. Moreover, he was apprehensive that if
she bit him she could die. The medicine he had taken a little while ago was more
fatal than the snake’s poison. In this situation, a desperate thought came to his
mind. Was this life really worthwhile? He had to bear the responsibilities of the
household, but there was no trace of happiness. On top of it, his life was at risk.
What sort of illusion was this? Was the snake some spirit that came to her and
transformed her in this way? It was said that in such a condition whatever injury
is inflicted on the patient goes to the spirit. He had seen such cases among
people of the lower castes. While he was debating this he felt suffocated.
Tilottama’s hands were tightening around his neck like a rope. He started
looking here and there helplessly. He couldn’t see any means to save his life.
Suffocated, his body went limp and his feet trembled. Suddenly Tilottama leaned
towards his arms. Dayaram froze. Death was dancing before his eyes. He said in
his heart, ‘She is not my wife now but a terrible poisonous snake. Her bite will
be fatal.’ His confidence in the medicine waned. If a mouse goes berserk and
bites someone it becomes fatal. O God! What a terrible transformation! She
looked like a veritable cobra. Dayaram wanted to put an end to his suffering by
any means. He was overwhelmed by a sense of desperation. Tilottama, her
tongue protruding, was repeatedly hissing and pouncing on him. All of a sudden,
she said in a shrill voice, ‘Fool, how dare you love this beautiful woman?’
Saying this, she ran to bite him. Dayaram lost patience, straightened his left hand
and fired a shot at Tilottama’s chest. It didn’t have any effect on Tilottama. Her
embrace tightened. Her eyes began to spit fire. Dayaram shot a second round.
This hit home. Tilottama’s grip loosened. In a moment her hands were dangling,
her head came low and she fell down on the ground.
Then appeared a scene, the likes of which could not be found even in books
like Alif Laila and Chandrakanta. There, near the bed, was lying a huge black
snake in the throes of death. Streams of blood were flowing from its face and
belly.
Dayaram couldn’t believe his eyes. What strange occurrence was this? What
was the actual matter? Whom should he ask? Solving this puzzle had become the
duty of his life. He pierced the snake with a stick and brought it to the courtyard.
It was lifeless. He put it inside a box and closed it. He wanted to stuff it and hang
it on the veranda. No one had seen such a big gehuan snake that belonged to the
cobra family.
Then he went to Tilottama. He was mortally afraid to step inside the room. Of
course, he found some solace in the thought that since the snake had died she
would survive. In this state of hope and fear he went inside and found Tilottama
standing before the mirror doing her hair.
Dayaram felt as though he had come upon the wealth of the world.
Tilottama’s lotus face was lit up. He had never seen her so happy. Seeing him
she moved towards him endearingly and said, ‘Where have you been out in the
night?’
Dayaram was delirious and said, ‘I had gone to an assembly. How are you
feeling now? I hope you are not in pain?’ Tilottama looked at him, amazed.
‘How did you know? My chest is being pierced by a shooting pain.’

Translated from the Hindi by M. Asaduddin

 Turf War

By appearance Tommy looked quite hefty; when he barked he could burst

people’s eardrums. His gait was such that on dark nights people mistook him for
a donkey, but his valour was proven in the battlefield. A couple of times when
the lumpen elements in the market offered him a challenge, he descended on the
arena to smash their pride, and eyewitnesses say that as long as he fought, he
fought strongly, his tail dealing more blows than his nails or teeth. It couldn’t be
said with certainty who had won the fight in the end but since the other party had
to ask for reinforcements, then, according to the laws of the battlefield, it seemed
reasonable that the victory trophy should go to Tommy. On that occasion,
Tommy acted pragmatically and bared his teeth, which was a requirement for
truce. But since then he had stopped engaging with such unprincipled
adversaries.
Tommy was peace-loving, but the number of his enemies increased by the
day. His peers were jealous of him because he was lean instead of roly-poly. The
troop in the market envied him because he did not allow any bones to escape his
grip. He woke up early in the morning and licked all that was left over in the leaf
plates in front of the sweetshop and chewed all the bones left in front of the
abattoir. Thus, surrounded by such a large number of enemies, Tommy’s life
was full of difficulties. Months would pass till he came by a meal that would fill
his belly. Several times he had had such a longing for a heavy meal that he had
filled his belly with dubious stuff, and the consequences had been grave. For
several days, he suffered from a severe ache, not in his stomach but in his back.
Having learnt his lesson he began to follow the path of restraint. Though
Having learnt his lesson he began to follow the path of restraint. Though
restrained, his longing did not stop. He wanted to go to a place filled with prey—
there should be hare, antelopes and sheep grazing in the field with no one to look
after them, and no rivals to offer him a fight. There should be shady trees for his
rest and sweet river water to slake his thirst. He would kill them at his will, have
his meal and go into deep sleep. Everyone around that place would be afraid of
him and accept him as their king. Slowly, he would be so powerful that no
jealous rival would have the courage to step into his area. One day, lost in such
sweet dreams, Tommy had left the main road and was passing through a lane
when he had an encounter with a gentleman dog. Tommy wanted to walk past
him, but the gentleman was not as peace-loving as Tommy. He pounced on
Tommy and caught him by his snout. Tommy fell at his feet and cringed, ‘For
God’s sake let me go. I take this oath that I won’t step here again. It was my ill
luck that I had entered your area.’ But that cruel and vain creature did not show
him the slightest mercy. Defeated, Tommy began to whine like a donkey.
Hearing this commotion, several leaders of the mohalla gathered there, but
instead of showing mercy to the oppressed they began to cut their teeth on him.
Such unjust treatment broke Tommy’s heart. He left the scene with his life. The
cruel animals chased him for a long distance. There was a river before him.
Tommy jumped into the river to save his life.
It is said that every dog has his day. Tommy’s day came when he jumped into
the river. He had jumped into it to save his life, but he came upon a pearl.
Swimming across the river he reached the other bank, and saw his long-
cherished dream taking shape into reality.

It was a huge field. As far as the eyes could see, it was all lush green. One could
hear the cackle of rivulets and the melody of waterfalls. If there were clusters of
trees at places there were also sandy expanses. All in all, it was a fascinating site.
There were animals with sharp claws. Seeing them Tommy’s heart trembled.
But they didn’t care for him. They fought among themselves, their blood
flowing. Tommy realized that he could not challenge these fearful beasts
physically. He thought of a clever strategy. When one of the two fighting
animals looked injured and vanquished, Tommy would pounce on it and run
away with a piece of meat which he relished alone. Drunk in the happiness of
victory they ignored him.
Tommy’s good days had returned. It was Diwali every day. Neither jaggery
nor wheat was scarce. Every day he had a new catch under the trees. He hadn’t
even imagined such heavenly happiness. He had reached heaven not by dying
but by living.
In a short period, eating nutritious food injected new energy into him. His
body became agile and well-rounded. Now he began to hunt smaller animals on
his own. The animals were alerted to this and made efforts to turn him out from
there. Tommy played a new trick. Sometimes he said to one enemy, ‘That enemy
of yours is planning to kill you.’ To someone else he would say, ‘That fellow
calls you names.’ The animals fell into his trap and fought among themselves. In
course of time, it so happened that the big animals in the jungles disappeared.
The smaller animals didn’t have the courage to face him. Seeing his progress and
his growing strength they felt as though this strange creature has been sent from
the skies to rule over them. Tommy would reinforce this belief by showing his
skill at hunting. He would declare proudly, ‘God has sent me to rule over you.
This is God’s will. Stay comfortably in your own homes. I will not say anything.
As a reward for my service I will only occasionally kill one among you. After
all, I too have a belly. How can I survive without food?’ He would now stride
around the jungle casting proud glances around him.
The only worry that Tommy had was the emergence of a rival. He was always
alert and armed. As the days went by and he grew more accustomed to a
comfortable living, his worries increased all the more. Often he would get
startled at night and begin chasing unknown enemies. He exhorted the animals,
‘God forbid, you fall into the trap of some other rulers. He will simply smash
you. I am your well-wisher; I always think about your well-being. Don’t expect
this of anyone else.’ All the animals would reply in one voice, ‘As long as we
are alive, we will serve you.’
In the end, it so happened that Tommy did not have a single moment of peace.
Throughout the days and nights he would pace along the bank of the river from
one end to the other. He would run and run, pant for breath and then fall
unconscious, but there was no relief from his worry, lest some enemy enter his
territory.
But as mating season came, Tommy’s mind became restless to meet his mate.
 But as mating season came, Tommy’s mind became restless to meet his mate.
He could not control his mind in any way. He remembered the days when he
chased her with some of his friends in the lanes and alleys of the village. For two
or three days he exercised patience but in the end his emotions became so strong
that he was ready to challenge his destiny. Now he also prided in his energy and
sharpness. He could easily vanquish two or three rivals.
But as he crossed over to the other side of the river his confidence began to
wane like mist in the morning. His gait slowed down, his head came low and his
tail shrunk, but at the sight of a lover he became emotional and began chasing
her. The lover did not like his approach. She yelled her complaint. Hearing her
voice several of her lovers converged there. They lost their temper at the sight of
Tommy. Tommy was outnumbered. He had yet to decide about his course of
action when he was attacked from all sides with sharp teeth and claws. He didn’t
have the time to escape. His whole body was covered with blood. When he ran
he had a whole bunch of the devils chasing him.
From that day, fear entered his heart. Every moment he feared that troops of
attackers were coming to destroy his happiness and break his peace. He had had
this fear earlier too, but now it was more intense.
One day he was terribly frightened. It seemed as though the enemies had
arrived. He ran to the bank of the river and began to run from one end to the
other.
The day ended, the night too, but he did not take rest. Another day came and
went, but Tommy kept on making his rounds, without food or water.
Five days passed. Tommy’s feet began to fester and his eyes darkened.
Hunger made him weak and he fell down, but his worry did not leave him.
On the seventh day, Tommy, obsessed with his feeling of possessiveness, left
for the other world. Not a single animal of the jungle came near him. No one
uttered a word about him, no one shed a single tear on his death. For several
days vultures kept circling over his body. In the end, nothing was left except his
skeleton.

Translated from the Hindi by M. Asaduddin

 Hidden Wealth

Babu Haridas’s brick kiln was situated near the city. Hundreds of men, women
and children came there from nearby villages, carried bricks on their heads and
arranged them in rows. A man stood near the kiln with a basket of cowries. He
paid the labourers by counting the number of bricks arranged. If a labourer
arranged more bricks, he was paid more cowries. Because of this, many
labourers worked beyond their capacity. The sight of old men and children bent
down under the weight of the bricks was doleful. Sometimes, Haridas himself sat
near the cowrie man and encouraged the labourers to load bricks. This sight was
more heart-wrenching when there was a sudden demand for bricks. At that time,
the wages were doubled and the labourers doubled the number of bricks they
carried. Each step was difficult. Their bodies were drenched in sweat from head
to toe and their heads bent low with the weight of the bricks. Looking at them
made one feel as if a greedy spirit had thrashed them down and settled on their
heads. The most miserable was the condition of a little boy who always carried
twice the number of bricks that the other boys his age managed and worked
without any rest. His sad face and wiry body filled one with pity. Some boys
bought and ate jaggery, some stared at the moving vehicles, while others showed
off their martial prowess and verbal skills in fisticuffs, but this boy would only
devote himself to his work. He was neither restless nor mischievous like other
boys of his age. In fact, no one had ever seen him smile. Out of sympathy,
sometimes Haridas would ask the cowrie man to pay the boy some more cowries
than was his due. At other times, he offered him something to eat.
One day, he had the boy sit beside him and asked him about his family. He
 One day, he had the boy sit beside him and asked him about his family. He
came to know that the boy was from a nearby village, and that he lived with his
old mother, who was suffering from a chronic disease. The entire responsibility
of the house was on his shoulders. There was no one to cook for him. When he
went home, he would cook for himself and also feed his mother. A thakur by
caste, he had been born into a once-prosperous family that owned a sugar
factory. The family also owned some land, but the competitiveness and enmity
among the brothers had led to a condition where he was now struggling to earn
his daily bread. The boy’s name was Magan Singh.
Haridas asked, ‘Don’t the villagers help you?’
Magan said, ‘Wah! The only thing they’d want to do is kill me. They believe
that there’s money buried in my house.’
Haridas asked curiously, ‘It is an old household, there must be something.
Your mother never told you anything about this?’
Magan replied, ‘No, Babuji, there isn’t any money. If there was indeed any,
why would my mother endure such pain?’

Haridas liked Magan and he decided to promote him from a labourer to one of
his officials. He gave him the responsibility of making payments and instructed
Munshiji to teach him to read and write. It seemed as if the poor boy’s fate had
finally changed.
Magan was an honest and a clever boy. He was never late or absent at work.
Within a few days, he won the trust of Babu Sahib, and acquired both reading
and writing skills.
Soon, it was monsoon, and the kiln was filled with water. There wasn’t any
business. Magan had been absent for three days. Haridas was worried, and
wondered if the boy had fallen sick or met with an accident. He asked the other
workers about him but no one had any idea. On the fourth day, Haridas reached
Magan’s home—a wreck of a formerly prosperous house. Magan came out when
he heard Haridas’s voice.
Haridas asked, ‘Why haven’t you come to work for the last few days? How is
your mother?’
Magan replied in a choked voice, ‘Mother is very sick and says she won’t
survive. She asked me a number of times to call you but I hesitated to come.
How fortunate that you’ve come on your own. Please come in and see her. She’ll
be pleased to meet you.’
Haridas entered Magan’s home. The entire house reeked of loss and ruin.
Heaps of brick dust and stone were scattered everywhere. It was a picture of
destruction. Only two rooms were liveable. Magan signalled Haridas towards
one of them. When Haridas entered, he saw an old woman groaning on a
ramshackle cot.
She opened her eyes when she heard Haridas’s footsteps and inferred who he
was.
She said, ‘You’ve come! So kind of you. I’ve been waiting to meet you; you
are the benefactor of my child now. The way you have protected him so far . . . I
hope you will always keep an eye on him and mould him into a fine man. The
days of my distress are about to end. Once, this house was prosperous. When
misfortune came knocking at our door, Laxmi abandoned us. Our ancestors had
anticipated such a state and so they saved something for the earth’s custody. Its
invoice was kept securely but for a long time it could not be traced. Magan’s
father could not find it. If he had found the invoice, we would not have been in
such a deplorable state. Three days ago I found the invoice in a stack of old files.
Since then, I have been hiding it. Is Magan outside? The invoice is in the vault
near the head of the cot. It has all the details . . . it contains information about the
location. When the right moment comes, get it dug out and give it to Magan. I
kept asking for you so that I could convey this message. I do not trust anyone
else except you. There aren’t any morals left in this world. Whom can you trust .
. .’

Haridas did not discuss the incident with anyone. His intentions wavered. The
invoice had revealed that the wealth was below the platform of a temple some
five hundred steps from the house towards the west.
Haridas wanted the wealth, but without anyone finding out how he had come
across it. It was a difficult task. The fear of defamation was a source of constant
anxiety. It was all terribly base. How could he betray someone he had protected
and brought up as his own child!
and brought up as his own child!
For many days, Haridas was in turmoil. In the end, however, his evil
intentions triumphed over his better judgement. He assured himself that he had
never gone against his religion till now and would never do so. He reflected in
his mind, Is there anyone in this world who has not gone astray at least once in
his life? If there is anyone, then he is not human but a God. I am a human being.
I do not claim to be equal to gods.
Self-deception is akin to consoling a child by making false promises.
Haridas would leave his house for a walk every evening. After confirming that
there was no one around, he would go and sit on the platform and dig with a
pickaxe. During the day, he checked if anyone was poking around the platform.
In the stillness of the night, while he shifted those lonely bricks, he would be as
frightened as a guilt-ridden Vaishnav eating meat.
The platform was quite long and wide. It took a month to dig it up and yet he
could barely reach half the required level. His condition was like that of a man
trying to invoke a mantra. His mind was agitated. His eyesight became sharp. He
looked quiet, as if he were meditating. He did not talk to anyone, and if someone
teased him, he snapped at them. He rarely went to the kiln. He was torn. Every
day he would decide that he wouldn’t go to the platform, but by evening, a kind
of intoxication would set in, and he’d lose his good sense. His condition was that
of a dog who returns to the person who thrashed him, and waits greedily for
another bone.
The second month passed as well.
It was a night of amavas. Haridas was settled on the platform like darkness
settles on a tainted heart. Today the digging would be over. It would take a little
more time and effort. No worries, things were under control. His family might
create a little trouble if he got too late. But it would not take long now to find out
what was beneath the platform. If I find a stone vault, then there would certainly
be wealth. If there isn’t any vault then it would be nothing but a trick. If that
happens . . . no, I won’t be able to bear it! I would have been fooled. But no, the
pickaxe is making some sound. Yes, there is a rocky surface. He searched for it.
There was no doubt now. It was a rock. The vault was found, but Haridas did not
jump with joy.
He returned home with a headache. He thought it was because of tiredness,
but even sleep did not bring any relief. By night, he had a high fever. For three
days, the fever persisted. No medicine brought him any relief.
days, the fever persisted. No medicine brought him any relief.
Haridas was almost convinced that his condition was a punishment for his
greed. He wanted to give the invoice to Magan and ask his forgiveness, but the
fear of exposure stopped him. He wondered how the followers of Jesus
confessed their sins before a priest.

After Haridas’s death, the invoice passed into the hands of his son, Prabhudas. It
was beyond doubt that the invoice had been drawn by Magan’s ancestors. But
Prabhudas thought, Father must have deliberated enough before venturing on
this path. He was an upright and honest man. Nobody ever doubted his
intentions. So if he did not think this conduct reprehensible why should I have
any misgivings? If this treasure comes my way my life would be completely
different! I can show the rich how to spend money. I can even make them bend
down before me. Nobody would then dare look me in the eye! He decided to go
ahead with his father’s plan.
Come evening, and he would leave the house. It was the same time, the same
alert eyes, and the same pickaxe. It seemed as if Haridas’s spirit was working in
a different form.
The base of the platform had been dug up. Now there was the vault itself, the
joints of which were difficult to loosen. The material was old and strong; even
the pickaxe bounced back. It took some days for the crack to open but the rock
did not budge. Then Prabhudas began to work with an iron rod, but despite using
all his force, the rock did not move. He had to manage everything alone. It was
out of the question to ask anyone for help.
Once again, it was amavas. It was about midnight but Prabhudas’s effort still
hadn’t borne fruit.
But today, it was absolutely essential to find a solution. If anyone looked into
the basement the game would be up.
Sitting on the rock, he began to think. His brain just didn’t seem to work.
Suddenly something clicked . . . why not make use of explosives? He didn’t
want to leave the task for the next day, so he went straight to the market,
covering the distance of two miles in no time! But when he reached, he found
that the shops were closed. The fireworks-maker refused to entertain him:
‘Explosives cannot be sold at this time. It is not a government order. Who are
‘Explosives cannot be sold at this time. It is not a government order. Who are
you? What will you do with the explosives? No, if something happens we will
be held responsible.’
Prabhudas’s patience had never been tested this way before. He kept pleading
with the shopkeeper, and eventually, the sweet music of coins won him over. As
Prabhudas left the market, he found it difficult to control his excitement.
At two in the morning, Prabhudas reached the temple. He placed the
explosives in the crack of the vault, ignited the wick and quickly got out of the
way. The next moment, there was a big explosion. The rock flew up. A dark
cave appeared, as if some demon was waiting with his mouth open to swallow
him.

It was morning. Prabhudas was resting in his room. In front of him, there was an
iron vault with ten thousand old coins inside it. His mother was sitting beside
him with a fan.
Prabhudas was suffering from a fever. He would toss about, moan, throw up
his hands and legs, but his eyes never left the iron vault. All his hopes were
imprisoned there.
Magan was a munshi at the kiln now. He lived in Prabhudas’s house.
Magan entered Prabhudas’s room and said, ‘Will you come to the kiln?
Should I ask for the carriage?’
Prabhudas looked at him, his face full of regret, and said, ‘No, I won’t come
today, I am sick. You too stay back.’
Magan went out to call a doctor.
By ten o’clock, Prabhudas’s face had gone completely pale and his eyes were
red. When his mother looked at him, she was overwhelmed with grief. It was as
if Haridas’s condition was flashing before her eyes. It felt as if the tragic event
was repeating itself. While she was praying, Prabhudas’s eyes were still stuck to
that same vault to which he seemed to have offered his life.
His wife sat nearby and began sobbing uncontrollably. Tears fell from
Prabhudas’s eyes too, but they were still hopelessly fixed on the vault.
The doctor arrived, gave him some medication and left. But the medicines had
an adverse effect. Prabhudas’s hands and legs became cold, his face became dull
and his heartbeat, sluggish; and yet his eyes did not leave the vault.
and his heartbeat, sluggish; and yet his eyes did not leave the vault.
The neighbours gathered. They talked about the gentle nature and good
qualities of both the father and the son. Both were seen as embodiments of virtue
and modesty. They’d never uttered, even by mistake, a foul word to anyone.
Prabhudas’s entire body had become cold now. If there was life anywhere, it was
only in his eyes. And they were looking at the iron vault unrelentingly.
The house was now in pandemonium. Prabhudas’s mother, and his wife were
both wailing and weeping. Women from the neighbourhood tried in vain to
console them. His friends stood by with handkerchiefs pressed to their eyes.
Death at a young age is one of the most heart-breaking, unnatural and fearful
sights one can behold—a thunderbolt, a cruel comedy played out by the creator.
Life seemed to have taken on the aspect of an unquenchable thirst. The life
breath might ebb out but the longing remains.
In the meantime, Magan came and stood beside him. Prabhudas turned his
eyes away from the vault and looked at him. It seemed as if his blood had begun
to flow again. There were momentary signs of revival. He called out to Magan,
whispered into his ears and pointed towards the iron vault. As Prabhudas did
this, his eyes turned away, and he breathed his last.

Translated from the Hindi by M. Asaduddin

 A Dhobi’s Honour

Bechu Dhobi loved his home and village as much as every man did. He ate
simply, often barely half his fill, but his village was still far more precious to
him than the whole world. Though he had to suffer the abuses of the old peasant
women, the honour of being called Bechu Dada by the young wives was also his.
He was always invited to every occasion of joy or grief; especially at weddings,
his presence was no less essential than that of the bride and the groom
themselves. His wife would be ceremonially worshipped inside the house; he
would be welcomed graciously at the doorstep. Wearing peshwaz, bells tied to
his waist, one hand beating the mridang, one hand on his ear, when he would
lustily sing the traditional viraha and bol extempore, along with the troupe of
singers and musicians, his eyes would glaze over with pride. Yes, Bechu was
quite content with his lot as a washerman. But sometimes, when the atrocities of
the zamindar’s men became unbearable, he would long to run away from the
village.
Karinda Sahib had four or five peons. Each of them had large families. Bechu
had to wash all their clothes for free. He did not have an iron. To iron their
clothes he had to beg and plead with the dhobis of other villages. If he ever took
back the clothes unironed, he would have to face hell for it. He would be
thrashed, have to stand for hours in front of the chaupal, and such abuses would
rain down on him that passers-by would cover their ears and women would
lower their heads in shame.
It was the month of Jeth. All the nearby ponds and lakes had dried up. Bechu
would have to leave for a distant lake while it was still dark. Even there, the
would have to leave for a distant lake while it was still dark. Even there, the
dhobis already had their slots fixed. Bechu’s slot fell on the fifth day. He would
load his bundle of washing and arrive there long before dawn. But it was not
possible to stand in that scorching Jeth sun beyond nine or ten. Even half the
load wouldn’t get washed. He would bundle up the unwashed clothes and return
home. The simple village folk would listen to his story of woe and quieten
down; they would neither abuse him nor beat him up. They too had to work the
plough and hoe the fields in that fierce Jeth sun. The soles of their feet, too, were
cracked and sore; they knew his pain. But it wasn’t so easy to please Karinda
Sahib. His men would forever be standing on Bechu’s head. ‘You don’t bring
the clothes for eight-eight days on end,’ they would say grimly. ‘Is this winter or
what? Clothes get grimy and smelly with sweat in a day here, and it makes no
difference to you.’ Bechu would fold over himself, beg, plead and somehow
manage to pacify them.
Once, nine days passed, and their clothes were still not ready. They had been
washed but not yet ironed. Finally, helpless, Bechu reached the zamindar’s
chaupal with the clothes on the tenth day. Fear had frozen his limbs. As soon as
Karinda Sahib saw him, he went red with rage. ‘Why, you rascal, do you want to
live in this village or not?’
Bechu put the bundle of clothes down on the wooden platform and said,
‘What to do, Sarkar, there’s no water anywhere—and neither do I have an iron.’
Karinda: ‘Everyone in the world has water except you. There’s no cure left for
you except to throw you out of the village. Scoundrel! Fooling the midwife with
a bloated stomach—no water, no iron indeed!’
Bechu: ‘Malik, the whole village is yours; if it pleases you, let me stay, if it
pleases you, throw me out, but don’t taint me with this accusation. That is a
custom common to city dhobis. I have spent a lifetime serving you. But
whatever the mistakes and lapses may have been on my part, my intentions have
never been bad. If anyone in the village says that I have done such a thing, I will
accept my fault.’
It is futile to try and reason with a tyrant. Karinda Sahib abused and cursed
him some more. Bechu too pleaded and swore in the name of justice and mercy.
The result was that he had to consume turmeric and jaggery for eight days to
relieve the pain of the thrashing he received. On the ninth day, somehow or the
other, he washed the remaining clothes, collected his belongings and, without a
other, he washed the remaining clothes, collected his belongings and, without a
word to anyone, left for Patna in the night. He was deprived of the fortitude
necessary to take leave of one’s old customers.

When Bechu arrived in the city, it was as if there was already an empty space
waiting for him. He only had to take up a room on rent, and things started falling
into place. At first he nearly fainted on hearing how much the rent was. In the
village, he wouldn’t even get this much for a month’s washing. But when he
learnt the rates for washing here, the rent didn’t bite so much. In just one month
he had more customers than he could count. There was no dearth of water. He
was true to his word, and still free of the ills of city life. Sometimes, the earnings
of a single day would exceed what he’d earn in a year back home in the village.
But in just three or four months, the ways of the city began to influence him.
Earlier, he used to drink coconut water. Now, he got a bubbly hookah. His feet,
once bare, were attired in shoes, and the unpolished grain he was accustomed to
began to cause indigestion. Earlier, once in a while, on some festive occasion, he
would have a little liquor. Now, to beat exhaustion, he started drinking every
day. His wife acquired a taste for ornaments—‘The other dhobins go about all
dressed up here, am I any less than them?’ she would say. His boys would get
excited every time a peddler came by hawking his wares and run out as soon as
they heard ‘Moongfali! Halva!’
Meanwhile, the landlord raised the rent. Even straw and oil cakes were as dear
as pearls here. A good bit of his earnings went into feeding the two bulls that
carried his load of dirty clothes for washing. So whatever he would have
managed to save over several months earlier now vanished. Sometimes, the
expenses would mount higher than his earnings, but no means of thrift would
come to mind. Eventually, his wife started whisking away his customers’ clothes
and renting them out to others on the sly. When Bechu came to know, he was
furious. ‘If I hear one more complaint, there’ll be no one worse than me! It was
this accusation that forced me to leave the village of my forefathers. Do you
want us to be banished from here as well?’
His wife answered, ‘But it is you who can’t do without liquor for even a day.
Do I get the money to blow up on myself? And yes, leave something for
household expenses before you go, I’m not getting any sweets out of this.’
household expenses before you go, I’m not getting any sweets out of this.’
But gradually, the matter of ethics began to bow its head before necessity.
Once, Bechu lay ill with fever for many days. His wife took him to the vaid in a
palanquin. The vaid wrote down a prescription. There was no money in the
house. Bechu looked at his wife with desperate eyes and asked, ‘What now?
Must the medicine be bought?’
‘I’ll do as you say.’
‘Can’t you borrow from someone?’
‘I’ve borrowed from everyone I could; it’s become difficult to walk in the
mohalla nowadays. Whom to ask now? What work I can do myself, I do. I can’t
cut myself up into pieces and die, can I? A little extra money used to come in,
but you put a stop to that too. So what say do I have then? The bulls have been
hungry for two days. If I get two rupees, I could feed them.’
‘Fine, do what you wish, but make do somehow. I have now learnt—an honest
man cannot make a living in the city.’
From that day on, the ways of other city washermen were followed in his
house.

A lawyer’s cleric, Munshi Dataram, lived in Bechu’s neighbourhood.

Sometimes, during a break, Bechu would go sit with him. It was a matter
between neighbours, so no accounts were kept for his washing. Munshiji would
always receive Bechu graciously, hand him his chillum to smoke, and if some
delicacy had been made at his place, he would have it sent for Bechu’s boys. But
yes, he would make sure that these little gestures did not exceed the cost of the
washing.
It was summer, the season of marriages. Munshiji had to go for a wedding. He
got a long pipe made for his hookah, bought a well-oiled chillum and pointed-toe
salimshahi shoes, and borrowed a rug from his lawyer sahib and a gold ring and
buttons from his friend. He didn’t have much difficulty procuring all these
things. But he was embarrassed to borrow clothes for the wedding. There was no
scope for getting new ones stitched. It was no easy matter to get made-to-order
breast-pocketed kurtas, silk achkans, tight-ringed chunnatdaar nainsukh pyjamas
and a Benarasi turban. These items would cost a handsome amount. Buying silk-
bordered dhotis and a shawl of Kashi silk was also no trivial matter. He kept
worrying about all this for days. In the end, he could think of no one other than
Bechu to bail him out.
When Bechu came and sat by him in the evening, Munshiji humbly said,
‘Bechu, I have to attend a wedding. I have managed to collect everything else I
need, but getting new clothes made is a problem. Money is not a concern; by
your good wishes these hands are never empty. The profession is also such that
no matter what fee you ask for, it is less; some poor fool or another with a fat
purse is always there to fleece. But you know the rush of weddings these days—
tailors don’t have a moment’s respite, they charge twice the normal rates, and
even then they make you wait for months. If you have any clothes suitable for
me, I’ll just borrow them for two or three days and somehow get it over and
done with. What does it cost anyone to give an invitation? At the most, they
might get it printed. But why don’t people ever consider the fact that the invitees
too have to make preparations, overcome so many difficulties? If there was a
custom in one’s community that he who sends an invitation must also be the one
who arranges for everything necessary for the invitees to attend, then people
wouldn’t send out these marriage invitations so thoughtlessly. So tell me, you’ll
help me out, won’t you, Bechu?’
Out of obligation, Bechu said, ‘Munshiji, how can I ever refuse you? But the
thing is that there are so many weddings these days that customers are also
getting impatient for their clothes and sending for them two or three times a day.
It shouldn’t happen that while I give you the clothes here, the owner shows up at
the door asking for them.’
Munshiji answered, ‘What’s the big deal in delaying delivery for two or three
days? You could easily delay them for weeks if you wished—not put them
through the furnace yet, not ironed them yet, the washing ghats are shut—you
don’t have any dearth of excuses. Won’t you even do this much for your
neighbour?’
‘No, Munshiji, I would give my life for you. Come and choose your clothes so
I can run the iron over them once more and make them fresh. At worst, I’ll have
to hear the abuses of my customers. So even if I do lose a couple, that’s nothing
to mope about.’

4
 4

Munshiji reached the wedding in style. His Benarasi turban, silk achkan, long
coat and shawl created such an impression that people thought he was some
wealthy nobleman. Munshiji took Bechu along with him, and made sure he was
taken care of. He got him a bottle of liquor and a plate of food when he went in
to eat. He would keep calling him Choudhury instead of Bechu. After all, this
pomp and show was all thanks to him.
It was past midnight. The revelry and celebrations were over, and people were
preparing to retire for the night. Bechu was lying next to Munshiji’s cot under a
sheet. Munshiji took off his clothes and carefully hung them on a line. The
hookah was ready. As he lay down and began to smoke, an atai from the troupe
of musicians accompanying the wedding party suddenly came and stood before
him, and asked, ‘May I ask you where you got this achkan and turban from, sir?’
Munshiji looked at him suspiciously and said, ‘What does that mean?’
‘It means that both of these belong to me.’
Munshiji then somewhat recklessly ventured to say, ‘So in your opinion, no
one can possess a silk coat and turban other than you?’
‘Why not? He whom Allah gives to wears it. There are so many of them here,
each greater than the last. I hardly come in that reckoning. But both these things
are mine. If you can find another man in this city who possesses the same
achkan, I’ll pay you whatever you ask. There’s no other craftsman in the whole
city like him. He cuts clothes with such finesse that one could kiss his hands. My
insignia is on the turban—I can show you if you bring it here. All I want to ask
is where did you procure these garments from.’
Munshiji realized that this was not the place to argue. If things got out of
hand, it could be humiliating. Diplomacy wouldn’t work here. So he said
humbly, ‘Bhai, do not ask me that; this is not the time or place to tell you these
things. Your honour and mine are one and the same. Just think that this is the
way the world goes around. If I had to get such clothes made, I would have spent
thousands right now. I just had to attend the wedding somehow, that is all. Your
clothes will not get spoiled, I take full responsibility. I’ll take better care of them
than if they were mine.’
‘I’m not concerned about the clothes. By your grace, Allah has given me
plenty. May He protect the rich; thanks be to Him, all five fingers are immersed
in ghee. And neither do I wish to malign your good name. I am a slave at your
feet. All I want to know is who gave you these clothes. I had given them to
Bechu Dhobi to wash. So is it that some thief whisked them away from Bechu’s
house, or did some other dhobi steal them from him and give them to you?
Because Bechu certainly would not have given these clothes to you with his own
hands. He does not do such things. In fact, I too had wanted to make such an
arrangement with him once. I even put money into his hands. But, sahib, he
picked up the money and threw it away, and he gave me such a talking-to that I
was stunned out of my wits. I don’t know what the understanding is here,
because thereafter I’ve never even mentioned something like that to him. But I
find it hard to believe he has stooped so low. That is why I ask you again and
again, from where did you get these clothes?’
‘Your surmise about Bechu is absolutely right. He is indeed a selfless man.
But neighbours also have some rights. He lives in my neighbourhood, we are
part of each other’s lives. He saw my need, and gave in. Bas. That is all. And I
would do the same for him.’
The atai had neither put money into Bechu’s hands, nor had Bechu given him
a talking-to. The atai had exaggerated Bechu’s selflessness. But this little
exaggeration had a far greater impact on Bechu than if he had merely spoken the
truth. Bechu was not asleep. He had heard every word the atai had spoken. He
felt as if his soul had just awoken from a deep sleep. The world sees me as such
an honest, true and deceitless man. And I . . . I am such a fraud and a cheat. It
was on this false charge that I left the village of my forefathers. But after coming
here, I’ve got ruined running after liquor, ghee and sugar.

Six months passed by. It was evening. Some guests had arrived to discuss
Bechu’s son Malkhan’s marriage. When Bechu came in to talk to his wife about
something, she said, ‘Where will the liquor come from? Do you have some
money?’
Bechu: ‘Didn’t I already give you whatever I had?’
Wife: ‘But I bought rice, dal, and ghee with that. I’ve cooked for seven
people. All of it got used up.’
Bechu: ‘So what do I do then?’
 Bechu: ‘So what do I do then?’
Wife: ‘They will hardly eat without drinking first. It will be so embarrassing.’
Bechu: ‘Whether it is embarrassing or disgraceful, it is not possible for me to
get liquor now. At the most what will happen? The marriage will not be fixed.
So let it not.’
Wife: ‘Hasn’t that shawl come in for washing? Go pawn it at a bania’s shop
and get back four or five rupees. You can retrieve it in two or three days. We
must keep our honour. Or else, everyone will say, “All talk, and nothing to
show. He couldn’t even serve us liquor.”’
Bechu: ‘What are you saying? Is this dushala mine to pawn?’
Wife: ‘Whosoever’s it may be, at this moment, just use it. No one will come
to know.’
Bechu: ‘No, this I cannot do, whether we get liquor or not.’
And he walked out. When he came in again, he saw his wife digging up
something from a hole in the ground. Seeing him, she quickly covered the hole
with the end of her sari.
Bechu went out again smiling to himself.

Translated from the Hindi by Moyna Mazumdar

 Hoodwinked

Seth Chandumal would heave a sigh whenever he saw his shop and godowns
filled with goods. How would all this get sold? The bank interest was going up,
the shop rental was due, and so were the wages of the employees. All this would
have to be paid off from the savings. It seemed that all of it had to be paid with
his own money. If this situation continued for a few more days, he would go
totally bankrupt. Even then, the protesters kept pestering like a devil on one’s
head.
Chandumal’s shop was in Chandni Chowk, Delhi. In the suburbs, too, he had
many shops. When the Congress Committee of the city wanted him to stop the
import and sale of foreign cloth, he did not pay heed. Seeing him, several other
traders refused to sign the pledge paper. The kind of leadership he assumed
following this was totally unprecedented without him having done much. He was
a well-wisher of the government. From time to time, he would send gifts to
appease the sahib bahadur. He was close to the police, too. He was also a
member of the municipality. By opposing the Congress programme, he had even
become the treasurer of the Peace Committee. All these benefits were the result
of his support. To welcome the prince, the officials bought from him cloth worth
twenty-five thousand rupees. Why should such a powerful man fear the
Congress? What was the Congress anyway?
The police also backed him—‘Don’t sign the contract. Let’s see what these
people can do. Just watch us send them to jail one by one.’
Chandumal’s courage was bolstered. He resolved to fight the Congress. The
result was that for the past three months from early morning till nine in the night
result was that for the past three months from early morning till nine in the night
volunteers were posted in front of his shop to keep vigil. Several times the police
hauled up the volunteers, abused them, and even beat them up. Chandumal too
aimed a volley of angry words at them but their vigil was not lifted. He became
unpopular because of all the ill treatment meted out to the volunteers, and his
business suffered. The bookkeepers of the shops in the suburbs plied him with
further bad news. It was really a difficult situation. There seemed to be no way
out. He saw that those who had signed the contract kept buying foreign goods on
the sly. There was no vigilance on their shops. All these hassles assailed only
him.
What benefit did I get from my friendship with the police and the
administration, he thought. No matter what they do, they cannot dislodge the
surveillants. The sipahis did not inspire customers to visit him! If they could be
removed somehow, then things would be resolved.
Meanwhile, the bookkeeper called out, ‘See, Lalaji. Some traders were
coming to our shop. But these vigil-keepers have told them something. They are
all going back.’
Chandumal answered, ‘If somebody could shoot these sinners, I would be
most happy. They will only rest after ruining me.’
‘It’s your ego. You could have signed the pledge and got these surveillants
removed. We too could have sold off our goods somehow then.’
‘I’ve thought about this too; but imagine how insulting it would be for me.
After acting so stubborn, one cannot simply bend over. I will fall in the eyes of
the administrators. People will mock me and say, look at that fellow, he thought
he could fight the Congress! So browbeaten have I been that I have come to my
senses. Those whom I had beaten or got beaten, those whom I mocked, those
whom I abused . . . with what face can I go in their refuge? There is one way out,
though. If the trick works, things will be okay. As the saying goes, kill the snake,
but save the stick. I can get the vigil lifted, but without appeasing anyone.’

It was past nine. Chandumal had come back from a dip in the Ganges and was
seated on a bolster, reading his letters. The bookkeepers from his other shops
had written about their difficulties. His anger grew with each letter he read.
Meanwhile, two volunteers came holding banners in their hands and stopped in
front of his shop.
Chandumal said angrily, ‘Move away from my shop.’
One volunteer replied, ‘Sir, I am on the road. Should I move from here too?’
‘I don’t want to see your face.’
‘Then you write to the Congress Committee. We have been ordered by them
to stand guard here.’
One constable came forward and said, ‘What is it, Sethji? What is this lad
croaking about?’
Chandumal said, ‘I am telling him to move away from my shop, but he is
saying that he will not. Such impertinence!’
The constable threatened the volunteers, ‘Are you two going from here or
should I use force?’
‘We are standing on the road and not in the shop.’
The constable wanted to display his sense of duty. He wanted to please the
seth so he could be rewarded. He abused the volunteers, but when they ignored
him, he pushed one of them so hard that he fell on his face. A few volunteers
from here and there gathered around the place. Some sipahis too came in.
Onlookers usually enjoy such incidents. They crowded around as well.
Somebody shouted, ‘Mahatma Gandhi ki jai!’ Others joined in the sloganeering,
and in no time, the place was filled with a sea of people.
One onlooker said, ‘What is it, Lala Chandumal? You are getting this poor
fellow harassed in front of your shop and you have no shame. Are you not afraid
of God at all?’
Chandumal said, ‘I swear I have not asked these sipahis to do anything. They
just went after those poor fellows. I always get a bad name in the locality for no
reason.’
One constable countered him, ‘Lalaji, you told us that these two volunteers
were teasing your customers. Now you are brushing everything aside.’
‘Lie! An utter lie! A total lie! In trying to demonstrate how dutiful you are,
you guys just became insensible. These fellows were standing way beyond the
shop. They were neither speaking to anyone nor causing any trouble. You started
shoving them around for no reason. I need to sell my wares, not fight with
people.’
The other constable said, ‘Lalaji, you are very shrewd. You are the one who
 The other constable said, ‘Lalaji, you are very shrewd. You are the one who
incited me, and now you have stepped away. If you had not spoken then was
there any reason for me to push them around? Darogaji instructed me to keep an
eye over your shop. No volunteers should come there, he said. That is why we
came. If you had not complained, why would Darogaji give us this instruction?’
‘Darogaji had to show off how dutiful he was. Why should I take any
complaint to him? Everybody is becoming an enemy of the Congress. Those in
the police station seethe in resentment against them. Is it because of my
complaint that he gave you such instructions?’
By then someone had informed the police station that there was a scuffle
between the volunteers and the constables in front of Chandumal’s shop. News
reached the Congress office too. Shortly, a whole lot of armed police arrived
with the station house officer and the inspector. The Congress activists, too,
arrived quickly in large numbers. The size of the gathering increased further.
Slogans rent the air repeatedly. Congress leaders and the police were locked in
heated exchanges. The result was that the police arrested the two volunteers and
marched them to the lock-up.
After the police officers left the place, Sethji told the seniormost Congress
leader, their pradhan, ‘Today I have come to learn how cruel these people are
towards the volunteers of the Congress.’
‘Then those two volunteers were not arrested in vain. Do you have any further
suspicion regarding this matter now? Do you now realize whether we’re really
violent and disruptive of peace?’
‘Yes, sir, I do.’
‘Your evidence in our favour is now ensured.’
‘I am going to make it clear, no matter what the consequences. The high-
handedness of the police cannot be tolerated any more. I have been under an
illusion so far.’
‘The police will not go easy on you,’ the Congress secretary said.
Chandumal said, ‘I will withstand a hundred pressures, but I will not lie. The
administration may not support my appeal.’
‘Now our honour lies in your hands,’ said the secretary.
Chandumal asserted, ‘You will not find me a traitor to the country.’
While the office-bearers were leaving the place, the secretary said to the
pradhan, ‘It seems the man is genuine.’
The pradhan was not convinced. ‘By tomorrow, everything will be clear.’
 The pradhan was not convinced. ‘By tomorrow, everything will be clear.’

In the evening, Chandumal was called to the police station. The inspector said,
‘You have to give evidence. We are counting on your support.’
Chandumal said, ‘I am ready.’
‘Did the volunteers abuse the constables?’ the inspector asked.
Chandumal replied, ‘I did not hear anything.’
‘Whether you have heard or not does not matter. You have to say that they
were pushing the customers around in the shop, starting a scuffle, and then
threatening to beat them up. You have to say all this. Darogaji, please get the
evidence I have written out for Sethji.’
‘I can’t lie in an open court. Thousands who know me will be present there.
Who all can I hide my face from? I need a way out of this somehow.’
‘All this is fine as far as personal dealings are concerned. In political dealings,
lies, truth, shame and modesty . . . nothing matters.’
‘But my reputation is at stake.’
‘But in the eyes of the administration, you will earn four times the respect you
already have.’
‘No, sir, I can’t testify. Get some other witness.’
‘Do remember that the respect you have now will be shattered.’
‘Let it all go; I have my compulsions.’
‘You will lose the post of treasurer in the Peace Committee.’
‘Does one get one’s bread and butter out of it?’
‘The licence of your gun too will be taken away.’
‘Let it be taken; I don’t care!’
‘There will be an income tax investigation too.’
‘Of course, go ahead and do it. This is what I too had in mind.’
‘You will not even get a chair to sit on.’
‘What good is a chair? I am going to be bankrupt anyway.’
‘Fine, you can go now. Sooner or later we’ll catch up with you.’

The next day, at the same time, in the Congress office, the following day’s
The next day, at the same time, in the Congress office, the following day’s
activities were being planned. The pradhan said, ‘Send two volunteers to sit
outside Seth Chandumal’s shop.’
The secretary replied, ‘In my view now there is no need to keep vigil in front
of his shop.’
‘Why? He has still not signed the contract.’
‘Yes, he has not signed, but he has become our friend. Not to become a
witness on behalf of the police testifies that. How much pressure the
administration must have put on him can be easily gauged. He wouldn’t have
been able to withstand it if he didn’t have moral conviction.’
‘Yes, some changes have, of course, happened.’
‘Not some, sir! One should say that it is a total revolution. Do you know the
implications of refusing to succumb to administrative pressures? It is as good as
declaring one’s resistance against the state. This is equal to renouncing the world
and taking sanyas in the path of sacrifice. The entire administration is now
thirsting for his blood. It would not be surprising if the governor too has been
apprised of the developments.’
‘But for the sake of formality at least he should sign the contract. Call him
here. Let us talk to him.’
‘He is a man with self-esteem. He would never come here. Rather, if he senses
our mistrust of him, he’s likely to try and join forces with them again.’
‘If you have so much faith in him then let us leave his shop alone. But I would
still say that you must keep an eye on him by meeting him personally.’
‘You are unnecessarily suspicious.’
At nine, when Chandumal reached his shop, there were no volunteers there. A
smile flashed across his face. He told his bookkeeper, ‘It is a checkmate.’
The bookkeeper averred, ‘It seems so. Not a single one seems to be here yet.’
‘They will come neither now nor later. The ball is in our court. The strategy
I’ve used had won me complete victory! How long does it take to befriend them?
Should I call them and ask them to do odd jobs? Slaves of a few pennies can
neither be friends of anyone nor enemies. I’ve hoodwinked them well and good,
haven’t I?’
‘I feel like kissing your hands. The snake is killed and the stick is still intact.
But I’m sure the Congress fellows will keep a secret watch over us.’
‘Don’t worry, I am right here. They can’t beat me at this game. I will outsmart
them. Take out the rolls of imported cloth and give them to the traders. We will
sail through in one go.’

Translated from the Hindi by Anuradha Ghosh

 Reincarnation

Material prosperity rarely comes to gentlemen. Ramtahal, who enjoyed a life of

luxury, was dissipated and morally degraded. He was a cunning man, good at
extracting interest out of loaned money and always on the winning side in legal
transactions. His wealth kept increasing. Everyone was his prey. On the other
hand, his younger brother, Shivtahal, was religious, devout, and helpful. His
wealth kept decreasing. There were always at least two or three guests hovering
at his doorstep. His elder brother had a lot of clout in the neighbourhood. Those
who belonged to the lower castes followed his orders promptly. His house was
repaired free of cost. Those indebted to him came with offerings of all kinds. For
instance, some from the Kunjre caste would get saag-bhaji, while the Goalas
would give him milk—that also one and a half times the quantity of what one
would get at the market price. The younger brother had no such clout. Sadhus
and mendicants would be his visitors; they would eat their fill in his house and
go on their way. If he gave money to people, it was not with the intention of
earning interest, but to help them out in their hour of need. He could not demand
his own money from his debtors forcefully, lest he hurt their sentiments.
In this manner quite a few years went by. Whatever inheritance Shivtahal
possessed was squandered in his pursuit of salvation. Much of his money sank.
Ramtahal, on the contrary, got a new house built. He also opened a shop for
doing business in gold and silver. He bought some land too and started farming.
Shivtahal was now worried. How could he live like this? He did not have
money to generate an income. He did not possess the skills that help one earn a
living without wealth. He didn’t even have the courage to borrow money from
living without wealth. He didn’t even have the courage to borrow money from
anyone. How would he repay them if he ran losses? He couldn’t even look for
employment under anyone because then the family honour would be at stake.
Finally, finding no other recourse, he went to his elder brother and said,
‘Brother, now you have to take the responsibility of looking after me and my
family. Where else can I go seeking refuge?’
Ramtahal said, ‘You don’t have anything to worry about. You have not
squandered your money in evil deeds. Whatever you have done has only boosted
the honour of our family. I am cunning; I know how to trick the world. You are a
simple man. Others have cheated you. This is your house too. You can collect
the revenues from the lands I have bought, and look after the farming there.
Whatever you spend each month, come and take it from me. But I have one
condition. I won’t spend a single penny on sadhus and mendicants. And I
wouldn’t like you to speak ill of me.’
Shivtahal, overcome with emotion, said, ‘Brother, I have surely sinned by
always speaking ill of you; my apologies. If you ever hear me speak ill of you
again, give me whatever punishment you deem fit. I have one request to make,
though. Do ensure that your wife stops chastising me for whatever good or bad I
have done so far.’
Ramtahal said, ‘If ever again I hear her speak ill of you, I will pull out her
tongue.’

Ramtahal’s lands were some twenty-five miles away from the town. A
temporary house had been built there. The bullocks, the cart and all the farming
implements were kept there. Shivtahal gave his house to his brother and went to
live in the village with his children. He started working in earnest there. The
farmhands were alerted. The fruits of labour were evident. In the first year itself,
the farm produce doubled and expenses were reduced by half.
But how does one change one’s nature? Though it was not like before, one or
two characters would still come to visit Shivtahal after hearing of his success.
Shivtahal was forced to look after them. Of course, he concealed these incidents
from his brother, so that Ramtahal in his annoyance wouldn’t put an end to this
source of livelihood. The result was that Shivtahal was compelled to sell
vegetables, fodder, oil cakes and other such things on the sly. To make up for
this, he extracted more work from the labourers and he exerted himself too. He
ignored the heat and cold, and even the rains completely. But the problem was
he had not worked this hard ever before. His health deteriorated. The food he ate
was not wholesome either. Nor did he maintain any proper hours. Sometimes he
would eat at midday, sometimes in the late afternoon. When thirsty, he would go
straight to the pond. Weakness indicated the onset of disease. He soon fell ill. No
medicine was available in the village. The food he was eating was not suitable
for his condition. He began to fall sick; the fever now caught his spleen and in
six months’ time he passed away.
Ramtahal was depressed by the news. In the past three years, he had not
bought even a paisa’s worth of grains. Jaggery, butter, fodder for animals, fuel in
the form of cow-dung cakes . . . everything came from the village. Overcome by
remorse, he regretted being so negligent about his brother’s treatment, drowned
as he was in his own selfish pursuits. But how was he to know that the fever
could take such a fatal turn? Had he realized the seriousness of the situation, he
would have definitely taken care of Shivtahal’s medical treatment. If this was
God’s will, how could he have changed anything?

Now there was no one to look after the lands. Ramtahal had tasted the pleasure
of farming. His wayward lifestyle had affected his health too. He now wanted to
live in the salubrious climate of the village. He decided to move to the village
and work on the land. He delegated his business in the city to his son, who had
grown up by now.
In the village he devoted all his time and energy to looking after the cows. He
had one large cow that hailed from the banks of the Yamuna. He had bought her
some years ago with great enthusiasm. She yielded a lot of milk and was so
simple that even when children grabbed her horns, she did not protest. At that
time she was pregnant. Ramtahal loved her dearly. He would look after her day
and night, sometimes stroking her back, sometimes feeding her fodder—all with
his own hands. Many offered more than double her price but Ramtahal did not
sell her. When the cow gave birth, Ramtahal celebrated the occasion with a lot of
fanfare; many Brahmins were fed on the day. The festivities continued for
fanfare; many Brahmins were fed on the day. The festivities continued for
several days. The calf was named Jawahir. An astrologer was called to draw his
birth chart. According to him the calf was very intelligent, auspicious and
devoted to him. Only in the sixth year there was a chance of some misfortune. If
he somehow managed to sail through that then he would lead a happy life till the
very end.
The calf was milk white. A red tilak was painted on his forehead. His eyes
were dark. His features were beautiful and his limbs well shaped. He kept
mooing the entire day. Ramtahal was delighted by his pranks. The calf became
so fond of him that he would follow him around like a dog. Jawahir would stand
beside him while he was attending to his clients in the mornings and evenings
and keep licking him all over. When Ramtahal’s hands stroked his back with
affection, his tail would go erect and his eyes would dance with joy. Ramtahal,
too, was so fond of him that unless he sat on his charpoy to play with the calf, he
found no taste in his food. He would often hug him and pet him. He got a silver
necklace specially made for him, decked him with silk flowers and even got him
silver anklets. He appointed a man to give the calf a bath every day and also dust
him regularly. If Ramtahal was seen seated on a horse so he could visit
neighbouring villages, Jawahir would start lowing and rush towards him to lick
his feet. This father-and-son relationship between a man and an animal was so
unique that everybody was surprised by it.

Jawahir was now two and a half years old. Ramtahal thought of putting him to
work. He had grown from a calf to a bull. He had a round hump, a well-shaped
body, powerful muscles, a broad chest and a joyful stride. There was no bull as
wonderful as him in the neighbourhood. It was difficult to get another like him.
When Jawahir was yoked with another bull, it was obvious that the pair did not
match. People said that though the owner had spent a lot of money he could not
find one even remotely equal to Jawahir! They were as different as the light of
an electric lamp and that of an oil lamp.
It was curious that Jawahir would not lift his foot when the cart driver
hollered. He simply shook his neck. But when Ramtahal took the reins and
coaxed him affectionately, ‘Come on, son,’ Jawahir would fly off with the cart.
He would cover several miles in one breath without stopping anywhere. Even
He would cover several miles in one breath without stopping anywhere. Even
horses were unable to match him.
One evening, when Ramtahal was chasing away flies as Jawahir fed on oil
cakes and husk, a wandering mendicant arrived and stood at the doorstep.
Ramtahal welcomed him with utmost humility. ‘Why stand there? Do come in.’
The mendicant said, ‘I’m just watching this bull. I have never seen such a
handsome one.’
‘He is from this house.’
‘He is a living God.’ He then started kissing Jawahir’s hooves.
Ramtahal asked, ‘Where do you hail from? Do take some rest here. I will be
obliged.’
‘No, my dear man, pardon me. I have to catch a train for some important
work. I will be delayed if I wait the night.’
‘Will I meet you again?’
‘Yes, definitely, after three years of pilgrimage, I will be back this way. I will
spend the night here then. You are a blessed soul—you have the opportunity to
serve a Nandi like this. Don’t consider him an animal. He is some great soul
born in this form. Do not ever hurt him. Do not ever hit him, even by mistake.’
The mendicant then touched Jawahir’s hoof again and went on his way.

5
From that day on, Jawahir got even better treatment. From an animal he
graduated to a God. Ramtahal first fed him from the kitchen and then had his
own meal. First thing in the morning he visited him as one does a sacred shrine.
He went so far as to desist from even yoking him to the cart. But when Ramtahal
had to go somewhere and was forced to take out the cart, Jawahir became eager
to be yoked to it; in excitement he would keep nodding his head, making it
difficult for Ramtahal to do anything else. A few times, when he took the other
pair to draw the cart, it upset Jawahir so much that he refused to eat anything the
whole day. That is why Ramtahal refrained from going anywhere unless it was
an emergency.
Seeing Ramtahal’s faith, the other villagers too started feeding grains to
Jawahir. Many would visit him in the morning to make their offerings.
Three years went by in this manner. Now Jawahir was in his sixth year.
Ramtahal remembered what the astrologer had said. He was afraid that the
prediction would come true. He got many books on veterinary science and
prediction would come true. He got many books on veterinary science and
started reading them. He met a vet and procured some medicines too. He got
Jawahir vaccinated. Fearing that the servants might give him the wrong fodder,
or water that was not clean, he took on the entire responsibility of looking after
Jawahir. The shed was cemented so that harmful germs or insects were kept
away. Every day he would wash the place thoroughly.
It was evening. Ramtahal was standing beside Jawahir, feeding him from a
tumbler. Suddenly the mendicant who had visited him three years ago arrived.
Ramtahal recognized him immediately. After greeting the mendicant, he
inquired about his well-being and then went in to arrange a meal. All of a sudden
Jawahir belched loudly and fell to the ground. Ramtahal was at his side in a
moment. Jawahir’s eyes glazed over. He looked at Ramtahal with love and then
became still.
Scared, Ramtahal went to get the medicines. He could not understand what
had happened. When he reached with the medicines, he found that Jawahir was
already dead.
Ramtahal hadn’t felt so much sorrow even when his younger brother had died.
He would keep running to the bull’s side and hold him close, crying his heart
out, even though people tried to stop him.
Ramtahal cried through the whole night. Jawahir’s memory kept surfacing in
his mind. Sorrow weighed heavily on him, gripping him at intervals.
Early the next morning Jawahir’s body had to be disposed of but Ramtahal did
not allow the tanners to come and take him away as per the custom in the
village. He cremated the bull in accordance with the scriptures, lighting the pyre
himself. He religiously performed all the rituals associated with death. He served
meals to the Brahmins of the village on the thirteenth day. The mendicant who
had come to him was still by his side—Ramtahal wouldn’t let him go. The
mendicant’s words helped him calm down a little.

One day he asked the mendicant, ‘Mahatmaji, I still don’t understand—what

ailed Jawahir? The astrologer had predicted that his sixth year would not go
well. But I have not seen any animal die like this. You are a yogi; can you solve
this riddle?’
The mendicant said, ‘I can make some sense of it.’
 The mendicant said, ‘I can make some sense of it.’
‘Do tell me. My mind is not at peace.’
‘In his past life, he must have been an honest, helpful and deeply religious
man. He had spent all his money on good deeds in the name of religion. Was
there any relative of yours who had been like this?’
‘Yes, sir, there was one.’
‘He must have cheated you, betrayed your trust. You must have entrusted him
with some work, and he used your money to serve followers of religion like
sadhus and mendicants on the sly.’
‘He was such a simple-minded, honest fellow. The thought of cheating anyone
wouldn’t even have crossed his mind.’
‘But he did betray your trust. Not out of self-interest but to serve others. It is
still cheating.’
‘Circumstances probably swayed him from the path of duty.’
‘Yes, it is so. It must have been ascertained that he deserved a place in heaven,
but he had to atone for betraying somebody’s trust. Whatever money he had
cheated you out of had to be paid back, so he was born here as an animal in this
birth. It was certain that in six years’ time he would be able to atone for the sin
he’d committed. He stayed with you to fulfil that time period. Once the period
was over, his soul left his body to embark on the eternal journey.’
The mendicant left the next day. A great change came over Ramtahal. His
attitude to life changed completely. His heart was filled with kindness and
sensitivity. He started thinking that if such a devout man like his brother had to
undergo punishment for one mistake, then what must lie awaiting him for all his
misdeeds! He could never drive this thought away from his mind.

Translated from the Hindi by Anuradha Ghosh

 Test

Nadir Shah’s army was wreaking havoc in Delhi. Rivers of blood were flowing
in the lanes. Sounds of lamentation could be heard all around. The people of
Delhi stayed indoors for fear of their lives. No one was safe. Houses were being
plundered, markets were being looted and there was no one to listen to anyone’s
complaint. Women of aristocratic families were being taken out of their palaces
and dishonoured. These Irani soldiers’ thirst for blood still did not seem to get
quenched. The cruelty and bestiality of human beings had reached new heights.
In those days, Delhi was the centre of licentiousness. The houses of aristocrats
were filled with objects of luxury and cosmetics. Women had no other work
besides beautifying themselves. The men folk did nothing but slip into
debauchery. Poetic assemblies had taken the place of politics. Wealth was
brought to Delhi from provincial areas and flowed like water. The prostitutes
had a good life. If koel fights were going on at one corner, partridges and
nightingales were made to fight in another. The entire city was lost in a
sensuous, pleasurable haze.
When Nadir Shah reached the royal palace his eyes were dazzled by the sight
of the objects there. He had been born into a very poor family. His entire life had
been spent in battlefields. He was not accustomed to a life of luxury. What a
world of difference there was between the rigours of the battlefield and the
comforts of the palace! He could not tear his gaze away from the objects at the
palace.
It was the twilight hour. Nadir Shah was taking a tour of the palace with his
generals. He picked up whatever he liked, entered the Diwan-e Khaas and sat on
generals. He picked up whatever he liked, entered the Diwan-e Khaas and sat on
the ornate throne. He ordered the generals to leave, removed all his weapons and
called in the commander to the palace and said, ‘I want to see the dance of the
royal wives. Go, deck them in beautiful garments, and bring them in front of me
right now. And mind, there should be no delay. I will not tolerate excuses.’

The commander was stunned at Nadir Shah’s diktat. How would the ladies, on
whom even a ray of the sun had not fallen, be brought to a public assembly, let
alone asked to dance? The royal ladies had never suffered such indignities. What
a beast! He was not content with painting the entire city of Delhi with human
blood.
But no one had the courage to bandy words with Nadir Shah. It was like
jumping into a fire. The commander bowed his head to salute the emperor, went
to the inner apartments and conveyed Nadir Shah’s command to the royal ladies.
He also requested that the command be carried out in full compliance because
Nadir Shah wouldn’t listen to any excuse. Such a calamity had never befallen the
royal family. But, at that moment, there was no other way to save their lives
except obeying the orders of the victorious emperor.
The begums lost their wits when they heard the command. An atmosphere of
mourning enveloped the palace. All regular activities were stopped. A curse
went out from every heart for the oppressor. Some looked up at the skies
pleading for help, some remembered God and His prophet. But there was not a
single lady who thought of the sword, even though many of them had Rajput
blood coursing through their veins. It seemed like the life of sensual pleasure
they had led so far had dulled the spirit of jauhar. The longing for luxury spells
ruin for self-respect. There was no time to discuss and come up with a way to
save their dignity. Every minute was critical. Helpless, all the ladies decided to
appear before the sinful victor. They sighed and lamented their fate. Tears were
streaming down their eyes, but they still wore their jewel-studded dresses while
kohl rimmed their tearful eyes. They wore perfumes even though they were
grief-stricken. Some even decorated their hair with pearl beads. There wasn’t a
single woman who had the courage to challenge the order.
It had not even been an hour when the begums, decked in all their dazzling
finery, trooped into the Diwan-e Khaas and stood before Nadir Shah. The beauty
of their faces was so enhanced by their toiletry, they put rose and jasmine to
shame as the scent of the perfume they wore filled the air.

Nadir Shah looked at the bevy of ladies from the corner of his eyes, leaned back
on the throne and lay down. He placed his sword and dagger before him. Soon
he began to doze off. Then he stretched his body and turned on his side. The
ladies could hear him snoring. It seemed like he was lost in deep slumber. He
slept for half an hour while the begums stood rooted to the spot like the pictures
on the wall. One or two ladies who were somewhat brazen looked at Nadir Shah
from behind the veil and started whispering among themselves—‘How fearful he
looks! How bloodshot his eyes are! What a heavy girth! He’s not a man but a
monster!’
Suddenly, Nadir Shah’s eyes opened. The fairies went still. Seeing him wake
up, the begums lowered their heads, shrank into themselves and went into a
huddle like a flock of sheep. Their hearts were pounding. Now the tyrant will ask
us to sing and dance. What do we do? May God restrain this tyrant! We can’t
dance—even if we have to lay down our lives. We won’t suffer any more
indignities!
Nadir Shah’s voice was harsh when he began to speak. ‘Dear ladies, I had
subjected you to a test, and I’m sorry to say that my misgivings about you came
true to the letter. When the women of a nation lose their self-respect, you can
take that nation to be dead.
‘I wanted to see whether there was some self-respect left in you. That is why I
called you into my court. I didn’t want to violate your honour. I am not so
depraved yet. If I were, I would be grazing flocks of sheep. If I had surrendered
myself to sensual pleasures, I would have been in Persia, listening to the sitar
and the sarod, which I love more than Hindustani music. I simply wanted to test
you. I feel truly sad that you’ve lost all sense of self-esteem. Was it impossible
for you to tread upon my command? When all of you arrived here I gave you
another opportunity. I pretended that I had gone to sleep. Wasn’t it possible for
any of you to pick up the dagger and shove it into my heart? I swear by the holy
word of God, I would have been delighted to see any of you laying a hand on the
word of God, I would have been delighted to see any of you laying a hand on the
dagger. I would have bowed my head before those delicate hands. What a pity
that in the entire Timurid family, there’s not a single woman ready to raise her
hand against indignity. This kingdom cannot survive now. Its days are
numbered. Soon its traces will vanish from the face of the earth. You may go
now. Try and save the kingdom even now. If not, you will leave this world as
prisoners of sensual pleasure.’

Translated from the Hindi by M. Asaduddin

 A Loyal Subject

It was evening. Nasiruddin, the emperor of Lucknow, was taking a walk in his
garden with his courtiers and flatterers. He was wearing an English hat in place
of the jewel-studded royal crown and was also dressed in English style.
There were five Englishmen in his entourage. The emperor had placed his
head on the shoulders of one of the Englishmen. There were three or four
Indians too. One of them was Raja Bakhtaavar Singh. He was the commander of
the imperial army whom everyone addressed as ‘General’. A middle-aged man
with a well-preserved physique, he looked regal in his Lucknowi outfit. His face
exuded wisdom. The second Indian was Raushanuddaulah, who was the prime
minister of the state. He was stocky and sported a big moustache. To keep it
erect, he walked with his chest puffed. Vanity dripped from his eyes. The others
comprised the chief of police and the emperor’s two bodyguards. Although it
was the beginning of the nineteenth century, the emperor had accepted the
British way of life. He ate an English breakfast. He had great faith in the English
and spoke in their favour. No one, be they a big raja or an official, dared to
compete with an Englishman.
If anyone had the courage to do so, it was Raja Bakhtaavar Singh. He could
not bear to see the East India Company increasing its influence. The number of
Company soldiers employed to protect the state of Awadh was increasing day by
day, and consequently, the cost of their upkeep was also on the rise. The state
could not pay those expenses and was deep in the Company’s debt. The
condition of the imperial army was getting worse. They did not have the strength
or the organizational capacity. The soldiers did not get their salaries for years.
or the organizational capacity. The soldiers did not get their salaries for years.
The weaponry had become outdated, the uniforms tattered. There was no one to
impose discipline. If Raja Bakhtaavar Singh made any proposal to increase the
soldiers’ salaries or improve their weapons, the Company resident opposed it
tooth and nail and accused him of encouraging rebellious forces in the state.
Chastised by the English, the emperor unleashed his anger on Raja Sahib.
The emperor’s English courtiers always tried to undermine Raja Sahib’s
authority and influence. However, despite being sandwiched between the
emperor’s indifference on the one hand and the stiff opposition of the English on
the other, Raja Sahib was steadfast in doing his duty. The irony lay in the fact
that even the soldiers were not happy with him. Many of them were either
ruffians or addicted to the licentious life of Lucknow. When Raja Sahib wanted
to replace them by recruiting upright youths, it created an uproar. People spread
the rumour that he was trying to increase his stranglehold on the administration
by recruiting Rajput youths into the army. This rumour had deeply affected the
Muslims. Raja Sahib often felt so annoyed that he wanted to give up his job and
leave the state. But the fear that the British would turn the emperor into a puppet
the moment the general left, leading to the destruction of the state of Awadh,
made him stay. Another problem was that Raushanuddaulah too was opposed to
Raja Sahib. He suspected that the general was trying to tie up with the Marathas
to destroy Awadh. That is why he got in the way whenever Raja Sahib wanted to
do anything. He still believed that the Muslim state of Awadh could stay intact
only with the protection of the British. Otherwise it would be gobbled up by the
swelling Hindu forces.
In reality, Bakhtaavar Singh’s condition was precarious. His cleverness would
see him through many of his activities. He was stubborn by temperament and
would take recourse to persuasion, courtesy and humility to get his work done.
This added affectation and artificiality to his behaviour, which made him a
suspect in the eyes of his enemies.
The emperor told one of his English flatterers, ‘Perhaps you don’t realize how
much I value your presence here. In my entire kingdom, nobody would dare look
at you with eyes of disfavour.’
The Englishman bowed and said, ‘We can never pay enough thanks to His
Excellency for this favour.’
The emperor declared, ‘I swear by Imam Hussain, if anyone creates the
 The emperor declared, ‘I swear by Imam Hussain, if anyone creates the
slightest difficulty for you, I’ll have him stand against the wall and shot dead.’
It was a habit with the emperor to hold his hat in his hand and twirl it on his
fingers. This daily habit made a dent in the hat. Now when he held it on his
finger and spun it around, it made a hole in the hat. The emperor’s attention was
concentrated on the Englishmen. Bakhtaavar Singh cringed when he heard the
emperor’s words. How much flattery, and how much humiliation for the people
of Awadh, was concealed in his words! Others began to laugh when they saw the
hole in the hat but Bakhtaavar Singh could not control the words that came out
of his mouth. ‘Your Honour, there is a hole in the hat.’
Raja Sahib’s enemies plugged their ears with their fingers. The emperor also
felt that Raja Sahib was making fun of him. His demeanour changed. The
English and other courtiers began to whisper among themselves, as though they
had witnessed a great calamity. There was no doubt that Raja Sahib had uttered
those words clearly. It was possible that he had not intended to make fun of the
emperor, that he wanted to express his concern. But the words were taken in a
different way. His enemies were sure not to let this opportunity pass.
When Raja Sahib saw the situation, his blood froze. He realized that he had
laid a trap for himself and it was difficult to wriggle out of it.
The emperor commanded the chief of police, with bloodshot eyes, ‘Throw this
traitor in prison and chop off his head. Let him understand the consequences of
being disrespectful to the emperor.’
The police chief didn’t dare lay his hands on the general. Raushanuddaulah
gestured towards him and said, ‘Why are you just standing there? Arrest him, or
you’ll also burn in this fire.’ The police chief went forward and arrested
Bakhtaavar Singh. In a moment, his hands were tied. Soldiers surrounded him on
all sides and took him away.
The emperor said to his courtiers, ‘I will also go with them. I want to see how
traitors suffer when they are killed.’
What brutish behaviour it was! Only a little while ago, this person had been a
trusted official of Raja Sahib.
The emperor suddenly said, ‘First, disrobe this traitor. I don’t want the royal
robe to be dishonoured.’
No one dared challenge the emperor. The soldiers began to disrobe Raja
Sahib. Unfortunately, a loaded pistol tumbled out of one of his pockets. The
emperor’s eyes blazed when he saw the pistol. ‘I swear by Imam Hussain, now
emperor’s eyes blazed when he saw the pistol. ‘I swear by Imam Hussain, now
I’ll not spare his life. Why should he carry a loaded gun? He must’ve had evil
intentions. Now I’ll have him thrown to the dogs. Do you see what an evil-
minded fellow he is? I was nurturing a snake in my house. What do you think his
intentions were, keeping a loaded gun with him?’
The English wanted to show Raja Sahib in a poor light. They, however,
needed him alive in order to achieve this. One of the Englishmen said, ‘I don’t
see anything inappropriate in this. The general is your bodyguard. He must
always be fully armed, especially when he is with you. No one knows when a
situation may arise that will require him to act.’
The other English courtiers also supported this view. The emperor’s anger was
somewhat mitigated. Had the same words been uttered by his Indian courtiers,
the emperor wouldn’t have spared their lives. It was likely that he had asked this
question to afford the English an opportunity to show their love of justice. He
said, ‘I swear by Hazrat Imam, all of you want to snatch the prey away from the
lion’s mouth. But I won’t listen to any of you. Let Captain Sahib be called. I’ll
ask him the same question. If he agrees with your opinion, then I won’t take his
life. However, if he is of the opposite view, then I’ll send this traitor to hell right
this moment. But beware! No one should throw any hints to him. Otherwise, I
won’t show any mercy.’ All the courtiers sat there with their heads bowed.
Captain Sahib was Raja Sahib’s friend, but in those days the emperor was
very kind to him. He was among those royal devotees who held that their main
loyalty was to the state and not to the emperor. Captain Sahib stayed away from
the court. The emperor was very happy with his work.
A man went to bring him to the court. Raja Sahib’s life was in Captain Sahib’s
hands. Apart from Raushanuddaulah, there was not a single person in the court
whose heart was not swinging between hope and hopelessness. Everyone was
praying that somehow Captain Sahib would understand the complexity of the
problem. Captain Sahib came and threw a cursory glance at the court.
Everyone’s eyes were downcast. He came forward and stood uncertainly with
his head bowed. The emperor asked, ‘Is it proper for my courtiers to keep loaded
guns with them?’ Captain Sahib saw the silence of the courtiers, their frightened
demeanour and their anxiety. He said fearlessly, ‘My lord, I think it is their duty.
The emperor has both friends and enemies. If the courtiers do not take up the
responsibility of protecting the emperor, who will? They should be armed not
only with pistols, but with other weapons too. No one knows when they might
require a weapon; where will they go to collect it at that time?’
Raja Sahib was spared his life. The emperor said despairingly, ‘Raushan,
don’t kill him, but throw him into the dark dungeon. Don’t give him anything to
eat or drink without my permission. Go and take possession of all his property
and send his entire family to jail. Raze his house to the ground, nothing should
be spared.’
It would have been better for Raja Sahib to lay down his life. His family
would not have been dishonoured, the women would not have been subjected to
humiliation and poverty. If an infection in the body finds no outlet, it infects the
whole body. Raja Sahib’s life was spared, but the fate of his entire family was in
jeopardy.
Raushanuddaulah had finally got what he desired. Never before had his
jealousy been so satisfied. He was happy that the thorn that had been in his side
for years had been taken out. Now he would have his way, now he would be the
sole arbiter of the state’s destiny. Before sundown, all of Raja Sahib’s movable
and immovable property was taken over. His old parents, the delicate women of
the family and the young boys—all were sent to jail. It was a heart-rending
scene. The women, who had been protected even from the glance of the deities,
were made to walk the street without veils, with naked feet and bowed heads, on
their way to jail. They were surrounded by a band of armed soldiers. This was
the condition of the family of Raja Sahib, whose every command only a few
hours ago could have sent ripples through the city.

A month had passed in the prison for Raja Bakhtaavar Singh. He had been
subjected to all kinds of tortures. He had not been given meals on time. His
family had also been tortured, but Raja Sahib felt a kind of peace in prison.
There, he didn’t have to worry about the emperor’s displeasure at every moment
and didn’t have to guard against the calumny of other courtiers. It was easier to
bear physical torture than mental suffering. He was put to great hardships in
prison but he didn’t have a sword dangling over his head. He decided that even if
the emperor released him, he would stay away from the court. The sun was
going to set on this state; no human power could prevent its inevitable
going to set on this state; no human power could prevent its inevitable
destruction. These were the symptoms of this destruction.
Do I deserve this punishment for my loyalty to the emperor? Only God knows
what difficulties I’ve faced to protect the state. On the one side, the emperor’s
indifference, on the other the conspiracy of powerful people—it was difficult to
work between a rock and a hard place. Hardly a day passed when I wasn’t afraid
for my life. Is this the reward for my service, devotion and commitment? I might
have uttered a few words that could have been interpreted wrongly, but such a
severe punishment for that! It would’ve been far better if I had been killed. I
wouldn’t have witnessed the suffering of my family with my own eyes. I hear
that father has not been given even a mat to sleep on. I don’t know what tortures
are being inflicted on the women. But I know this much—my dear Sukhada will
protect her chastity even at the cost of her life. I don’t care about my own
shackles, but I hear that my boys are made to wear them too. All this must be the
handiwork of Raushanuddaulah. Well, let them inflict as much torture as they
can, I have no complaints. I pray to God to take my life away. Whatever I
wanted to do in my life has been accomplished and I have faced the
consequences. There is no place in the world for a person like me.
Raja Sahib was wrapped in these thoughts. Suddenly, he heard the sound of
someone coming towards his cell. It was late in the night. There was silence
everywhere, but he could clearly hear someone’s footsteps in the dark. Softly,
this person drew ever closer. Raja Sahib’s heart pounded. He stood up. Though I
am unarmed and unable to defend myself, I should not be a passive target for
anyone. He got up in a desperate attempt to defend himself. There was no object
in the room with which he could protect himself. He realized that his end was
near. His enemies had decided to take away his life. It was all right—let him die,
marking an end to all his sufferings.
In a moment a man stood before him. Raja Sahib asked, ‘Who’s there?’
‘It’s me, your servant,’ came the answer.
Raja Sahib said, ‘Captain! I was afraid that my enemies had sent someone to
make short work of me.’
Captain replied, ‘Your enemies have other plans. The life of the emperor
himself is in danger today.’
‘Don’t tell me! How?’
‘Since the day you were captured, anarchy has spread throughout the state.
The selfish officials are on a looting spree. Destiny has smiled on the English.
The selfish officials are on a looting spree. Destiny has smiled on the English.
They are doing whatever they want. No one can challenge them. In one month,
many nobles of the city have been ruined. Raushanuddaulah has effectively
become the emperor. Prices are rising. The traders are afraid to bring their goods
inside the city. The shopkeepers are forced to pay up arbitrary sums as taxes.
The price of grain has shot up so high that in many houses people are starving.
The soldiers haven’t yet received their salaries. They have taken to robbing the
shopkeepers. Unrest has spread in the whole state. I’ve tried to bring this reality
home to the emperor several times, but he always says that he’ll look into it and
then forgets about it. Today, many shopkeepers had come with complaints and
said that if their problems are not sorted out they’ll leave the city. The sentries
dealt with them severely and threatened them, but they did not leave before
telling their whole story. Finally, only when the emperor reassured them that
their problems would be solved did they leave.’
‘I’m surprised that it had some impact on the emperor.’
‘Come on, there is no impact on him at all. This is just another aspect of his
character. In the evening he called his close courtiers and expressed a desire to
go around the city in disguise, and instructed them to accompany him in disguise
too. He wanted to see how afraid his subjects were. He ordered his courtiers to
stay at a distance from him so that no one would recognize who he was. Only
Raushanuddaulah and the five English courtiers would be with him.’
‘How did you come to know of it?’
Captain: ‘The Englishmen’s barber is one of my men. I get to know whatever
transpires in the court. It’s because of his information that I’ve come here. (The
clock in the watchtower strikes ten.) We plan to start at eleven. The throne of
Lucknow will be empty by the time the clock strikes twelve.’
Raja Sahib was scared. ‘Have they decided to assassinate him?’
‘No. Their desires will not be fulfilled if the emperor is assassinated. They
will walk the emperor through the thoroughfare of the market and take him
towards the Gomti. There, a troop of British soldiers will stand in readiness.
They will immediately take charge of the emperor and transport him to the
residency in a car. There, the Resident will compel the emperor to abdicate. He
will be made to sign up the papers right there and then sent to Calcutta
immediately.’
‘What a calamity! There’s very little time. His Excellency the emperor must
be out by now.’
be out by now.’
‘Why are you calling it a calamity? Who was happy under his rule? The
government that follows, however bad it may be, will be better than his.’
‘The English will take over?’
‘The English will run a far better government than him.’
Raja Sahib said plaintively, ‘Captain! For God’s sake, don’t utter such words.
Why didn’t you tell me all this a little earlier?’
‘But the emperor has not treated you well!’
‘How he has treated me is irrelevant. The value of a state is much more than
that of a single individual or a family. Can you release me from my shackles?’
‘In the whole state of Awadh, you won’t find a single person who would bless
the emperor from his heart. Everybody is weary of his oppressive regime.’
‘I prefer the oppression of my own people to the slavery of others. The
emperor has been reduced to this state because he trusted the strangers. He didn’t
care for anyone else because he was sure that the English would help him. I have
observed closely the ways of these firangs. They have spoilt the emperor. They
have achieved what they desired. The emperor has lost his honour in the eyes of
his subjects and he has lost their love. Today, the entire country is up in arms.
These people were waiting for such an opportunity. They know that no one will
shed tears over the emperor’s dethronement. But let me tell you this, if you do
not save the emperor from his enemies now, you will always remain imprisoned
in the shackles of slavery in your own country. If you feel that you will achieve
peace by expressing allegiance to a conquering power, it won’t be peace but
death. They will simply trample over you. The dream that our country will have
rule of law will always remain just a dream. No, there’s still some love left in my
heart for my own country. I haven’t yet become so insensitive. I will not allow
the kingdom to slip through our hands so easily. I will not sell myself so cheaply
to strangers. I won’t see my country face dishonour, even if I have to lay down
my life for it. If I can’t do anything else, I can at least give my life. Please
remove my shackles.’
‘I’m your servant but I am incapable of doing it.’
Raja Sahib said impetuously, ‘This is not the time for such words. Each
moment is taking us to certain destruction. Please open the chains. If a house
catches fire, we don’t pray to God but run towards the pond.’
‘You are my friend. I can’t but obey your orders. But—’
 ‘You are my friend. I can’t but obey your orders. But—’
‘Hurry up, hurry up. Give your sword to me. This is not the time to stand on
ceremony.’
The captain was speechless. A sincere effort is always infectious. Although
Raja Sahib’s moralistic utterances did not convince him, he called in the jail
inspector and said, ‘The emperor has ordered that Raja Sahib be released
immediately. If you delay for even a moment, you will have to face the
consequences.’
The inspector knew that the captain and the emperor were good friends. If
Captain Sahib became angry, then no effort of Raushanuddaulah’s would be able
to protect him. He took off Raja Sahib’s shackles.
Raja Sahib left the prison, sword in hand. His heart was welling up with his
devotion for the emperor. Just then, the watchtower struck eleven.

It was midnight. But the narrow lanes of Lucknow were animated. It seemed as
though it was just late evening. The jewellery market was busy. But the
surprising thing was that there were no jewels in the shops. Only crowds of
people could be seen walking the streets. Everyone was armed, their moustaches
were erect and they walked with their chests thrust forward. Even the ordinary
shopkeepers kept their weapons close at hand.
Suddenly a man appeared before a jewellery shop. He had a heavy turban on
his head, his cloak descended below his knees and there was a sash tied around
his waist. It looked as though he was a trader from Iran. In those days a lot of
Iranian traders visited Lucknow. The appearance of one in the street was not an
uncommon spectacle. The name of the shop owner was Madhav Das. He said to
the trader, ‘Tell me, Mir Sahib, shall I show you something?’
The trader asked, ‘What’s the rate of gold?’
Madhav replied in an undertone, ‘Don’t ask me about the rates. For a month
now, the market has been in a mess. The goods are not coming in. People are
keeping them hidden. They don’t bring them to the market out of fear. If you
require a large quantity, you will have to come to my humble abode. You will
have enough of a choice. Be assured that the rates will be reasonable.’
‘Why is the market in a mess nowadays?’
‘Have you arrived in the city recently?’
 ‘Have you arrived in the city recently?’
‘Yes, I arrived today. The market does not seem to be as lively as before. The
cloth market was also dull. I was looking for a length of Dacca muslin, but
couldn’t find it.’
‘There’s a reason for it. Something has gone wrong.’
‘I hope you don’t mean that the traders are afraid of robbers. I’ve never heard
of it earlier.’
‘The situation has changed. Now raids happen in broad daylight. Forget the
police chief, even the emperor cannot capture them. What can I say? Even the
walls have ears. If someone overhears us, I will be in trouble.’
‘Sethji, you are talking in riddles. I’m a foreigner, to whom would I tell the
story? Please tell me why the situation is so bad. I had gone to the cloth market,
which was totally desolate. Even coarse materials were being sold at double the
price.’
Madhav looked around him cautiously. ‘It’s a month now since
Raushanuddaulah assumed supreme power. All this is a consequence of his bad
management. Before him, Raja Bakhtaavar Singh was our master. While he was
around, no one dared to do any harm to the traders. Everyone respected his
authority. He kept a close eye on the firangs. His standing instruction was that if
a firang visited the market, a soldier was to be employed to keep an eye on him.
It is for this reason that the English were annoyed with him. Eventually, they
conspired with Raushanuddaulah to arrest Bakhtaavar Singh and send him to
jail. Since then, the market has turned into a lawless place. The government
officials are also indulging in the looting. The English are a cut above them.
They pick up from the shops whatever they want. If you ask them to pay, they
threaten you. If you complain to the court, you get punished. Only a couple of
days ago, all of us had gone to see the emperor to lodge a complaint. In the
beginning he was very angry, but then he took pity on us. Well, the temperament
of an emperor is always uncertain. He listened to all our complaints and
reassured us that he would look into the matter. But the looting is still going on.’
In the meantime, three men dressed in Rajput-style shawls came and stopped
before the shop. Madhav Das became alarmed. Often, the soldiers of the
imperial army dressed like this. The trio stopped when they saw the trader, but
he looked at them in such a way that they walked away. Then the trader asked
Madhav Das, ‘Why were you so afraid?’
Madhav Das replied, ‘They’re the soldiers of the imperial army. Since
 Madhav Das replied, ‘They’re the soldiers of the imperial army. Since
Bakhtaavar Singh has been made prisoner, no one has any control over them.
They wander around in the market looking for prey. They have not been getting
their salaries, and manage their livelihood through loot and plunder. If you
please, come to my house. I’ll show you the goods.’
‘No, brother, not at this moment. I’ll come in the morning. It is late and I’m
rather scared now that I’ve seen the situation.’
Saying this, the trader walked off in the same direction as the three Rajputs
before him. A little later, three more individuals entered the market. One of them
was wearing a tunic as pandits do. There was a round turban on his head and a
gold embroidered shawl hung from his shoulder. His two companions were
wearing servants’ clothes. They were looking around as though they were
searching for somebody. They took a look at the shop and passed on. The Iranian
trader had walked about a mile, glancing about cautiously. He had reached a
small orchard. There was an old mosque too. The trader stopped there. A
moment later, the three Rajputs came out of the mosque and said, ‘Sir, you were
sitting with the jeweller for a long time. What did you talk about?’
The trader had not yet answered when the pandit and his servants appeared.
The moment the trader saw the pandit, he said reproachfully, ‘Raushanuddaulah,
I’m so angry with you at this moment that I feel like having you thrown to the
dogs. You’re an ungrateful traitor! You’ve ruined the kingdom. The entire city is
mourning because of your oppression. I realized today why you have got Raja
Bakhtaavar Singh imprisoned. I had lost my wits and was influenced by your
glib talk. I’ll punish you so severely for your betrayal that people will learn a
lesson from it.’
Raushanuddaulah said fearlessly, ‘You are my emperor, that is why I respect
you. Otherwise, I would have punished you for this misbehaviour. When you are
enjoying yourself with your ladies in the palace, why should others work hard
for the state? Why should we shed our blood while you are making merry? Only
fools would do that.’
Shaking with anger, the emperor ordered, ‘I command that this traitor be shot
dead right away. I don’t want to see his face. And go and take over all his
property right this moment. Not a single member of his family should be left
alive.’
Raushanuddaulah was unfazed. ‘And I command you to arrest this person who
 Raushanuddaulah was unfazed. ‘And I command you to arrest this person who
is the enemy of the country and the community, who is a sinner and an oppressor
of his people. He is not worthy of the throne and the crown.’
At this, the five Englishmen who were in disguise captured the emperor and
dragged him towards the Gomti river. Then the emperor realized that it had all
been part of a conspiracy to arrest him. He looked around him, but there was no
one there. It was pointless to raise an uproar. He tried to understand the reality. It
is in distress that a man faces his real image, shorn of all trappings. Such
situations reveal how there are layers of artificial thoughts that cover the human
mind. In a moment the emperor forgot all his arrogance and pride and became
humble. He said, ‘I have never said or done anything against you for which I
should be punished. I have always regarded you as my friends.’
Raushanuddaulah replied, ‘Of course. Whatever we are doing now is also for
your good. We are freeing you of the burden of governing the state. Now you
can indulge in your luxuries without any interruption. You can enjoy your life
with your beautiful ladies without a care in the world.’
‘Do you want to dethrone me?’
‘No. We just want to free you from the responsibilities of statecraft.’
‘I swear by Imam Hussain, I won’t bear with this humiliation. I won’t
dishonour my ancestors.’
‘We are more concerned than you about your ancestors. Your licentiousness is
not adding glory to their reputation.’
The emperor said with humility, ‘I promise not to give you any cause for
complaint in the future.’
‘Only a mad person would trust a drunkard’s promise.’
‘You can’t dethrone me by force.’
‘These threats are useless. Come quietly. Your carriage is waiting. We will
bid you goodbye with full honours.’
‘Do you know what impact it will have on my subjects?’
‘I know very well. No one will raise a finger in your support. Tomorrow,
everyone will celebrate your departure by lighting a candle.’
By this time all those who were entrusted with the task of accompanying the
emperor had arrived. The carriage too was standing there. There were twenty-
five armed white soldiers. When the emperor saw the carriage, he was deeply
moved. His tears ran in torrents, and his sense of honour, which had been hidden
behind his licentiousness, came to the fore. He pulled away his hand and shouted
behind his licentiousness, came to the fore. He pulled away his hand and shouted
daringly, without any fear of consequences, ‘O inhabitants of Lucknow! Your
emperor is being killed by his enemies. Come and save him, or you will regret it
forever.’
This piteous cry that rose to the sky, piercing the silence of the space, did not
merge with the waves of the Gomti, but penetrated the hearts of the people. Raja
Bakhtaavar Singh had come out of his prison, mobilized the people and was
approaching with great speed, along with a swelling crowd. Even a moment’s
delay could have allowed the conspirators to fulfil their designs. Gradually, it
had become a crowd of several thousand armed people. This collective power
could have rescued the emperor and the city of Lucknow. Time was of utmost
consequence. If the emperor had been trapped by the English, then all of
Lucknow would not have been able to release him. As Raja Sahib moved
forward, his mind was overcome by despair. His enthusiasm was weakened by
the possibility of failure. He could not find any trace of the conspirators, though
he had arrived late. The rebels had fulfilled their wishes. The freedom of the
state of Awadh was lost forever!
They were on the brink of giving up and turning back when they heard the
emperor’s cry. Several thousand voices rose, ‘My lord, may God keep you safe.
We have arrived to sacrifice our lives for you!’
The crowd, propelled by one strong desire, moved to the scene of action with
utmost speed, new energy coursing through their veins. Those at the back
wanted to come to the front, and those at the vanguard wanted to fly to the spot.
The English pointed their twenty-five guns at the crowd and started to fire.
Many fell, but the people did not retreat. In a moment, another wave took their
positions and several of them fell to the ground, but the crowd kept advancing.
The crowd made a third move, and then they were upon the rebels. The
Englishmen fled.
When the people came close to the emperor they witnessed a strange scene.
The emperor was seated on the chest of Raushanuddaulah. When the white men
fled, the emperor had caught hold of this low-born, mean human being, thrown
him to the ground and sat on his chest. Had he been armed, Raushan’s dead body
would have been lying there.
Raja Bakhtaavar Singh moved forward and saluted the king. The people’s
cries of victory rent the sky. Some wanted to touch the emperor’s feet, while
others blessed him. Raushanuddaulah was being kicked and hit by the angry
crowd. There were also some who spat on his face.

It was morning. The city of Lucknow was celebrating. Thousands had gathered
before the palace of the emperor, carrying gifts. The poor were being fed at
many places. Music was being played in the imperial music house.
The court sat. The emperor, dressed in jewel-studded clothes, was seated on
his throne. The nobles and the rich presented their gifts. Poets read out their
panegyrics.
Suddenly, the emperor asked, ‘Where is Bakhtaavar Singh?’
The captain answered, ‘He’s in prison.’
The emperor sent a few officials to fetch Raja Sahib and escort him to the
court. After a while, when Raja Sahib came and saluted the emperor, the
emperor got down from his throne and embraced him. He made him sit on the
right of his throne. Then, the emperor stood up before the courtiers and praised
Raja Sahib’s loyalty and his good deeds, after which he dressed him in a robe of
honour with his own hands. All the members of his family were given a warm
send-off with full honour.
In the afternoon, when the court was being dismissed, the emperor told Raja
Sahib, ‘You have done a great favour to me and the state. I can’t reward you
enough for your deed. My only request is that you take up the responsibilities of
the prime minister and govern the state in the most suitable way. I shall not
interfere in your work. Just allow me to stay in a quiet corner. I also hand over
Raushan, the traitor, to you. You do with him as you see fit. I would’ve sent him
to hell by now, but have spared him because I think you should be the one to
deal with him.’
However, Bakhtaavar Singh was familiar with the unstable nature of the
emperor’s temperament. He knew very well that all these good intentions might
be short-lived. A person’s essential character does not really change. In a couple
of months, the situation in the court would return to its earlier state. And so, he
had to remain alert. He had done his duty towards the state. The service I can
perform for the state selflessly by staying away from it can never be done if I
remain a part of the court. A selfless friend always receives greater respect than
a devoted servant.
He said with humility, ‘My lord, please allow me to stay away from taking
any position. I am your servant, anyway. Please select a suitable person for this
position. I am a stubborn Rajput. What do I now about the ways of the Awadh
state?’
The emperor said, ‘I don’t see anyone more suitable and loyal than you.’
But Raja Sahib was not persuaded. The emperor also did not insist much. A
moment later, when the issue of Raushanuddaulah’s punishment came up, they
disagreed so much that they began to shout at each other. The emperor wanted
him to be killed and fed to the dogs. Raja Sahib insisted that he should not be
killed but kept under surveillance. In the end, the emperor said angrily, ‘One
day, this fellow will definitely betray you.’
Raja Sahib said, ‘I can’t take somebody’s life because of this fear.’
‘All right, you may like to forgive him, but I can never forgive him in my
whole life.’
‘You have surrendered him to me. How can you take back something that you
have already given?’
‘You leave me no choice then.’
Raushanuddaulah’s life was spared. Captain Sahib was made the prime
minister. The surprising thing was that the British Resident expressed total
ignorance about this conspiracy and said that the emperor could mete out
whatever punishment he wanted for the English courtiers. He had no objection to
it. ‘If I had them in my control, then I would have sent them to the emperor, but I
have no idea of any of them. Probably all of them fled to Calcutta on the night of
the incident.’
In history, this incident does not find any mention, but folktales, which are
often more trustworthy than history, are a witness to the truth of this story.

Translated from the Hindi by M. Asaduddin

 End of Enmity

Lifting his elder brother’s body from the charpoy and laying it on the ground,
Rameshwar Rai said to his younger brother, ‘If you’ve got some cash, go and get
it. We must think of his last rites. My pockets are empty.’
His younger brother’s name was Vishweshwar Rai. He was a zamindar’s
agent and had a good income. He replied, ‘Take half the money from me. You
take care of the rest.’
‘I don’t have any money.’
‘So mortgage his share of the land.’
‘Go and make a deal with some moneylender. Don’t be long.’
Vishweshwar took a loan from one of his friends and their immediate needs
were met. Later he took more money and mortgaged the land. There were five
bighas in all. They fetched three hundred rupees. The villagers surmised that the
funeral could hardly have cost one hundred rupees. But on the day of the
shodashi ceremony Vishweshwar presented an account of three hundred and one
rupees. Rameshwar Rai asked in astonishment, ‘All that money’s been spent?’
‘Am I so low as to filch money for my brother’s last rites?’
‘No. I’m not saying you’re dishonest. I was just asking.’
‘If you have any doubts, check with the bania I bought everything from.’

One day, a year later, Vishweshwar Rai said to his brother, ‘If you have money,
give it to me. We’ll redeem our land.’
give it to me. We’ll redeem our land.’
‘Where will I get money from? It’s not as if I’ve hidden how things are at
home.’
‘Then I’ll give the entire amount and redeem the land myself. When you have
money, give me half the amount and take your share of the land.’
‘Fine. Get back the land then.’
Thirty years passed. Vishweshwar Rai enriched the land with plenty of cow
dung and fertilizer and reaped its fruits.
He had decided that he would never give it up, that it was his rightful
inheritance. No one could take it from him, even by going to court. Rameshwar
Rai tried several times to get the money together to recover his share of the land
but in thirty years he was never able to save the required one hundred and fifty
rupees.
But Rameshwar Rai’s son Jogeshwar managed to improve matters slightly. He
began hiring out his bullock cart to carry loads and found it very profitable. He
thought constantly about reclaiming his share of the land. By labouring night and
day he finally managed to save sufficient money.
One day he went with his father to his uncle and said, ‘Kaka, take your
money. I’ll get our share registered in my name.’
Vishweshwar: ‘You’re not the only cunning son in the family. You didn’t lift
a finger all these years and now that I’ve turned the land into gold you’ve come
to claim your share? Did I go to seek any favour from you?’
Jogeshwar: ‘So now we won’t get the land then.’
Rameshwar: ‘No one can be happy robbing a brother of his rights.’
Vishweshwar: ‘The land’s mine. Not yours.’
Jogeshwar: ‘So you won’t give it up straightforwardly.’
Vishweshwar: ‘Neither straightforwardly nor crookedly. Go to court.’
Jogeshwar: ‘I don’t have the means to go to court. But I can promise this
much—I may not get the land, but you won’t get to keep it either.’
Vishweshwar: ‘Try that threat on someone else.’
Jogeshwar: ‘Then never complain that your own brother became your enemy.’
Vishweshwar: ‘Hand over a tight bundle of a thousand rupees and then do
what you please.’
Jogeshwar: ‘Where can a poor man like me get hold of a thousand rupees? But
sometimes God is merciful to the humble.’
 Vishweshwar: ‘I’m not digging myself a hole for fear of it.’
Rameshwar Rai fell silent but Jogeshwar was not so forgiving. He spoke to a
lawyer. He was no longer content with half the land; he wanted to bite into all of
it.
The late Siddeshwar Rai had a daughter by the name of Tapeshwari. She had
been married off during his lifetime. She had no idea what her father had left or
who had taken it. She was just happy that his last rites had been carried out well.
She had come for the shodashi ceremony and then returned to her in-laws’
house. Thirty years had passed and neither had anyone from her father’s house
called for her nor had she ever gone there. And her in-laws’ home was not in
good shape either. Her husband had died early and her son had a poorly paid job.
Jogeshwar began to instigate his aunt. He urged her to stake a claim to the land.
Tapeshwari told him, ‘Beta, I am happy with whatever God has given me. I
don’t want land and property. I’m not wealthy enough to go to court.’
‘I will put up the money; you just have to lodge a claim.’
‘My brother will drag you into court and leave you penniless.’
‘I can’t bear to stand by and watch while he enjoys what is rightfully ours. I
will pay for the case. I am ready to sell myself rather than let go of his throat.’
‘Even if I get the land you will take it from me in exchange for all the money
you spend. What will I be left with? Why should I do my brother ill?’
‘You take the land. All I want to do is break chacha’s pride.’
‘Very well, go and file a claim on my behalf.’
Jogeshwar thought that once the land was freed from his uncle’s clutches he
would rent it from his aunt for five or ten rupees a year. At present she didn’t
even earn a cowrie. Whatever she got would seem a lot to her. The following
day he lodged a claim. The case came up before the munsif magistrate.
Vishweshwar Rai proved that Tapeshwari was not even Siddeshwar Rai’s
daughter.
The villagers could be pressurized by Vishweshwar. They all borrowed
money from him and took his advice on legal matters and disputes. They all
stated in court that they had never seen Tapeshwari and that Siddeshwar Rai
never had a daughter. Jogeshwar employed senior advocates to argue his case
and spent a great deal of money but the magistrate ruled against him. The poor
man was in despair. Vishweshwar Rai knew everyone at the courts. The work
that cost Jogeshwar fistfuls of money people did for Vishweshwar simply out of
that cost Jogeshwar fistfuls of money people did for Vishweshwar simply out of
personal regard.
Jogeshwar decided to appeal. He had no money left, so he sold his cart and
bullocks. The appeal was filed. The case dragged on for months. Poor Jogeshwar
would spend every day from dawn to dusk flattering the court officials and
lawyers; he spent all his money and kept taking loans from moneylenders.
Finally, this time, the decision went in his favour. He had a debt of five hundred
rupees on his head but now victory wiped away his tears.
Vishweshwar appealed to the high court. This time Jogeshwar was unable to
raise the required money. Helpless, he mortgaged his own piece of land. Then he
mortgaged his house. He even sold his wife’s jewellery. Finally, he won in the
high court too. Whatever capital he had left disappeared in a joyous celebration.
A thousand rupees had gone down the drain. But there was the satisfaction of
winning all five bighas. How could Tapeshwari be so unkind as to pull this
platter away from him?
But the moment the land was in her name Tapeshwari changed her tune.
When she went to the village one day she discovered that she could rent out the
five bighas for one hundred rupees. The land revenue due was only twenty-five
rupees; seventy-five rupees was the annual profit. This sum transformed her. She
summoned the tenants and made arrangements with them. Jogeshwar was left
rubbing his palms. No longer able to contain himself, he went to her and said,
‘Phoophiji, you have given the land to other people, now where do I go?’
‘Beta, first you light a lamp in your own home and then you go and light one
in the mosque. Now I have so much land, I have a connection with my father’s
house. Before this, no one cared for me.’
‘But I’m ruined.’
‘Why don’t you rent some cheaper land for a few rupees less than these
people are paying?’
Tapeshwari left a few days later. It was as if Rameshwar Rai had been struck
by lightning. In his old age he was reduced to being a daily-wage labourer. His
hands were washed of honour and respect. He was living hand to mouth. The
cooking fire was only lit in their house if both father and son laboured from
dawn to dusk. They argued with each other most of the time. Rameshwar put all
the blame on his son’s head. Jogeshwar said that if Rameshwar had tried to stop
him he would not have been trapped in this disastrous situation. Meanwhile,
Vishweshwar egged the moneylenders on. Before a year had passed they were
Vishweshwar egged the moneylenders on. Before a year had passed they were
left with nothing—they lost their land, their house was auctioned. They had a
dozen or so trees—those were auctioned too. As they say, a Chaube Brahmin
couldn’t raise his status to a Dube Brahmin, he became a pauper instead.
At this point Vishweshwar’s taunts became even crueller. In their misfortunes
this was the sharpest thorn of all, the most merciless blow he could inflict.
For two years, members of this afflicted family knew what they suffered.
They never had a full meal. But their pride was unbendable. Poverty did
everything to them but crush their spirit. All sufferings can be endured in the
name of family honour.
One evening, father and son were sitting warming their hands in front of a fire
when all of a sudden a man came up to them and said, ‘Thakur, come,
Vishweshwar Rai is calling for you.’
Rameshwar replied indifferently, ‘Why should he call for me? Who am I to
him? Does he want to start another fight?’
Meanwhile, a second man came and said, ‘Thakur, come quickly,
Vishweshwar Rai is in a bad way.’
Vishweshwar Rai had been suffering from a fever and cough for several days
but people never fear that any harm may come to their enemies. Rameshwar and
Jogeshwar never even went to ask how he was. They would say, ‘There’s
nothing wrong with him. Rich people get rich people’s diseases. Whenever they
want to rest they lie down, eat boiled sago with milk mixed with sugar crystals,
and then get up again.’ Even when they heard that Vishweshwar Rai was in a
bad way neither of them moved. Rameshwar said, ‘What’s wrong with him?
He’s lying there in comfort talking, isn’t he?’
‘He must want to send us to fetch some doctor or hakim. Perhaps his fever is
worse,’ said Jogeshwar.
‘Which of us has time to do that? Everyone in the village is his well-wisher;
he can send anyone he pleases.’
‘What’s the harm? Shouldn’t I go and hear what he has to say?’
‘Go and get some dry cow dung first. Once the cooking fire is lit you can go.
If you had known how to handle people we wouldn’t be in this mess now.’
Jogeshwar had just picked up a basket and set off to the grazing ground when
he heard the sound of weeping from Vishweshwar Rai’s house. Jogeshwar threw
down the basket and ran there. He saw his uncle being lowered from his charpoy
down the basket and ran there. He saw his uncle being lowered from his charpoy
to the ground. Jogeshwar felt dishonoured, as if his face had been blackened. He
stepped back from the courtyard into the hall along one side, hid his face against
the wall and began to weep. Youth is emotional. It burns with anger but it also
melts with compassion.

Vishweshwar had three daughters. They were already married. He had three sons
who were still young, the eldest no more than ten years old. Their mother was
still living. There were four mouths to feed and no breadwinner. In the
countryside a man whose cooking fire is lit twice a day is considered wealthy.
His wealth is also exaggerated. People imagined that Vishweshwar Rai had
saved thousands of rupees but that wasn’t the case at all. Everyone’s eyes were
on his income; no one considered his expenditure. He had celebrated his
daughters’ weddings in a befitting manner. His entire income had disappeared in
food and clothes and hospitality. Even if he had done a deal of a few hundred
rupees to impress the villagers, he had also taken loans from several
moneylenders—in fact he had to mortgage land for his youngest daughter’s
wedding.
For a year, somehow, his widow managed to feed and care for her children.
She did so by selling her jewellery, but when that capital was spent the going
became hard. She decided to send the three boys to stay with her three daughters.
Then she would just have to fend for herself and that was not a worry. Even if
she could get a quarter of a ser of wheat flour every three days she would be able
to pass her days. At first the girls treated the boys lovingly, but none of them
could keep their brothers for more than three months. Their husbands were
irritated by the fatherless children and beat them. Their mother had no choice but
to send for them.
The young boys were hungry all day. If they saw anyone eating they would go
home and beg their mother for food. Then they gave up asking her. They went
and stood by whoever was eating and gazed at them beseechingly. Some people
would give them a handful of parched gram but mostly they just got a scolding.
It was winter. There were ripe peas in the fields. One day all three boys
slipped into one and began picking the peas. The farmer saw them. He was a
generous man. He himself pulled up a basketful of peas, brought it to
generous man. He himself pulled up a basketful of peas, brought it to
Vishweshwar Rai’s house and said to the thakur’s widow, ‘Kaki, tell your boys
not to go into anyone’s fields.’
At that time Jogeshwar was sitting at his threshold smoking a chillum. He saw
the farmer bringing the peas, the three boys behind him running like puppies.
Jogeshwar’s eyes filled with tears. He went indoors and told his father, ‘Chachi
doesn’t have anything left now. The boys are starving.’
‘You don’t know a woman’s wiles. This is all show. Where have his lifetime’s
earnings flown off?’
‘No one will let young boys starve when they have the power to prevent it.’
‘What do you know? She’s a very sly woman.’
‘People must be laughing at us.’
‘If you’re ashamed of them laughing, then do what you want, give them food
and drink. If you have it in you!’
‘If not full stomachs, at least let them have half-full stomachs. Otherwise
won’t it reflect badly on us? Our fight was with chacha. What have his sons ever
done to us?’
‘The witch is still alive, though, isn’t she?’
Jogeshwar came away. Several times he had felt that he should start helping
chachi, but he feared her fiery, cutting comments. Then he worked out a new
plan. When he saw the boys playing he would call them over and give them
something to eat. Daily-wage labourers got a break in the afternoon. Now he
worked through his break and earned a little more. On his way home he would
buy something or the other to eat, which he gave to the fatherless children, out of
sight of his own family.
Gradually the boys became so attached to him that the moment they saw him
they ran over shouting ‘Bhaiya! Bhaiya!’ and would spend the day waiting for
him. At first their mother was afraid that Jogeshwar was winning over the
children as a part of some plot connected with the old enmity. She tried to
prevent them from going near Jogeshwar and taking food from him but children
can recognize friends and enemies better than adults. The boys paid no attention
to their mother’s objections and gradually their mother too became convinced of
his sympathy.
One day Rameshwar said to his son, ‘If you’ve got more money than before
why don’t you save a bit? Why are you squandering it?’
‘I watch how I spend every single cowrie.’
 ‘I watch how I spend every single cowrie.’
‘Those you consider your own will one day be your enemies.’
‘A man’s duty also stands for something. I cannot sacrifice a family for an old
feud. What harm does it do me? Just that I have to work an hour or two longer
every day.’
Rameshwar turned his face away. When Jogeshwar went indoors his wife
said, ‘You do whatever you want no matter what anyone tells you. A man first
lights a lamp in his own home.’
‘But it’s not right, is it, to burn fancy candles in your home instead of one oil
lamp, and leave the mosque in darkness?’
‘Living with you is like falling into a well. What happiness do you give? You
took my jewellery from me and even now you don’t give me a moment’s peace.’
‘My cousins’ lives are dearer to me than your jewellery.’
His wife turned her head away and said, ‘The children of an enemy can never
be trusted.’
As he walked out, Jogeshwar replied, ‘Enmity ends with the enemy’s death.’

Translated from the Hindi by Gillian Wright

 The Fool

I had been in Devipur for only five days, but not a day had passed without a
mention of the fool. The villagers flocked around me from morning to night.
Never had I met such an opportunity or such temptation to flaunt my knowledge.
Finding a ready audience I waxed eloquent about what the viceroy had said to
Gandhi Baba and what Gandhi Baba’s reply was. I improvised further: ‘You
haven’t seen anything yet, wait and see what happens next. Fifty thousand young
men are willing and ready to go to jail. Gandhiji has asked all Hindus to do away
with the practice of untouchability, or the future will be bleaker than ever!’
People would listen to me with rapt attention, their faces wearing delighted
expressions, aglow with pride. They would burst forth elatedly, ‘We trust only in
the mahatma now.’ Then they would say, ‘Had the fool been here, he wouldn’t
have let you off for an instant. You’d find it difficult to eat or drink. He’d listen
all night long to your conversations.’
Finally, one day, I asked, ‘Who is this fool? Is he some mad man?’
One gentleman answered, ‘Not really mad, just a fool. His family is rolling in
money. They own a sugar mill in Siwan, two factories in Chhapra, and have
servants at home, but look at him! He roams around in tatters. His family had
sent him to Siwan to supervise the sugar mill. Within two months he had
quarrelled with the manager, who finally sent in his resignation. He complained
to the family that their son was inciting the workers and they were no longer
paying attention to their work. The family had to call him back. His servants rob
and pilfer at will, and he is least bothered. But that mango orchard you see there?
He guards it day and night. No one dares throw a stone in that direction.’
He guards it day and night. No one dares throw a stone in that direction.’
Another gentleman piped up, ‘Sir, all kinds of delicacies are cooked in his
house, but it seems he is destined to eat lentils and coarse bread, and nothing
else. His father buys him the best of clothes, but he doesn’t even look at them.
He only wears a rough kurta and a loincloth. What else can we say about him?
He is a complete fool.’

My curiosity was piqued. Suddenly, someone said, ‘Look! There’s the fool,
coming this way.’ I glanced in that direction, my interest aroused. A young man
of twenty or twenty-one, bare-headed, wearing a rough kurta and baggy pants,
was walking towards me. He was wearing shoes. When he came closer, I said,
‘Welcome. Do take a seat.’ He looked at the assembled gathering with derision.
Then he replied brashly, ‘Not today, some other day.’ And he walked off.
When the audience scattered at dusk, he slowly walked out of the mango
orchard and sat down next to me. He began, ‘These people must have said a lot
against me. I know I’ve been given the sobriquet of “fool”.’
I replied hesitantly, ‘Well, yes, you were indeed one of the subjects of our
discussion. But I was very keen to meet you. What’s your real name?’
‘My name is Mohammad Khalil,’ he answered. ‘But people here and in the
nearby five or ten villages know me only by my alias, which, as you know,
happens to be “the fool”.’
‘But why do they call you by this name?’ I persisted.
He began to explain. ‘It’s their choice, what else can I say? My way of life is
different, so I don’t even have permission to read the namaz five times a day.
My father and my uncle are both engrossed in their work day and night.
Accounts, profit and loss, demand and supply—these are the only things that
interest them, as though they’re not servants of God, but servants of wealth. My
uncle oversees cans of sugar syrup being loaded on to trucks late into the night.
My father weighs the sugar with his own hands. He eats his afternoon meal in
the evening and his evening meal at midnight. Neither has the time to read the
namaz. I keep telling them, “Why do you hassle yourself so for this business? As
a big businessmen, you have to trust people, and you may bear some losses
while doing that. Only small enterprises work with one’s own personal effort.”
But no one likes what I say. And so I’m called a fool.’
‘I think your principles are quite right,’ I said.
‘Don’t ever say that in public,’ he exclaimed, ‘or else there will be two fools
instead of one! The only thing that interests people is business. They don’t care
in the least for the poor, the world, the nation or the community. I read the
newspaper, and I want to contribute to the Smyrna Fund. I think of it as my duty
to also contribute to the Khilafat Fund. And the worst part is that I am in favour
of the Khilafat Movement. Well, sir, when my country, my people and the poor
are being attacked by the enemy from all directions, isn’t it my duty to sacrifice
the profit of my class for the well-being of my nation? And that’s why both at
home and outside, I’ve been given the sobriquet of the “fool”.’
‘What you’re saying is the need of the moment!’ I exclaimed.
‘I’m afraid you’ll depart this town as a much-maligned man,’ he replied.
‘When thousands of my fellow men are rotting in jails, and can’t afford even the
cheapest cloth to cover their bodies, my conscience doesn’t allow me to wear
fine clothing and gorge on the best delicacies.’
‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry that others are incapable of making the same
sacrifices as you.’
‘I don’t think of it as a sacrifice,’ he said, ‘nor do I behave like this for show.
I’m just disgusted by all this pomp and splendour. A few days ago my father sent
me to Siwan to look after the sugar mill, and what do I see? The manager’s cook,
cleaner, washerman, gardener, guard and servants were all on the payroll of the
mill. They worked for the manager, but were paid by the factory. And to make
matters worse, the manager himself was completely without principles, but was
so strict with the labourers that he would deduct half a day’s wages if they were
late by even five minutes. I decided to take matters into my own hands, and
showed some leniency towards the workers. That was all. The manager was
furious; he threatened to resign. My family knew that he was a cheat and a
parasite of the highest order. But the moment they received his threat, they went
pale with fear. They immediately ordered me to go back home and gave me a
stern dressing-down. If there was any doubt of my being a fool, this incident just
settled the case and proved it right once and for all. I fail to understand why they
are so afraid of the manager.’
‘You did absolutely the right thing,’ I averred. ‘In fact, if I was in your place, I
would have first sued him for embezzlement, had him beaten up by goons, and
would have first sued him for embezzlement, had him beaten up by goons, and
then spoken to him. People like him deserve no better.’
‘That means we’ve similar views,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry you won’t be here for
long. I wish to spend a few days in your company. It’s been a long time since
I’ve met a man I can speak my mind with. I do not converse with these
illiterates. My uncle, when he was young, had developed an illicit relationship
with a tanner woman. He had two children, a son and a daughter, from her. The
woman died, leaving the infant girl in his arms. Since then, these children have
been treated worse than beggars in my house. No one cared for them. They went
hungry and ill-clothed, and languished in the servant quarters outside the house.
I couldn’t bear that. I began feeding them from my kitchen, and still do. What a
furore it created in my house! I was the target of everyone’s anger, but I didn’t
let that bother me. After all, they are our flesh and blood, aren’t they? That’s
why I’m called a fool.’
‘Those who call you a fool are fools themselves,’ I replied.
‘Sir, it’s strange to live with these people,’ Khalil continued. ‘The shah of
Kabul and the Indian ulema have both banned the sacrifice of cows. But the
sacrifice continues, particularly in my house. I tried my best to stop it, raised a
hue and cry, but to no avail. I atoned for this atrocity by selling my own horse to
feed three hundred fakirs. Since then, whenever I see cows being led for
slaughter, I buy them. This way I have managed to save the lives of ten cows.
All of them are now in the homes of Hindus, but the strange thing is that even in
those homes, I am called a fool. I’m now so used to this name that I’ve fallen in
love with it.’
‘I wish there were more fools like you in this country,’ I said.
‘There!’ said Khalil. ‘You too are having me on. Look at my mango orchard!
I’m the one who guards it. People find it odd that I don’t care about losses worth
thousands, but guard this little garden with my life. Sir, the problem is that the
boys here pluck one mango and in the process let twenty-five drop to the ground.
So many trees get bruised that way and they become good for nothing. All I
want is for the mangoes to turn ripe and juicy. After that, anybody is welcome to
pluck and eat them. What’s the point of ruining raw mangoes? This is, again, a
part of my folly.’

3
While we were speaking we saw three or four people beating up the local
merchant. When asked what the matter was, one of them, who appeared to be a
maulvi, answered, ‘Sir, this man’s a cheat and a fraud. His weights measure less
than they should. I’ve just bought a kilo of ghee from him. When I went home, I
discovered that it weighed less by a quarter of a kilo. Now when I’ve come to
return it to him, he says he had measured the full amount. Have I eaten the ghee
on my way home then? I’m going to take him to the police station. He’ll come to
his senses when he gets a good beating.’
Then another gentleman, who was a clerk at the post office, said, ‘He has a
habit of never weighing the full amount. Only today, I sent my boy to get two
annas’ worth of sugar from him. When the boy returned home, there was barely
an anna worth of sugar left. When I came to return it to him, he glared at me. His
weights should certainly be checked.’
The third person was a milkman. He put down the bundle of cattle food from
his head and spoke, ‘Sir, this cattle food cost me eleven rupees for six kilos.
When I reached home and weighed it, it turned out to be barely two kilos. I’ve
come to return it to him, but he refuses to take it back. Now only the police can
deal with him.’
At this point, many people chimed in. ‘Yes, yes, he’s indeed a dishonest one.’
The merchant, however, persisted in declaring his innocence. ‘If my weights
turn out to be wrong, I’ll willingly give away a thousand rupees.’
The maulvi was not to be outdone. He said, ‘Then maybe the cheat
deliberately weighs less.’ The clerk vigorously concurred. The milkman had his
own opinion. ‘Maybe he has two sets of weights—one for show and the other for
the actual weighing. The police should search his house.’
The merchant protested again. His captors attacked him again, and the quarrel
continued for half an hour. I didn’t know what to do. Should I defend the
merchant and save him, or should I just let it go? Everyone seemed to be against
him. I looked around for Khalil, and discovered that he was missing. When did
he get up and go? The merchant refused to admit his guilt, and he was not afraid
to go to the police station.

Finally, everyone was about to go to the police station when they saw the fool
Finally, everyone was about to go to the police station when they saw the fool
coming their way. He had a basket in one hand, a bowl in the other, and a boy of
about seven or eight in tow. As soon as he reached the gathering, he addressed
the maulvi, ‘Does this bowl belong to you, Qaziji?’
The maulvi was nonplussed. ‘Yes, it does. Why have you got it from my
house?’
The fool replied calmly, ‘Because this bowl contains a quarter of a kilo of the
ghee which you say was weighed less by the merchant. The ghee is the same. Its
weight is the same. It’s not the poor merchant who’s the cheat but Maulvi
Zahoor Ahmed.’
The maulvi was livid. ‘If you wish to display your folly here, go ahead. I’m
not afraid of anyone. I don’t care if you’re a millionaire, but how dare you enter
my house?’
The fool calmly said, ‘I displayed the same audacity that you did when you
wanted to take the merchant to the police station. Now this ghee will also go to
the police.’
The maulvi stammered, ‘Everyone keeps some stuff in their house. I swear on
the Holy Koran, I’ll go to your father this instant. No one has ever accused me in
this manner before.’
The merchant was quick to reply. ‘Where are you off to, Maulvi Sahib?
Come, the police will decide our case. I won’t heed any of your entreaties. You
pretend to be kind and generous like a God; you’re a cheat and you have the
temerity to call others dishonest. Don’t let this long beard of yours fool anyone.’
But the maulvi did not stay. He retreated to the comparative safety of Khalil’s
father’s house, which was for the moment the only way to save himself from
embarrassment.
Then Khalil turned to the milkman. ‘So, you too are going to the police?
Come, I’ll accompany you. I’ve brought this kilo of cattle food from your
house.’
Having just witnessed what had happened with the maulvi, the milkman began
to perspire. ‘Brother. I swear on my youth. The maulvi made me say all this.’
‘Will you burn someone’s house down just because someone asked you to?’
Khalil admonished him. ‘You shamelessly mix water in milk, but today you lost
your conscience to such an extent that you became hell bent on destroying an
honest man? You kept the cattle food in your house and then accused the
merchant of weighing less.’
merchant of weighing less.’
The merchant was not mollified. ‘Brother, my reputation has gone to the dogs.
I’m not going to rest until I report this man to the police.’
‘Please forgive me this once,’ the milkman pleaded, ‘or I’ll be ruined.’
It was now the clerk’s turn. ‘So, Munshiji,’ Khalil said, ‘should I expose you
too, or would you rather slink off home?’
The clerk was made of sterner stuff. ‘You think I’m the milkman and that I’ll
cower under your threats?’ he said.
Khalil turned to the boy. ‘So, son, did you go straight home after buying the
sugar?’
The son glanced at the clerk doubtfully. ‘I’ll tell you later.’
‘He’ll say what you teach him to say,’ said the clerk.
‘All right, son, repeat what you had told me earlier,’ Khalil gently prodded.
‘Grandpa will beat me.’ The child was clearly fearful.
‘Did you eat the sugar on your way home?’ the clerk asked.
The boy began sobbing.
‘Yes, that’s what he told me. But you didn’t think to ask. You just began
hurling accusations. Is this decency?’ Khalil asked.
‘How would I know what he did on the way?’ the clerk demanded.
‘Then why were you running to the police on such flimsy grounds? Khalil
said. ‘You give out money orders to these illiterate people and deduct two annas
as your fee from that money. You sell postcards for much more than their
original price. I can prove it if you want. Don’t you think that’s dishonesty?’
The clerk knew better than to engage in an argument with the fool. He
dragged the boy home, beating him all the way. The merchant blessed the fool
with all his heart. The onlookers gradually dispersed. Then I said to Khalil, ‘You
saved the merchant’s life today. Otherwise he’d have got into the clutches of the
police for no reason.’
‘Do you know the reward I’ll receive for this good deed?’ Khalil asked. ‘The
police will turn against me. They’ll complain that I turned away their victims.
My father is mortally afraid of the police. He’ll be furious with me for
interfering with them. That’s also part of my folly. I shouldn’t have exposed so
many respectable people for one common merchant. These are the actions of
fools.’
I said reverentially, ‘Today I’ve discovered that “fool” is a sobriquet given to
gods! This is the name I’m now going to call you by. He who sacrifices his
gods! This is the name I’m now going to call you by. He who sacrifices his
conscience for his selfish interests is regarded as clever and wise. He who
doesn’t put his selfish interests or criticism above the dictates of his conscience,
his true principles, and the truth, lacks wisdom and is a fool.’

Translated from the Hindi by Urvashi Sabu

 Compulsion

When Babu Hridaynath’s only daughter, Kailash Kumari—or Kailashi, as he

called her—was widowed at the age of thirteen he decided that something
needed to be done to distract her. Alone she would only brood. Loneliness
intensifies one’s grief. It was for this reason that he bought a gramophone and
story books for her. He directed his wife to take Kailash Kumari for outings lest
the poor child should die from grief. The result was that Kailash Kumari became
addicted to outings and recreation. She found it unbearable to pass a day without
going to the theatre or taking a walk along the river. Entertainment is the gift of
modernity. Modernity hates old ways and traditions. Kailash Kumari remained
busy looking for new diversions.
Would people remain silent at this? They spare no one. Their tongues wagged
if one placed his cap at a jaunty angle or walked with a swagger. A widow, in
their opinion, should spend her time praying and fasting. Her attire should be
plain and simple. She has no need for recreation. Kailash Kumari might be a
lovely girl but she could not ignore that society laid great store by what it
regarded as shame and modesty.
The neighbours talked about the matter for days. Finally, some ladies took the
trouble of dropping in at Hridaynath’s house to speak to his wife, Jogeshwari.
After some inane chatter one of them remarked, ‘Sister, you spend your time
laughing and enjoying yourself. Our day weighs heavily upon us. We have
nothing to do. How long can one gossip about this and that?’
A second lady ventured, ‘It’s a question of luck. If joy is everyone’s lot then
who will weep? From morning to evening I am busy with household chores.
who will weep? From morning to evening I am busy with household chores.
Then the children! One is laid up with diarrhoea while the other is running a
fever. I spend the day cursing my luck, running about like a puppet.’
To this the third lady retorted, ‘It’s not a question of luck. Your heart should
be contented. Otherwise you could be complaining even if you were seated on a
throne.’
At this an old woman snapped, ‘Damn such a heart. Your house is burning;
you are vilified from every side. You are caught up in your revelry, oblivious to
everything else. Is this a heart or a stone?’
This rebuke made the women hang their heads in shame. They had wanted to
belittle Jogeshwari. The open attack inflicted a direct wound. The topic was
changed. Attention shifted to women’s education. But Jogeshwari was suitably
chastened. She narrated the whole story to her husband once the women left.
Hridaynath got flustered. He was not one of those good souls who blow the
trumpet of their emancipation without bothering about public opinion.
‘Now what?’ he asked.
‘You think of something.’
‘These people are not to blame. Even I have noticed a change in Kailashi. I
guess we have failed in our intention.’
‘Kailashi might kill herself.’
‘We will have to change her perception.’
‘It’s going to be difficult.’

Gradually, changes began to be made. Hridaynath played the gramophone less

frequently. He took to reciting the scriptures. The mother–daughter duo
remained busy with spiritual matters. Kailash Kumari was formally initiated into
the spiritual path. Now they would go to the Ganga not for a pleasant trip but for
a holy dip before heading for the temple. They fasted twice a month. Initially
Kailash Kumari found this new life dreary and difficult but when a woman
begins to believe in something, she does it with complete devotion. In a short
period her interest in these matters increased.
She was now in her sixteenth year and keenly aware of her situation. She
began to abhor recreation of any kind. The idea that widowhood was a
punishment for some grave sin began to take root in her.
‘I must have done some wrong in my past life. If my husband were alive I
would have become engrossed in worldly matters and deprived of the chance of
self-improvement. Guruji was right: God has provided me with a means of
salvation. Widowhood is not a punishment but a way to salvation through
abstinence and piety.’
After some time, Kailash Kumari was so influenced by spiritual matters that
she began to show an aversion to everything else. She refused to touch anyone.
She began to shun her maids and would not even embrace her friends. She
refused to eat anything cooked or touched by others. She bathed a number of
times a day and buried herself in scriptures. The company of sadhus and pious
men gave her solace. The arrival of any pious men in the town made her restless
to visit them. The world made her weary and she often fell into a trance-like
state. She would meditate for hours. She began to abhor societal bindings. After
three years of being like this she decided that she wanted to become a sanyasi.
When her parents heard, they were shocked. Jogeshwari tried to make her see
reason.
‘Child, you are too young for these things.’
Kailash Kumari: ‘It is better to rid oneself of worldly desires as early as
possible.’
Hridaynath: ‘Can’t this asceticism be practised at home?’
Jogeshwari: ‘Think of the disgrace!’
Kailash Kumari: ‘I have sacrificed myself at His feet, so why should I fear
shame?’
Jogeshwari: ‘It might not bother you but we are not immune to public
criticism. You are our only support. If you become a sanyasi who will look after
us?’
Kailash Kumari: ‘God is our caretaker. It is wrong to depend on anyone else.’
The next day the news reached the neighbours. They began offering their
opinions.
‘This had to happen. What’s new about this? You can’t give freedom to a girl.
They were elated that their girl had mastered the Vedas and the Upanishads and
could argue with great scholars. It’s too late to shed tears now. If a child falls
while running, we stop him, pick him up and comfort him in our lap.’
After the fault-finders it was now the turn of the sympathizers. A few
 After the fault-finders it was now the turn of the sympathizers. A few
gentlemen came to discuss the issue with Hridaynath. Why had such a thing
come to pass? After a few minutes one of them said, ‘One hears that the majority
has approved of Dr Gourd’s reforms.’
Second gentleman: ‘These people will destroy the Hindu dharma.’
Third gentleman: ‘It is definitely being destroyed. What can one do? When
our own sadhus and saints, the pillars of Hinduism, have yielded to their desires
and have no qualms in exploiting young women, what remains to be said?’
Hridaynath: ‘This calamity has befallen me as well. You must have heard
about it.’
First gentleman: ‘It has befallen all of us.’
Second gentleman: ‘Say it has fallen on the whole nation.’
Hridaynath: ‘Think of a way out.’
First gentleman: ‘Have you not talked her out of it?’
Hridaynath: ‘I have failed. She refuses to listen to anything.’
Third gentleman: ‘We shouldn’t have allowed her to walk this path. That was
our first mistake.’
First gentleman: ‘It’s no use repenting now. You must have seen the
newspapers. Some people are of the opinion that widows should take up
teaching. Though I am not completely in its favour, at least it is better than
becoming a sanyasi. The aim is to keep the girl involved in something. An idle
person can go astray. An uninhabited house becomes the abode of bats.’
Second gentleman: ‘It is a good suggestion. Five to ten girls of the
neighbourhood should be gathered and the plan put into action. If the girls are
given books, paper, dolls, and so on as gifts, they will come eagerly.’
Hridaynath broached the subject with Kailash Kumari, who was heartbroken.
The status of a teacher was inferior to that of a sanyasi. How could instructing a
few girls compare with the company of holy men? What was a job which paid
ten rupees in comparison to those mountainous regions where one came closer to
God, that mystical charm of nature, the luminous purity of snow-clad peaks, the
rapturous sights of Mansarovar and Kailash?
But Hridaynath did not lose hope. He drew her attention to the greatness of
social service. Real piety lies in service. An ascetic is concerned only with his
own salvation. Public welfare is not tinged with selfishness. The pursuit of
selfish ends, whether spiritual or physical, is a limited activity, while service for
others is unbounded. Look at the status enjoyed by Dadhichi among rishis. Who
others is unbounded. Look at the status enjoyed by Dadhichi among rishis. Who
has been able to achieve the greatness of Harishchandra? He would substantiate
his argument with references from the Vedas and the Upanishads. This had the
desired effect. Gradually Kailash Kumari’s views began to change.

The passion for social work overwhelmed Kailash Kumari. She spent the whole
day with the girls—teaching them, playing with them, and instructing them in
sewing and knitting. The school became her world. If a girl fell sick, she would
visit her home and tend to her. She would arrange for food and clothes for poor
girls and even collect funds for the ones getting married.
The school had been running for two years now. One of the girls whom
Kailash Kumari was deeply attached to contracted small pox. Kailash Kumari’s
parents tried to stop her from going and seeing the girl but did not succeed. She
left saying that she would return quickly.
The girl’s condition was bad. Her tears had dried her mouth but the sight of
Kailash Kumari cheered her up. She spent an hour with the girl who chatted with
her continuously. When she got up to leave the girl started crying again, so
Kailash Kumari was forced to sit with her. She made another attempt to leave,
but once again the girl was distraught. She just refused to let Kailash Kumari go.
Kailash Kumari ended up staying the whole day. The girl did not allow her to
leave even when night fell. Hridaynath kept sending his men to fetch her but
Kailash Kumari would refuse to go with them. She feared her departure could
signal the girl’s end. The sick girl had a stepmother who could not be trusted.
Kailash Kumari ended up spending three days at the girl’s house, and left on the
fourth day when she’d recovered slightly.
Kailash Kumari wasn’t even done changing her clothes when a man from the
girl’s home came rushing to her and said, ‘Come quickly. The girl is weeping
inconsolably.’
Hridaynath said, ‘Tell them to call a nurse from the hospital.’
Kailash Kumari: ‘Father, you are getting angry unnecessarily. I am ready to
spend three months nursing the girl if she can be saved, forget three days. What
is the purpose of this body otherwise?’
Hridaynath: ‘Then who will teach the other girls?’
Kailash Kumari: ‘She will recover in a few days. The sores have dried. You
 Kailash Kumari: ‘She will recover in a few days. The sores have dried. You
take care of the girls until then.’
Hridaynath: ‘There is danger of you getting the disease. It is contagious.’
Laughing, Kailash Kumari replied, ‘If I die, a burden will be off your head.’
Saying this she headed for the house.
Hridaynath said to Jogeshwari, ‘It appears that the school will have to be shut
down soon. The path I have taken is becoming treacherous by the day. Again it
seems things are heading for my humiliation. People will say that the girl
remains for days together in strangers’ houses. The school will have to be closed
down.’
Jogeshwari: ‘What else can we do?’
When Kailash Kumari returned after two days Hridaynath put forth the
suggestion of closing down the school. Kailash Kumari retorted angrily, ‘If you
are so bothered about disrepute and other people’s opinions, then give me some
poison. That is the only way to handle the situation.’
Hridaynath: ‘Listen to me, daughter, we live in this world and have to follow
its ways.’
Kailash Kumari: ‘Then I should know what the world wants from me. I can
reason, think and feel. How can I become an animal? I can’t think of myself as
an unfortunate woman who would be satisfied with the crumbs thrown at her.
Whatever the world thinks of me, I will not consider myself helpless. I can look
after myself. I consider it an insult that aspersions are cast on me every single
time. Someone is always telling me what to do, as if I were cattle that have to be
stopped from trespassing. I cannot tolerate all of this.’
The school was closed the next day.

The day of Teej arrived. Women began preparing for the festival by cleaning
their houses. Jogeshwari, too, started getting ready for the fast. New saris were
ordered. On this occasion, clothes, sweets and toys would come from Kailash
Kumari’s in-laws’ place. This year also they came. This was a fast meant for
married women but widows observed it as well. Their relationship with their
husbands was not merely physical but also spiritual. Kailash Kumari used to
observe the fast, but this time she decided that she would not do it. When her
mother heard this she struck her own forehead and said, ‘It’s your duty to
observe this fast.’
Kailash Kumari: ‘Do men observe any such fast for their wives?’
Jogeshwari: ‘Men have no such obligation.’
Kailash Kumari: ‘Isn’t it because men aren’t as concerned about their wives?’
Jogeshwari: ‘How can a woman equate herself with a man? Her duty is to
serve her husband.’
Kailash Kumari: ‘I don’t consider it my duty. Self-improvement in my view is
one’s only duty.’
Jogeshwari: ‘Daughter, this is terrible. What will the world say?’
Kailashi: ‘Again the same society! I have nothing to do with the world. I am
not afraid of this world, which has nothing to offer me except hardships.’
When Jogeshwari related this to Hridaynath he was speechless. What did all
this mean? Was this really the urge for self-improvement or the cry of a
wounded heart? Poverty leaves no scope for shame. Usually despair and grief
take the form of helplessness. In self-respecting people it assumes the form of a
rash arrogance which destroys softer emotions. This is the ultimate form of
despair.
‘What should we do now?’ Jogeshwari asked.
‘What can I say? There’s only one way out but I can’t bear to voice it.’

Translated from the Urdu by Shaifta Ayoub

 A Home for an Orphan

Lala Devaprakash spent a large amount of money on the celebrations when

Satyaprakash was born. The ceremony for the boy’s initiation into learning was
also conducted with a lot of pomp. A small cart was acquired to take him on
rounds. In the evening, a servant would take him for a stroll. Another servant
would bring him to school, wait there the entire day and then return home with
him. What an affable and promising boy he was! Fair skin, big eyes, high
forehead, thin red lips and plump legs! One spontaneously exclaimed while
looking at him, ‘May God bless him! He will grow to be a great man!’ People
marvelled at the strength of his body and the sharpness of his mind. A smile was
always spread on his face, which was as fair as the moon. Nobody had ever seen
him crying or throwing a tantrum.
It was a day in the rainy season. Devaprakash went for a dip in the Ganga with
his wife. The river was flooded like the eyes of an orphan. His wife, Nirmala,
started playing in the water. She would go back and forth into the river, dive, or
spray the water around with her fingers. Devaprakash said, ‘All right, now come
out or you’ll catch a cold.’
She said daringly, ‘Tell me, should I go into the water up to my chest?’
‘And what if you slip?’
‘Why will I slip?’
Having said that, she went deeper into the water, until it was up to her chest.
The husband cautioned, ‘All right, now don’t go even a step further.’ But
Nirmala was flirting with Death. It was not a water game any more, now it was a
Death stunt. She went one step further and slipped. A cry escaped her lips and
Death stunt. She went one step further and slipped. A cry escaped her lips and
her hands flailed in an expectation of support and then disappeared into the
water. It took the thirsty river just one moment to swallow her. Devaprakash was
patting himself dry with a towel. He dived into the river at once, and the
palanquin bearer followed. Two boatmen also leapt in. Everyone searched but
Nirmala was nowhere to be found, after which more boats were called for. But
even with the additional assistance of the boatmen who dived repeatedly into the
river, her body remained untraceable. Devaprakash returned home grief-stricken.
Satyaprakash ran to him expecting presents. The father picked him up and,
despite his best efforts, was unable to stop his sobs. Satyaprakash inquired,
‘Where’s my mother?’
‘Son, the Ganga has claimed your mother for a feast.’
Satyaprakash looked at him questioningly and then, understanding the
implication, started crying and calling out for his mother.

A motherless boy is the world’s most pitiable creature. Even the lowliest of
beings have God’s blessings to console their hearts. A motherless boy is denied
this consolation. The mother is the sole foundation of his life. Without the
mother, he turns into a wingless bird.
Satyaprakash now started loving solitude. He would sit alone for hours. In the
company of trees, he got a strange feeling of empathy, which he did not receive
even from his family. When the mother was there, everyone loved him; without
the mother’s love, everyone turned cold. Even the father’s eyes lost the light of
love. Who gives alms to the poor, anyway?
Six months went by. Suddenly one day he came to know that he was soon
going to have a new mother. He ran to his father and asked, ‘Will a new mother
come for me?’
The father replied, ‘Yes, son, she’ll love you a lot.’
‘Will my mother herself return from heaven?’
‘Yes, it will seem just like that.’
‘Will she love me the same as before?’
How could Devaprakash answer that? But from that day, Satyaprakash’s heart
beamed with joy. ‘My mother is coming! She will put me in her lap and love
me! I will never tease her, never throw a tantrum, and will tell her nice stories!’
As the wedding day drew near, the preparations for the event commenced.
Satyaprakash could not contain his happiness. ‘I will have a new mother!’ He,
too, accompanied the wedding party. He got new clothes and was seated on the
palanquin. The new grandmother called him in and sat him in her lap and gave
him a precious coin. That is when he spotted his new mother. The grandmother
told her daughter, ‘Look, what a beautiful boy he is. You must love him.’
Satyaprakash saw the new mother and was captivated. Children also admire
beauty. A glamorous jewellery-laden idol was standing before him. He grabbed
her hem with both hands and said, ‘Mother!’
What an unsavoury word it was! How shameful! How disagreeable! This
charming woman who was addressed as ‘Devapriya’ could not tolerate the
appellation of responsibility, sacrifice and forgiveness. In the present moment,
she was in an ecstatic reverie of love and enjoyment, and was feeling pleasantly
agitated by the intoxicating waves of youth. The appellation broke her reverie.
Somewhat angry, she remonstrated, ‘Don’t call me mother.’
Satyaprakash looked at her with astonishment in his eyes. His infantile reverie
was also broken. His eyes welled up. The grandmother said, ‘Look, the boy is
disheartened. How would he know the appropriate words? How are you hurt if
he called you mother?’
Devapriya said, ‘He shouldn’t call me mother.’

Why is a stepson such an intolerable sight to a stepmother? If no psychology

expert has been able to decide this, then how can we? Until Devapriya became
pregnant, she would occasionally speak to Satyaprakash or tell him stories, but
as soon as she was with child, her behaviour towards him turned hostile, and her
hostility kept growing as the delivery drew closer. On the day she had a boy, as
beautiful as the moon in her lap, Satyaprakash pranced around with joy and ran
to the labour room to see the infant, who was sleeping. With great curiosity,
Satyaprakash was about to pick up the infant from his stepmother’s lap, when
suddenly Devapriya admonished him, ‘Beware! Don’t you dare touch him or I
will pull your ears out!’
The boy retraced his steps and went to the terrace and wept. ‘What a beautiful
 The boy retraced his steps and went to the terrace and wept. ‘What a beautiful
child! What fun it would be—if only I could pick him up and put him in my lap!
I wouldn’t have dropped him. Then why did she growl at me?’ How could the
naive child know that a mother’s caution was not the reason for the growl but
something else altogether?
The boy was named Gyanprakash. One day while the infant was asleep and
Devapriya was in the bathroom, Satyaprakash came in stealthily, removed the
boy’s drape and looked at him with affectionate eyes. His heart longed to put
him in his lap and play with him, but out of dread he did not and just kissed the
baby’s cheeks. Just then Devapriya came out. Seething with anger upon seeing
Satyaprakash kissing her child, she shouted, ‘Get away from there!’
Looking at his stepmother helplessly, Satyaprakash left.
In the evening, his father questioned him, ‘Why do you make the baby cry?’
Satyaprakash replied, ‘I never make him cry. Mother doesn’t let me play with
him.’
Devapriya countered him, ‘You are lying. Today you pinched the child.’
‘No! I was just kissing him.’
‘He is lying!’
‘I don’t lie.’
Devaprakash got angry and slapped the boy a few times. It was the first time
Satyaprakash was punished in this manner, and that too when he was innocent!
This completely altered the colour of his life.

That day onwards a strange change became discernible in Satyaprakash’s

temperament. He would come home very infrequently. If anybody called him for
meals, he would enter stealthily like a thief and eat. He no longer demanded
anything, nor did he say anything. Earlier, he had been quite sharp; people felt
captivated by his cleanliness, orderliness and dexterity. Now he disliked
studying, and would wear dirty and torn clothes. There was nobody at home to
love him. He roamed about the lanes with loafers, ran for kites, and even started
swearing. His body became thin and his face also lost its lustre. Every other day
Devaprakash received complaints of his mischief and Satyaprakash regularly got
reprimands and beatings. So much so that if he ventured into the house for some
chore, everybody dismissed him immediately, ordering him to stay away.
chore, everybody dismissed him immediately, ordering him to stay away.
A tutor was deputed to teach Gyanprakash. Devaprakash took his son for a
stroll every day. He was a cheerful boy. Devapriya shielded him from even the
shadow of Satyaprakash. How different the two boys were! One clean and tidy,
wearing beautiful clothes, an embodiment of courtesy and docility, and truth;
anyone who saw him spontaneously blessed him. The other was dirty,
mischievous, hiding his face like a thief, loud-mouthed, swearing at every
opportunity. One was a green sapling, raised with love and nurtured with
affection; the other was a wilted, crooked, leafless tree, whose roots had not
received nourishment for ages. The sight of one soothed the father’s heart; the
other caused his body to singe.
What was amazing was that Satyaprakash was not a bit jealous of his brother.
If there was any tender emotion left in his heart, it was affection for the little
boy. This was the only oasis in the desert of his life. Jealousy is a signifier of
community. Satyaprakash thought of his brother as much higher, much more
fortunate than himself. The very sentiment of jealousy had left him.
While hate breeds hate, love gives birth to love. Gyanprakash also liked his
elder brother. Occasionally he sided with his brother and picked arguments with
his mother, such as ‘Brother’s shirt is torn, why don’t you get him a new one
stitched?’ The mother said dismissively, ‘The same is good enough for him. It is
not yet over; one day he will walk unclad!’ Gyanprakash tried very hard to save
some of his own pocket money and give it to his brother, but Satyaprakash
would never accept it. Whatever time he spent with his younger brother was a
joyful experience. For a short duration, he would wander off into a realm of
amity. No dirty and unpleasant words escaped his tongue. For a moment, his
sedentary soul would wake up.
Once, Satyaprakash did not go to the school for several days. The father
inquired, ‘Why don’t you go to study nowadays? Do you think I have assumed
responsibility for your entire life?’
‘My fines and fees have piled up. When I do go I am shunted out of the class.’
‘Why are there dues? Don’t you take money every month?’
‘There are collections every other day. I gave the fee money away as
donations.’
‘And what are the fines for?’
‘For not paying the fees.’
‘Why did you donate the money!’
 ‘Why did you donate the money!’
‘When Gyanu paid I followed.’
‘So you’re jealous of Gyanu?’
‘Why would I be jealous of Gyanu? We are different at home, outside we are
considered together. I don’t want to say that I don’t have any money.’
‘Why? Are you ashamed of saying it?’
‘Yes, it will bring you a bad name.’
‘Right! So you’re protecting my honour! Why don’t you admit that studying is
not agreeable to you any more? I don’t have so much money that I can let you
study in the same class for three years and also spend on you every month. Gyan
is much younger than you but just one class junior. You’ll surely fail this year
and he will surely pass and be your classmate in the next class. Won’t your face
be blackened then?’
‘My Fortune surely doesn’t have Knowledge for me.’
‘What is in your Fortune?’
‘To beg.’
‘Then go and beg. Out of my house!’
Devapriya also joined in and said, ‘He’s so shameless! And he even talks
back!!’
Satyaprakash retorted, ‘Those who have it in their destiny to beg are the ones
who become orphans in their childhood.’
Devapriya was furious. ‘I’ve tolerated these obnoxious insults so far but I
can’t stand these scathing taunts any more.’ Devaprakash supported her. ‘He is
shameless. I’ll withdraw his name from the rolls tomorrow. If he is destined to
beg, then let him beg!’

The next day Satyaprakash prepared to leave home. He was almost sixteen now.
It was intolerable for him to live at home after all the taunting. So long as he was
not physically strong and had the incapability that comes with adolescence, he
continued to live at home tolerating disdain, insult, callousness and reproach.
Now that he was capable, why would he continue to live in bondage? Self-pride,
like hope, is long-lasting.
It was an afternoon in the summer days. Everybody in the house was sleeping.
Satyaprakash tucked his dhoti in his armpit, picked up a small bag in his hand
Satyaprakash tucked his dhoti in his armpit, picked up a small bag in his hand
and was about to leave quietly through the sitting room, when Gyanprakash saw
him ready to set out and asked, ‘Where are you going, brother?’
Satya replied, ‘I am leaving. I will take up a job somewhere.’
‘I will go and inform my mother.’
‘Then I will leave quietly without you knowing.’
‘But why will you leave? Don’t you love me at all?’
Embracing his brother, Satyaprakash said, ‘I don’t want to leave you and go,
but it is shameful to live where nobody cares about me. I’ll work a job worth
five or ten rupees somewhere and feed myself. What else am I capable of?’
‘Why does mother dislike you so much? She keeps telling me not to meet
you.’
‘What other than my misfortune can explain this?’
‘You don’t put your heart into studies.’
‘When my heart refuses how can I do it? Since nobody cares, I also think,
damn it, at most I will be kicked! So what!’
‘Will you forget me? I will write letters to you, and do call me to visit you.’
‘I’ll post letters to your school address.’
Gyanprakash started crying. ‘I don’t know why I feel such great affection for
you.’
Satyaprakash consoled him. ‘I will always remember you.’
Saying this, he embraced his brother once again and left the house. He did not
have a cowrie with him, yet he was going to Calcutta.

It is futile to write an account of how Satyaprakash reached Calcutta. The youth

have great audacity in their hearts. They can build castles in the air and row
boats on the dry ground. They do not care about difficulties, and have unlimited
self-confidence. Reaching Calcutta was not a difficult feat to achieve.
Satyaprakash was a wise young man. He had decided beforehand what he would
do and where he would live in Calcutta. There were scribing implements in his
bag. In a big city, the issue of livelihood was easy as well as difficult—easy for
those who could work manually and tough for those wielding a pen.
Satyaprakash considered manual labour to be lowly. He lodged in a
dharmashala. Later, after inspecting the prime areas of the city, he sat down in
front of a post office with his writing implements and started the business of
scribing letters, money orders and so on for illiterate labourers. In the first few
days, he could not earn enough to even fill his belly but gradually his profit
increased. He spoke to the labourers with such humility and wrote their news
with such clarity that they felt elated by just listening to the letters. The
unlettered get the same thing written twice or even thrice. Their condition is
similar to that of patients who do not tire of narrating their pain and suffering to
the doctor. Satyaprakash would explain the letters to the labourers in great detail
and thus charm them. When one of them left satisfied, he would return with
many of his fellows. Within a month, Satyaprakash started earning as much as
one rupee a day. He left the dharmashala and rented a small room outside the
city for five rupees a month. He ate once a day, cleaned his utensils himself and
slept on the floor. He felt no regret or misery for his state of exile and never
remembered the people at home. He was satisfied with his situation. It was only
the affectionate words of Gyanprakash that he could not forget. This was the
only light in the darkness around him. The last few moments before he went into
exile would often flash before his eyes. Content with his livelihood, he now
wrote a letter to Gyanprakash, and his joy knew no bounds when he received a
reply. Gyan remembers me and cries and longs to come to me. Even his health is
not good. Satyaprakash felt as pleased with this letter as a thirsty person is
satiated by water. ‘I am not alone, I too am loved by someone, I too am
remembered by someone.’
That day onwards, Satyaprakash started thinking about sending a gift for
Gyanprakash. The young make friends very quickly. Satyaprakash had also
made friends with many young men. He had gone to the cinema with them
several times. There had been many occasions for hemp, weed, liquor, and meat
too. A fondness for the mirror, hair oil and comb had also developed and thus he
would spend all that he earned. He was speedily hurtling towards moral and
physical decline. The loving letter from Gyanprakash halted his pace. The
attempt to send a gift began discouraging the addictions. No longer addicted to
the movies, he also began avoiding his friends on some pretext or the other. He
even pared down his meals. The concern of saving money defeated all his
desires. He decided that he would send a nice watch to his brother. ‘That will
cost at least forty rupees. If I do not waste even a paisa for three months, then I
cost at least forty rupees. If I do not waste even a paisa for three months, then I
can purchase a watch. How delighted Gyanprakash will be! Mother and father
will also take note. They will realize that I am not starving.’ Obsessed with
saving, he would not even light a lamp in the evening on several occasions. Now
he left for work very early and worked the entire day, eating sweetmeats that
cost him only a few paise. His customers doubled in number almost every day.
Apart from writing letters, he now practised writing telegrams also. Within two
months, he had saved fifty rupees. When he parcelled the watch with a golden
chain to Gyanprakash, he was as excited as a childless man blessed with a boy.

How soft, pure, and heart-warming are the memories evoked by the word
‘home’. It is where love dwells and it is a boon that love has acquired after much
penance. During adolescence, home reminds one of the love of parents, siblings
and friends, and in old age, the memories are that of the wife and the children.
This is the wave that keeps the human life calm and saves it from getting tossed
on choppy seas and smashed on rocks. This is the altar that protects life from all
evil omens and hurdles.
Where was Satyaprakash’s ‘home’? What was the power that protected him
from the grand attractions of Calcutta? Was it his mother’s love? Or was it his
father’s affection? Concern for children? No! The affection for Gyanprakash was
his sole protector, refuge and reward. It was for his sake that he saved every
paisa. It was for his sake that he laboured hard and thought of new ways to earn
wealth. He gathered from Gyanprakash’s letters that Devaprakash’s financial
situation was not healthy. He was getting a house constructed, for which the
expenses had exceeded the estimates and he had had to borrow money, which
was the reason the tutor did not visit any more to teach Gyanprakash. Since then
Satyaprakash had been sending at least some amount to Gyanprakash every
month. He was no longer just a letter writer but had opened a stationery store as
well. This brought him a decent profit. In this manner, five years passed. When
his fun-loving friends realized that he was not inclined to frivolous activities any
more, they stopped visiting him.

8
It happened one evening; Devaprakash was at home, discussing the matter of
Gyanprakash’s marriage with Devapriya. Gyanprakash was now a handsome
youth of seventeen. Despite being opposed to child marriage, Devaprakash could
not let go of the opportunity that had come knocking—a good man was willing
to present a dowry of fifty thousand rupees.
Devaprakash said, ‘I am willing but your son should be willing too.’
Devapriya replied, ‘If you finalize the alliance, he will come around. Every
boy says no at first.’
‘Gyanu’s refusal is not because of mere bashfulness. It is one based on
principles. He has declared that he will not marry until his elder brother gets
married.’
‘Who is going to look for a bride for him? He might have kept a mistress.
Then why marry? Who keeps an eye on him?’
Irritated, Devaprakash said, ‘If he had a mistress, he would not send forty
rupees every month to your son, nor would he send the things that he has been
sending regularly since the first month. One wonders why your heart is so full of
dirt for him! You won’t relent even if he gives up his life.’
Devapriya left the room in anger. Devaprakash just wanted her to agree that it
was proper to first get Satyaprakash married, but she would never allow the
subject to be raised. Even Devaprakash’s most heartfelt wish was to have the
elder son marry first, but he had never even written a letter to Satyaprakash.
After Devapriya left, he wrote his first letter to Satyaprakash. To begin with, he
asked his forgiveness for the years of silence and then requested him lovingly to
come home at least once. He wrote,

I may live only for a few days now. It is my wish to see yours and your brother’s weddings. It will
cause me immense pain if you do not accept my request.

He also wrote of Gyanprakash’s hesitation. Finally he stressed that if not for

anything, he must agree to the bond of matrimony for the sake of Gyanprakash.
Satyaprakash was extremely pained when he received this letter. ‘I didn’t
know my brotherly love would lead to this.’ But he also felt pleasure at the fact
that his father and mother were suffering. ‘Did they ever have any concern for
me? Their eyes will not well up even if I were to die. It has been seven years but
they’ve never even written a letter to inquire if I am dead or alive. Now, they
will be more careful. Gyanprakash will eventually agree to marriage, but not so
will be more careful. Gyanprakash will eventually agree to marriage, but not so
easily. Gyanu does love me but even for his sake I shall not be responsible for
this injustice in the family. Life in our families is full of injustice; it sows the
seeds of folly and enmity, cruelty and brutality. It is this illusion which entraps
man and makes him an enemy of his own child. No! I will not swallow this bait
knowingly, though I will surely reason with Gyanu. Whatever I have saved, I
will offer for his wedding. That is it! I cannot do anything more. So what if
Gyanu remains unmarried? The world will not become desolate! Will the son of
such a father not follow the family tradition? Will the same act be not repeated
in his life? The one that absolutely ruined me?’
The next day Satyaprakash sent five hundred rupees to his father and replied
that he was fortunate to be remembered.

Congratulations for finalizing Gyanu’s marriage. Use this money to get some piece of jewellery for
the bride. As for my marriage, considering all that I have seen with my own eyes and all that I have
suffered, there will not be a bigger fool in the world than me if I agree to be tied down into a
marriage and family. I hope that you will forgive me. The very talk of marriage hurts my heart.

He wrote a second letter to Gyanprakash saying that he must obey their parents’
directions.

I am an illiterate, foolish man without wisdom. I do not deserve to marry. But, for me, there cannot
be a matter of greater pleasure and satisfaction than the prospect of you getting married, although I
will be unable to attend the auspicious occasion of your wedding.

Devaprakash was shocked to read this and did not have the gall to repeat his
request. Devapriya turned up her nose and said, ‘This boy only looks innocent.
He sits a hundred miles away and shoots such poisoned arrows!’
But Gyanprakash was deeply hurt when he read the letter. ‘It is the injustice
meted out by mother and father that has forced him into such a severe vow. It
was because of this that he was exiled, and probably for ever. I wonder why
mother was so jealous of him. I remember him being very obedient, humble and
sombre. I have not seen him ever talking back to mother. I ate the best food but
even then he did not resent me, though he could have been jealous. What
surprise is it then that he has so much disgust for a householder’s life? Why
should I then be entrapped by the same predicament? Who knows if I may have
to face similar circumstances? My brother has reached this conclusion after
to face similar circumstances? My brother has reached this conclusion after
much thought.’
In the evening, when the parents sat down to discuss the issue, Gyanprakash
declared, ‘Tomorrow I’ll go to visit my brother.’
Devapriya asked, ‘In Calcutta?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why not call him instead?’
‘With what face can I call him? You people have already blackened my face.
Such a good man is wandering in an alien city because of you, and am I so
shameless as to—’
‘Shut up now! If you don’t want to marry, then don’t but don’t rub salt into
our wounds. It is the parents’ duty that makes me say this, otherwise nobody
cares a jot for it! I don’t care if you get married or stay a bachelor, just get away
from my sight!’
‘Now do you hate even the sight of me?’
‘If you don’t want to listen to us, then go wherever you wish. We’ll convince
ourselves that God didn’t give us a son.’
‘Must you uselessly say such bitter words?’
‘If this is what you wish, so be it.’
Devaprakash saw that the situation had gone completely out of control. So he
dismissed Gyanprakash with a gesture and started trying to placate his wife. But
Devapriya was crying inconsolably and repeating, ‘I shall not see his face!’
Finally, irritated, Devaprakash said, ‘You are the one who incited him with your
bitter words.’
Devapriya replied, ‘It is that scoundrel who has planted all this venom; it is he
who sits afar and is trying to decimate me. He has set up this pretence of love
only to snatch away my son from me. I know him very well. This spell of his
will not be over before I am dead. Otherwise, my Gyanu who has never talked
back to me would not have caused me such heartache.’
‘Arré, this does not mean that he will not marry at all! He said all this
nonsense only out of anger. Once he calms down, I will pacify him and convince
him.’
‘He is out of my control now.’
Devapriya’s apprehension turned out to be justified. Devaprakash tried very
hard to reason with his son. He told him, ‘Your mother will die of this suffering.’
hard to reason with his son. He told him, ‘Your mother will die of this suffering.’
But it went unheeded. Once Gyanprakash said ‘no’, it would not change to ‘yes’.
Seeing no resolution, his father also gave up.
For three years, this issue was raised every year during the wedding season,
but Gyanprakash remained unwavering in his vow. The mother’s cries and pleas
yielded no results, though he did agree to one of her demands. He did not go to
Calcutta to visit his brother.
Within three years, their home underwent a major transformation. All three of
Devapriya’s daughters were married. Now there was no woman at home besides
her. She felt as if the empty house would devour her. When she became crazy
out of despondency and rage, she would curse Satyaprakash to her heart’s
content. But the brothers continued their exchange of love-filled letters.
A strange sense of misery manifested in Devaprakash’s nature as well. He had
retired and was now studying the scriptures. Gyanprakash had also earned the
title of a ‘teacher’ and presently taught in a school. Devapriya was now alone in
this world.
To draw her son towards the life of a householder, Devapriya regularly
employed charms and totems. She would sing the praises of beautiful, talented
and well-educated girls of the community but Gyanprakash had no time to listen
to her.
There were frequent weddings in other houses in the locality. Brides would
arrive and would soon become mothers, turning homes into pleasure gardens.
While one house bid farewell to its daughter, another celebrated the arrival of a
daughter-in-law. Some homes had musical gatherings and others echoed with the
sounds of musical instruments. All the hustle-bustle made Devapriya’s heart
long for it. She told herself, ‘I am the most unfortunate woman in the world. It is
my fate alone to not have this joy. God! There will be a day when I will see the
moon-like face of my daughter-in-law, and her sons will frolic in my lap. There
will be such a day when my house too will resonate with sweet songs of joyous
celebrations!’ Harbouring such thoughts day and night turned Devapriya
delirious, like she was intoxicated. Without occasion, she would curse
Satyaprakash, saying, ‘He is the one threatening my life!’
Some sort of psychological obsession is the chief characteristic of
intoxication. It is highly creative too. It can assume to fly gods’ chariots and can
blame imaginary enemies for excess salt in food. On occasion Devapriya
hallucinated that Satyaprakash had entered the house and wanted to kill her, or
hallucinated that Satyaprakash had entered the house and wanted to kill her, or
that he was administering poison to Gyanprakash. One day she wrote a letter to
Satyaprakash cursing him as much as she could. ‘You are an enemy of my life, a
killer of my clan, a murderer. When will the day of your cremation come! You
have cast a spell on my son.’ The next day she wrote a similar letter. This
became a daily affair. She could not rest until she had abused Satyaprakash in a
letter. She had these letters posted by the water-carrier.

10
That Gyanprakash became a teacher turned out to be life-threatening for
Satyaprakash. In an alien land, he had had the lone consolation that he was not
without any support in this world. Now even this crutch was lost. Gyanprakash
had written in a letter that Satyaprakash should not put himself through
hardships for his sake. He had stressed, ‘Now I earn more than enough to sustain
myself.’
Although Satyaprakash’s shop did brisk business, the life of a petty
shopkeeper was not too felicitous in a big city like Calcutta. How great was a
monthly income of sixty or seventy rupees? Up till now, whatever he had saved
was not actually saving, but a sacrifice. He had managed to save twenty-five to
thirty rupees a month by eating one frugal meal a day and living in a damp
cramped room. Now he ate two meals and also wore clean clothes. But within a
few days medicines were added to his list of expenses and his condition reverted
to what it was earlier. Being deprived of fresh air, light, and nutritious food for
years can wreck even the best of health. Likewise, Satyaprakash was afflicted
with ennui, lack of appetite, and occasionally a fever too. In his years of youth, a
man has great self-confidence and does not care for support. On the other hand,
old age looks to others for care and refuge. Earlier he would sleep well and at
times even buy delicacies like puris or sweetmeats from the market. But now he
could not sleep well at night and had started despising food from outside. He
was extremely tired by the time he returned home at night, and lighting the stove
and cooking in that condition was extremely cumbersome. Sometimes, he wept
because of his loneliness. At night when sleep eluded him, he longed to talk to
somebody. But who was there to keep him company except for the nocturnal
darkness? Inanimate walls make for good listeners but they cannot speak. Now
even Gyanprakash’s letters had become infrequent and dry, without even an iota
of heartfelt emotion. Although Satyaprakash still wrote letters full of feeling, it
does not behove a teacher to be emotional. Gradually, Satyaprakash began
fearing that Gyanprakash had also become hard on him; why else would it be
impossible for him to visit just for a few days? ‘The gates of home are shut for
me but what hurdles does he have?’ How could Satyaprakash be aware that
Gyanprakash had vowed to his mother that he would not visit Calcutta? The
doubt made him even more hopeless.
Cities have many humans, but rarely any humanity. Even in that crowded city,
Satyaprakash was alone. A new desire germinated in his heart. ‘Should I return
home? Should I take refuge in a woman’s company? Where can I seek such
peace and pleasure? Which other flame can illuminate the darkness of
hopelessness of my life?’ He tried to fight this flood of emotions with the utmost
power of will but, just as a boy at play is drawn by sweetmeats at home, his heart
also repeatedly got caught in these anxieties. He would reflect, ‘The Almighty
has deprived me of all joy. Why else would I be in such a pitiable condition? Did
God not give me a mind? Did I shrink from labour? If my enthusiasm and zeal
were not blighted in childhood and the power of my mind had not been
strangulated, I too would have been humane. I would not have to live in an alien
land to fill my belly. No! I will not inflict this atrocity on myself.’
This war between Satyaprakash’s mind and heart continued for months. One
day, just as he was lighting the stove after returning home from his shop, the
postman called. He did not receive letters from anybody else other than
Gyanprakash. ‘But I’ve already received one letter from him today. Why this
second letter?’ He had a premonition of some mishap. He received the letter and
started reading it. He dropped the letter in a moment and sat down with his head
in his hands, fearing he might collapse. It was a drink of venom emanating from
the poisonous pen of Devapriya. In just a moment, it left Satyaprakash at a loss
for words. All his heartfelt pain—anger, hopelessness, ingratitude, guilt—came
to an end in a cold sigh.
He lay down on the bed. His scorching pain turned into tears. ‘Ha! My life is
ruined! I’m Gyanprakash’s enemy. For days, I have put up the pretence of love
just to decimate his life. God! You alone are a witness to this!’
The next day another letter from Devapriya arrived. Satyaprakash tore it up.
He did not have the courage to read the letter. One day later the third letter came
He did not have the courage to read the letter. One day later the third letter came
and it met the same fate. Then it became a daily routine. A letter came and was
torn, but Devapriya’s motive was achieved even without the letter being read.
With every letter, Satyaprakash’s heart suffered another blow.
A month of severe heartfelt misery made Satyaprakash detest his life. He shut
down his shop and stopped going anywhere. He spent all day in bed. He
remembered the days when his mother would put him in her lap and call him
‘Son!’ His father also, after returning from office, would pick him up and call
him ‘Child!’ His mother’s image would flash before his eyes, exactly like when
she had gone for the dip in the Ganga. Her affectionate words would pour into
his ears. Then he recalled the scene where he had addressed the new bride as
‘Mother’. He also recalled her cruel words, and her large, angry, frightening eyes
would flash before his own. He would then recall his own sobs, followed by that
scene in the maternity room when he had wanted to pick up the infant lovingly,
only to be stopped by his stepmother’s lightning-sharp words, which still echoed
in his ears! ‘Alas! That lightning annihilated me!’ He remembered the number of
times she would scold him unreasonably and his father’s cruel and harsh
treatment. His frequent rebukes and his belief in his wife’s false accusations.
‘Alas! My whole life has been destroyed!’ Then he would shift in his bed and
the same scenes would once again flash before his eyes. ‘Why does this life not
end?’
Several days passed in this manner. One day as dusk fell, he heard someone
from outside his door. He strained his ears to listen and was startled. The voice
belonged to someone familiar. He ran to the door and found Gyanprakash
standing there. What a handsome man! Satyaprakash hugged him tightly.
Gyanprakash touched his feet. The brothers then stepped into the house.
Entering the dark room, Gyanprakash, who had so far controlled his flooding
emotions, burst into tears upon seeing the squalor of the house. Satyaprakash lit
the lamp. It was not a home but a den haunted by ghosts. Satyaprakash hurriedly
put on a kurta. Gyanprakash saw his brother’s weakened body, jaundiced face
and dim eyes, and continued to cry.
Satyaprakash said, ‘I keep ill these days.’
‘I can see that.’
‘You did not send news about your visit. How did you find the address?’
‘I had posted a letter. Maybe you didn’t receive it.’
‘Yes, you might have. The postman might have dropped it at the shop. I have
 ‘Yes, you might have. The postman might have dropped it at the shop. I have
not gone there for many days. Is all well at home?’
‘Mother died.’
‘What! Was she ill?’
‘No. We don’t know what she consumed. She had become somewhat
hysterical. Father said some harsh words because of which she consumed
something.’
‘Is father all right?’
‘Yes, not dead yet.’
‘What! Is he very ill?’
‘When mother consumed poison, he tried to give her some medicine by
opening her mouth, but she bit two of his fingers really hard. So the poison
entered his body as well. Since then his whole body has been swollen. He is
lying in the hospital and tries to bite anyone he sees.’
‘That means our home has been completely ruined.’
‘A home like this should have been ruined long ago.’
On the morning of the third day, both brothers left Calcutta for ever.

Translated from the Hindi by Vikas Jain

 Purification

At last, the inevitable did come to pass. Having lost everything that he
possessed, Lala Premnath realized that fidelity was a rare commodity in the
market of love. Not much time had passed since he had been known as a dry
abstinent among his friends. But one day he was persuaded by his friends to
attend a musical gathering in a public house, and he lost his heart to the celibate-
trapping deceptions of Husna Bi. For those inclined to pleasure, beauty and
charm are the means of pleasing the heart. For the abstinent, these are tidings of
martyrdom. In the five years that followed, Premnath surrendered all—wealth,
respect, religion, conscience—to Husna Bi. Even lifelong idolatry for Husna
would not have led to whispers, if only he had done it discreetly. But when has
society tolerated the loud decadence of broad-minded men? People stopped
visiting him. Relatives turned to strangers and avoided him. Tearfully, his
mother tried to reason with him. His wife pleaded with him, and gave up eating.
But Premnath had no place in his heart for anybody other than Husna—so much
so that the helpless mother left for a long pilgrimage, and his wife, Gomati,
returned to her maternal home. This made Premnath more wayward. He now
kept the company of musicians and singers. It was as if the restrictions of
religion, which had already been discarded, had now acquired wings and flew
away. Now he shared food and drink with everyone. What is pleasure without
company? With his rejection of caste, he also lost his Hinduness. And if he is not
Hindu, it matters little whether he is considered a Muslim, a Christian or
anything else.
 And one day out of excitement, he even recited the kalma at Jama Masjid! He
had no particular allegiance to Islam. His sentiments were Hindu, his thoughts
remained Hindu, and even his relationships were Hindu. His sympathies were
Hindu, but his conduct was not. And so he was a Muslim now. His social
interactions, and food and drink were all to do with Muslims—was that not
enough to prove him a Muslim? But how did it profit him when he was neither
here nor there? He recited the kalma, and Premnath became Ulfat Hussain.
But which mortal has ventured this way and not craved sustenance within
days? In the marketplace of this world, money is a commodity. What does a
pleasure garden have if not lust and meaningless fun? The moths scatter as soon
as the lamp goes out. Why would a canary sing on a fruitless tree? Once again,
what has been happening since the days of Adam happened again. Husna found
new lovers, and a helpless, loveless and dejected Mian Ulfat Hussain found
refuge in an old mosque. He had exchanged all his wealth for worthless goods
such as infamy, guilt, scandal and poverty. Disease came complimentary.

Now Premnath saw sense. For three weeks, he had been moaning in a corner of
the mosque. But there was nobody to ask after his welfare. Old friends had
turned dispirited and given up on him as insane. Among his new friends, there
were more who mocked him than those who showed concern. In this laughable
situation, Premnath remembered his loving mother and doting wife. Ah! What a
pleasant life it had been! What carefree days! How much that Goddess of good
fortune had reasoned with me, but full of lust, I had lost my bearing! If only I
could see her again, I would spend my whole life at her feet. Where is my good
fortune now? Who will ask after me? Now Gomati despises even the sight of my
face.
A maulvi sahib lived in the mosque. His name was Tahir Ali. He was a
selfless man. Taking pity on Premnath’s condition, he would invite him for
meals. One day he said, ‘Why don’t you go home? How long will you stay here?
After all, your house hasn’t collapsed! I can see that your condition is worsening
day by day.’
Premnath sighed. ‘Why do you rub salt into my wounds, Maulvi Sahib?
Where is my home and hearth now? It’s been long since the house was sold.
Where is my home and hearth now? It’s been long since the house was sold.
Now only the grave can provide me with rest.’
Maulvi Sahib said, ‘Even so, do call your family once. At least see how they
respond. I don’t ask you to call your wife, but the child’s condition will certainly
make a mother embrace him and forgive all his sins.’
Premnath responded dejectedly, ‘I know this, Maulvi Sahib. If my mother
hears of it, she’ll come here running wherever she might be. I believe my wife
will do the same as well. She is the Goddess of loyalty, Maulvi Sahib! I’ve never
seen such grace and bashfulness anywhere. I’m sure she’ll certainly come. But
how can I face her? How do I go to her? I can’t show them my tainted soul. I
would much rather die, alone and suffering. I can’t reawaken their pain. Ah! I’m
one who ruins the family, Maulvi Sahib! I sullied the name of my forefathers. I
had so much wealth that we could have lived comfortably for several
generations, but now I’m a pauper. So poor that I am even bereft of courage to
lean on. Now my only prayer to God is to end my suffering as soon as possible.’
Maulvi Sahib retorted harshly, ‘Why do you say Eishwar, the Hindu God?
You must say Allah!’
Premnath answered reproachfully, ‘Eishwar and Allah may be different
entities for you, sir. They are one for me. The world is not a farm planted
separately by Eishwar, Allah, Brahma, Lord or Jehovah.’
Shamefaced, Maulvi Sahib said, ‘That’s true, brother. When we hear a name
different from that of the one God that we have always heard, the ears find them
strange. Anyhow, if you agree, I can write a letter to your in-laws.’
Premnath gestured in the negative. ‘Not at all! Let me die here. This is the
punishment for my sins. Somebody or the other will arrange for the grave and
the shroud. At that time, you may send them a letter saying that the unfortunate
Premnath has passed away in great suffering, and is now enduring the torments
of hell. There isn’t much time left for me to die, Tahir Ali! Two days at the most.
My in-laws are in Lucknow, in the Naubasta mohalla. My father-in-law’s name
is Babu Nihalchand. But, brother, for God’s sake, do not write a letter before I
die. I bind you to this in God’s name. Now only a funeral shroud can clothe this
tainted soul!’

On the third day, sometime in the second quarter of the night, two women came
On the third day, sometime in the second quarter of the night, two women came
and stood in front of the mosque. One was a labourer and the other, Gomati.
Both stared at the mosque but dared not ask anything. Gomati said softly, ‘Is
anyone there or not? Just ask! Is this Rahim Khan’s mosque?’
The labourer said, ‘Whom do I ask? If only I could spot anyone!’ Upon
sighting the maulvi she said, ‘Arré, Mian Sahib, isn’t this Rahim Khan’s
mosque?’
As soon as Tahir Ali saw the two women, he rushed inside and told Premnath,
‘Ulfat Hussain, Ulfat Hussain! Are you asleep? Your family members have
arrived!’
Premnath sprang up and rushed forward but, being bewildered, stopped after a
few steps. He exclaimed with anxiety, ‘My family members? Are you
dreaming?’
Tahir replied, ‘It’s not a dream. It’s real, sir. They’re most definitely your
family. Should I call them in? An old woman asked me if this was Rahim
Khan’s mosque. I didn’t answer as I thought I should first inform you.’
With a tender look, Premnath inquired, ‘Did you write them a letter?’
Tahir Ali confessed, ‘Yes, brother, I did write the letter. Seeing your
condition, I couldn’t stop myself.’
Premnath reproached him, saying, ‘You didn’t desist even though I made you
swear. I didn’t expect this villainy from you. I believe it is open villainy and
betrayal.’
‘You may abuse me later, brother. What do you say now? Should I call them
in? Now sit like a decent man. Don’t start speaking nonsense to them.’
‘No, there’s no need to call anyone. Tell them nobody is here.’
‘Think it over.’
‘If you let anybody in, I’ll jump into this well, right here. You’re a shameless
fellow. You pretend to be a righteous man but in reality you’re a scoundrel!’
The old woman advanced to the mosque’s door and called out, ‘Arré, Mian
Sahib, isn’t this Rahim Khan’s mosque? I’ve been shouting for so long but
nobody is answering!’
Tahir begged Prem. ‘Brother, have pity on me. If I knew you’d lose your
temper, I wouldn’t have written this letter, not even in my dreams.’ He turned
and shouted to the old woman, ‘Yes, this is indeed Rahim Khan’s mosque. Who
are you and where have you come from?’
The old woman replied, ‘I have come from Lucknow. From Babu Premnath’s
 The old woman replied, ‘I have come from Lucknow. From Babu Premnath’s
in-laws’ house. The daughter has also come. Where is the master?’
Prem said to Tahir, ‘Tahir Ali! You’ve seriously betrayed me. I swear that if
my hands had the strength, I would’ve surely wrung your neck. Tyrant! You
should’ve given some thought as to how I would face that Goddess! How will I
do anything?’
‘Forgive me, brother. I admit it’s a serious mistake. The truth is that I had
never thought they would come.’
‘I had told you earlier that Gomati would certainly come upon hearing of my
condition. Anyhow, now you have tested me. Now you know how loyal a Hindu
woman is!
‘Now, for God’s sake, please go and say that Premnath is not here. And if they
insist, tell them that he was here till this afternoon, but has left without any
information.’
Tahir Ali pleaded with him helplessly, ‘Brother, have mercy on me and do not
force me to betray a loyal heart. My tongue cannot repeat what you are asking
me to say.’
Premnath’s eyes welled up. What a sensitive, empathizing heart this mullah
had! He looked at Maulvi Sahib with eyes full of gratitude and said, ‘Please go
and call them! Tell them that Premnath, the unfortunate, is here. I was
determined not to show my face to the family. I wished to die in a place where
no one could shed tears for me, but God didn’t agree to my wish for a peaceful
death.’

What a torturous scene it was! Gomati just stood there, with Premnath’s head
bowed down at her feet. And despite her strong protestations, he would not raise
his head. The flood from their eyes continued to flow, and both stayed tongue-
tied. Words bobbed unsteadily on the flood of emotions but drowned before
reaching the tongue.
At last, sobbing, Gomati asked, ‘How’s your health now? I wouldn’t even
have known if Maulvi Sahib had not written the letter. We have become such
strangers!’
Premnath raised his head and said gently, ‘Forgive me, Gomati, forgive my
faults. I’ve been punished enough for my folly. My intention was to not let the
faults. I’ve been punished enough for my folly. My intention was to not let the
news reach you but to depart from the world stealthily. Perhaps it was my fate to
face such guilt and shame.’
Gomati sat down. Wiping her husband’s tears, she said, ‘What guilt and
shame? Do you consider me a stranger? Lord knows I value you the way I did
earlier even now, in fact, more. And why mourn wealth? If fate wills it, we’ll get
it again. Serving you is the greatest wealth for me. A husband is a woman’s
greatest treasure. You deserted me but how could I desert you? I have always
been yours.’
Premnath replied, hesitant, ‘But how will this be, Gomati? There is an iron
wall between us. The world calls me a Muslim and considers me one, though I
can truly say that I never had any allegiance to Islam. Death is agreeable to me
but heaping notoriety on you is not.’
This very thought hurt Premnath and his tears resumed. A moment later, he
collected himself and asked, ‘Will you answer me if I ask you something? Tell
me the truth, Gomati.’
‘Tell me what it is. I don’t lie to you.’
Premnath bowed his head in shame. He knew that the question was untimely.
He also knew the pain it would cause to Gomati, down to her soul. Even so, he
gazed at Gomati’s face expectantly.
Head bowed but voice brave, Gomati answered, ‘It would have been better
had you not asked me this question. Dearest! Had I returned after years of being
away from you, your feelings for me would be the same as I feel for you today.
The heart pines for you but the body recoils. Even now I can sacrifice my life for
you, but . . .’
Gomati went silent. She could not find words appropriate enough to express
her situation. Premnath understood the hesitation and said, elated, ‘I understand
you, Gomati! And I’m happy that you have expressed it. There should be no
secrets between us. I can undergo shuddhi, purification, but will you still object
to me? Though I, for one, do not agree with this ritual. Even today, the Hindu
community has innumerable men from whom I would not even accept water.
Our society is full of such men. And I would consider it shameful to purify
myself just to socialize with them. But for your sake, even this test is acceptable
to me.’
Gomati looked at him gratefully and asked, ‘So when?’
Gomati looked at him gratefully and asked, ‘So when?’
Premnath replied, ‘Whenever your heart wishes.’

Translated from the Urdu by Vikas Jain

 Autobiography

There generally comes a time in the life of most servants of literature when
readers begin to send them reverential letters. One may praise the writer’s
creative style; another may be captivated by his high principles. The present
writer, too, has for some time enjoyed this good fortune. Only a servant of
literature can describe the thrill occasioned by such letters. Sitting on your torn
blanket, you are immersed in waves of pride and self-esteem. You forget how
much your head ached the previous evening from cooking dinner over wet
firewood, how bedbugs and mosquitoes had made it impossible to sleep the
entire night. For a moment you become deranged with egotism—‘I too am
Someone!’ Last year in the month of Saavan I received a letter of precisely this
ilk. In it the writer heaped fulsome praise on my trifling creations.
The sender was himself a fine poet. I often used to see his poems in
magazines. Reading his letter I could not contain my joy and immediately sat
down to reply. I do not now recall exactly what I wrote in this flood of emotion.
I certainly do remember this much—that from beginning to end the letter was
filled with expressions of affection. I have never written poetry or even a prose
poem but I adorned my language to the extent that when I reread the letter it
gave me the same pleasure I find in poetry. The whole letter was replete with a
charming sweetness.
Five days later this esteemed poet’s second letter arrived. It was even more
touching than the first. I was addressed as ‘My dear brother!’ and was requested
to provide a list of my creative works and the names and addresses of my
publishers. In the end came the welcome news that,
publishers. In the end came the welcome news that,

My wife holds you in the highest regard. She devotedly reads your works. She was inquiring where
your wife came from, how many children you have and also whether you have a photograph of
yourself. If you have, please do send it.

I was also asked details of the place where I was born and my genealogy. This
letter, and especially the news at the end, sent me into raptures.
This was the first time that I had had the good fortune to hear praise of myself
from the mouth of a woman, albeit through her representative. I felt drunk with
pride. God be praised! Now even the fairer sex had begun to extol my writing! I
replied at once. I expended all the ear-pleasing vocabulary contained in the
dictionary of my memory. The whole letter was full of amity and intimacy. I
provided an account of my family history. Never could any bard have composed
such a paean for his forefathers. My paternal grandfather was the agent of a
landowner—I made him the minister of a major princely state. I made my father,
who was an office clerk, a manager. And it was a simple matter to turn our small
holding into a zamindar’s estate. I could not increase the number of my works
but mentioned their importance, the respect they commanded, and their reach in
words that disguised my pride with a screen of humility. Who doesn’t know that
‘insignificant’ is generally used to mean the opposite and ‘modest’ is understood
to mean something quite different? To praise oneself openly shows a lack of
restraint, but through allusive language you can successfully achieve the same
end. Anyway, my letter was finished and promptly dispatched into the stomach
of a letterbox.
After that I received no reply for two weeks. I had in my letter added a few
appropriate remarks from my wife. I had hoped that our friendship would
become even more intimate. If only he would write a poem in my praise, then I
alone would tower over the literary world! His silence began to cast me into
despair. However, I couldn’t write another letter out of fear that the
distinguished poet would consider me self-seeking or sentimental.
It was the month of Ashwin, and late afternoon. I could hear the commotion of
a Ram Leela performance nearby. I had gone to a friend’s house. A game of
cards was in progress. Suddenly a man arrived asking my name and sat down in
a chair next to me. I had never met him and wondered who he was and how he
had come to be there. My friends looked the gentlemen up and down and
exchanged meaningful glances. There was certainly something novel in his
appearance—dark-complexioned and squat, his face scarred by smallpox, bare-
headed with his hair carefully combed, wearing a plain shirt with a flower
garland around his neck, his feet in full boots and in his hand a rather fat book!
Taken aback, I asked his name.
‘They call me Umapati Narayan,’ came the reply.
I rose and embraced him. This was the very poet who had sent those
affectionate letters. I inquired after his health and well-being and offered him
betel nut and cardamom. Then I asked, ‘How did you get here?’
He replied, ‘Let us go to your house and then I will tell you all. I went to your
home and discovered you were here. I asked my way.’
I stood up to accompany Umapatiji to my home. When he left the room, my
friend asked me, ‘Who is that gentleman?’
‘A new friend of mine.’
‘Just be careful about him. He looks dodgy to me.’
‘You’re mistaken. You always judge a man by how smartly he’s turned out.
But a man’s nature resides not in his clothes but in his heart.’
‘Well, I leave you to fathom those mysteries; I am just warning you.’
I didn’t answer him and went home with Umapatiji. I sent for food from the
bazaar and then we began talking. He recited several of his poems to me. His
voice was sweet and full of feeling.
I didn’t understand a word of the poems, but I praised them to the skies. I
swayed from side to side exclaiming, ‘Wah! Wah!’ as if there was no greater
connoisseur of poetry in the world than me. In the evening we went to see the
Ram Leela. When we returned I offered him another meal. Then he began to tell
me his news. He was now on his way to pick up his wife from Kanpur. His own
family home was in Kanpur. It was his opinion that we should bring out a
monthly magazine. One publisher paid him a thousand rupees for his poetry but
he wanted to serialize them first in a magazine and then publish them in book
form at his own expense. Although his zamindari estate was in Kanpur, he
wanted to live a literary life. He loathed being landed gentry. His wife was a
principal in a girls’ school. We talked half the night away. Now I don’t
remember most of what was said. But, yes, I do recall that we both had prepared
a plan together for our future lives. I thanked my lucky stars that God had sent
me such a true friend out of nowhere. When half the night was over, we slept.
me such a true friend out of nowhere. When half the night was over, we slept.
He had to leave by the eight o’clock train the next morning. When I woke up it
was already seven o’clock. Umapatiji was sitting washed and ready to go. He
said, ‘Please permit me to leave, I shall call here on my way back. Now I’m
going to trouble you often. Please forgive me. When I set out yesterday it was
four o’clock in the morning. I’d been lying awake since two so that I wouldn’t
oversleep. In fact you can say that I had to stay awake the whole night because I
was anxious about the journey. After I’d taken my seat in the train I began to
doze. I took off my coat, put it to one side and lay down. Immediately I fell
asleep. I woke up at Mughalsarai. The coat had vanished! I looked for it
everywhere, but there was no sign of it. I realized someone had stolen it. This
was my punishment for sleeping. I had kept fifty rupees in the coat to cover the
expenses of the journey; they were stolen with it. I have to collect my wife from
her father’s house; I will have to take some clothes and other things with me.
Then in my in-laws’ house you are expected to give a hundred kind of presents
to everyone. Every step costs you money. If you don’t spend they laugh at you.
I’ll repay the money on my way back.’
I found myself in a great dilemma. I’d already been let down once before. At
once I became apprehensive that I would be left in the same position again. But I
was quickly ashamed of my lack of faith. In this world all men are not the same.
This poor chap was such a gentleman. Right now he was in difficulty and here I
was doubting him for no reason. I went indoors and said to my wife, ‘Do you by
any chance have any money?’
‘What for?’
‘My friend who came yesterday—somebody in the train stole his money. He
has to go to his in-laws’ house to bring his wife home. On his way back he’ll
return it.’
My wife said sarcastically, ‘All your friends come here just to rob you. All of
them constantly have problems. I don’t have any money.’
I said ingratiatingly, ‘Please do give it, the poor man’s standing outside ready
to leave. He’ll miss his train.’
‘Tell him there’s no cash in the house at the moment.’
‘That’s not easy. That means I’m not only poor but also friendless. Otherwise
couldn’t I find fifty rupees from somewhere? Umapatiji will never believe that I
don’t have the money. It would be much better to tell him plainly that we don’t
trust him and that’s why we can’t give him anything. At least there would be a
trust him and that’s why we can’t give him anything. At least there would be a
veil over our real position.’
In sudden anger, my wife flung down the key of her box in front of me and
said, ‘If you were as good at judging people as you are at arguing you would
have been a man by now! Take the money and give it to him. At least your
honour will be safe. But don’t think of it as a loan, rest assured that you are
throwing it into water.’
I was concerned with eating mangoes, not counting the mango trees. I quietly
took out the money and gave it to Umapatiji. He set off, once again promising to
repay the money on his way back.
Seven days later he arrived at my house with his wife and daughter in the
evening. My wife welcomed them with sugar and curd. We gave them twenty
rupees as the customary gift for seeing a bride’s face for the first time. We also
gave his daughter two rupees for sweets. I had imagined that the moment he
arrived Umapatiji would start counting out my money, but until late in the night
he never even mentioned the matter. When I was going to bed my wife
commented, ‘He didn’t give you the money, ji.’
She then laughed sarcastically and said, ‘So did you really think he would
repay you the moment he arrived? I told you from the start not to give the money
expecting to get it back, that you should just consider it as helping your friend.
But you are a very strange fellow.’
I was ashamed and silent. Umapatiji stayed with us for two days. My wife
treated him respectfully and hospitably as was proper. But I was not so content. I
thought he had cheated me.
On the third morning, he was ready to leave. I still hoped that he would pay
me before he went. But I was dumbfounded by his new tale. Rolling up his
bedding, he told me, ‘I am really sorry that I couldn’t pay you back this time.
The fact is that I didn’t meet my father at our house. He had gone to the villages
to collect rent and I didn’t have the time to go after him. There’s no railway
there. You have to travel by bullock carts. That’s why I stayed one day at the
house and then went to my in-laws’. I spent everything there. If they hadn’t
given me money, it would have been difficult for me to get here. Now I don’t
even have the money for our rail tickets. If you could give me twenty-five rupees
more I will send it to you the moment I arrive. I don’t even have enough for the
ekka fare.’
ekka fare.’
I felt like giving him a straight answer but that kind of discourtesy was
impossible. I went again to my wife and asked for money. This time she handed
it over to me without saying a word. Rather half-heartedly I gave it to Umapatiji.
When his wife and daughter descended the stairs he picked up his bedding and
respectfully took his leave. I acknowledged him with a nod from where I sat. I
didn’t even see him off as far as the street.
A week later he wrote, I am going to Berar on work and will send your money
on my return.
After a fortnight I wrote him a letter inquiring how he was. I received no
reply. After another fortnight I again demanded the money. I received no reply
to that either. After a month I made the same request and with the same result! I
sent a registered letter. There was no doubt that it had reached its destination but
it too failed to elicit a reply. I realized that what my sensible wife had said was
totally correct. I fell silent in despair.
I never mentioned these letters to my wife and neither did she ever ask about
this matter.

This deceitful behaviour had the same effect on me as it ordinarily and naturally
should have. Only an elevated and pure soul could have remained unmoved by
such duplicity. Such a person would be satisfied about having fulfilled his duty.
If the debtor did not repay the debt, then that was no fault of his. But I was not
so generous. Only by racking my brains for months and wearing out my pens
was I repaid with the sight of the Almighty Cash.
That same month another incident occurred. A new compositor from Bihar
had joined my press. He seemed clever at his work. I took him on for fifteen
rupees a month. He used to study before in some English-medium school but had
given up his studies because of the Non-Cooperation Movement. His family had
refused to give him any help and he had no other choice but to take up this
profession for his livelihood. He was about seventeen or eighteen, and had a
serious nature. He spoke very politely. Three days after he joined me he
developed a fever. He managed to endure it somehow for a few days and then
when his temperature didn’t go down he became alarmed and began to miss
home. They would at least get him the treatment he needed if nothing else. He
home. They would at least get him the treatment he needed if nothing else. He
came to me and said, ‘Sir, I’m ill. If you could give my some money I will be
able to go home. The moment I arrive I will make arrangements for the money to
be sent to you.’
He really was sick and I knew it very well. I also knew that he could never
return to health here. He did indeed need help. But I suspected that he too might
digest my money. When a thoughtful, capable, scholarly man could deceive me,
how could I expect a half-educated young man to keep his promise?
I stood for several minutes in a total dilemma. Finally I said, ‘I am very sad to
see you in this state. But right now I can do nothing. I have no cash in hand. I’m
sorry.’
Tears began to fall from his eyes at this blunt answer. He replied, ‘If you want
you can certainly arrange the money. I will send it the moment I arrive.’
I said to myself, ‘Your intentions are good here but where’s the proof they’ll
remain good once you reach home? And even if they do who knows whether
you’ll be able to send the money or not. At least I won’t have any means of
getting it back from you.’ Aloud I said, ‘I do not doubt you but I am sorry I do
not have the money. However, you can take whatever salary you are owed.’
He didn’t reply. As if uncertain what to do he glanced up at the sky once and
left. My heart was in anguish. I felt remorse for my selfishness. But in the end I
stood by my decision. I contented myself with the thought that I was not so rich
that I could go throwing money into water.
This was the result of the deception I had suffered at the hands of my poet
friend.
I don’t know what bad fruits my weakness would have borne later, as
fortunately that moment never came. God decreed that I would be saved from
that disgrace. After the young man left me with tears in his eyes, he met Pandit
Prithvinath, a clerk in my office. Panditji asked him what the matter was. When
he heard the story Panditji took out fifteen rupees and gave it to the young man.
He had to borrow this money from the office bookkeeper. When I heard this a
weight was lifted from my heart. Now the poor lad would reach home in
comfort. And this consolation cost me absolutely nothing. At the same time I
was somewhat ashamed of my low behaviour. In lengthy essays I would lecture
on compassion, humanity and virtuous behaviour and when it had come to the
test I had simply looked after myself! And this poor clerk who devotedly read
my work turned out to be so generous and altruistic! The guru stayed as raw
my work turned out to be so generous and altruistic! The guru stayed as raw
jaggery, his disciple turned into sugar. Anyway, in all this there was also the
ironic satisfaction that even if my spiritual instruction had no effect on me, at
least it had an effect on others! If there was darkness underneath the lamp what
did it matter? At least the light had spread. But in case the poor clerk didn’t get
his money back (and that was not very likely) he would be totally bereft. Then I
would give him a good talking-to. This wish of mine, however, was not fulfilled.
Five days later the money arrived. I had never had my eyes opened in such a
tortuous way. The good thing was that I never mentioned this incident to my
wife; or it would have been difficult for me even to remain in my house.

I wrote out the above story and dispatched it to a magazine. My aim was simply
to place before the public a picture of the adverse consequences of deceitful
behaviour. I had never even dreamed that it would bear immediate fruit. So
when four days later I suddenly received a money order for seventy-five rupees,
my joy knew no bounds. The sender was the same gentleman—Umapatiji. On
the coupon was written just ‘Apologies’. I took the money and put it in my
wife’s hands and showed her the coupon.
She said indifferently, ‘Take it and put it in your own box. I never realized
until today what a greedy man you were. It’s not decent behaviour to chase after
people for small amounts of money. When an educated and polite man is unable
to fulfil his promise then you should realize that he must be under some
compulsion. It is not good manners to embarrass such a helpless man with
repeated demands. As far as it’s in his power no human being who is not totally
morally corrupt cheats anyone. I will not keep this money with me until we
receive a letter from Umapatiji explaining why he took so long to send it.’
But at this point I was not ready to listen to such noble thoughts. I had the
money I’d lost and I was overjoyed.

Translated from the Hindi by Gillian Wright

 The Ornaments

I have nothing against women’s craving for jewellery. We can still bear it if the
ladies are somewhat obdurate, but we cannot deal with their lethal, sarcastic
remarks. But I must say that sacrifices made for the fulfilment of this craving
may be utilized to achieve something far better in life.
Though we haven’t yet seen any ordinary-looking lady appear beautiful only
because of her jewellery, we accept the fact that jewellery is needed to enhance
beauty, just as a house needs a lamp to illumine it. But we never ponder on how
we lose our peace of mind and pollute our soul in the pursuit of enhancing our
physical beauty. Its dazzle blurs our vision. We shudder to think of the depth of
envy, jealousy and anxiety that the glitter of jewellery might cause. In fact, it is
not an aid to beautification but pollution. If that is not the case, how is it that a
newly-wedded girl, having barely spent three days with her husband, can tell
him, ‘My father has pushed me into a dungeon by making me tie the knot with
you!’
That day Sheetala had gone to see the bride of Kunwar Suresh Singh, the
landlord of the village. She was bewitched by what she saw. She barely looked
at the bride because she could not take her eyes off the girl’s shining jewellery.
Sheetala was very annoyed. Her foul mood found a vent on her husband when he
returned in the evening.
Her husband’s name was Vimal Singh. His ancestors were landowners and
very affluent. This village also belonged to them. But down the years their
wealth and position had withered away. Suresh’s father was adept at land
dealings and had somehow got hold of Vimal’s property. Vimal had almost
dealings and had somehow got hold of Vimal’s property. Vimal had almost
become a pauper now, finding it difficult to afford two square meals a day or a
pony to ride on. On the other side, Suresh had several elephants, cars and horses.
Visitors could be seen standing at the main door of his house at any time of the
day. Yet these odds could not create a gulf between the two men. They
maintained their relations cordially, attending marriages and participating in all
the rituals in each other’s families. Suresh had special interest in education. After
he finished his studies in India he’d left for Europe to pursue higher education.
People had assumed that he’d return as a Brown Sahib, but contrary to their
expectations he turned into a staunch believer in the sanctity of Indian tradition.
The materialism, licentiousness and inordinate arrogance that he’d encountered
in Europe opened his eyes. Earlier, his family had put a lot of pressure on him to
get married but he’d declined. He wouldn’t marry a girl that he didn’t know
well. But now there was a sea change in his attitude. He married the same girl he
had rejected earlier. He did not try to get to know her at all. Marriage for him
was now a spiritual bond and not one of love. Sheetala had gone to see the same
girl—Suresh’s wife—with her mother-in-law. And the glitter of the bride’s
jewels had taken the wind out of her wings. Vimal was deeply disappointed by
Sheetala’s behaviour. He said to her sadly that she should have asked her parents
to marry her to Suresh, who would have laden her with jewels.
‘Why are you being so abusive?’ Sheetala asked
‘I’m not. Your parents shouldn’t have married a beauty like you to me.’
‘You’ve no shame. You only know how to taunt.’
‘Destiny is not in my hands. Nor am I educated enough to get a lucrative job.’
‘You do not love me. Why don’t you admit that? If you had loved me you
would’ve found a way to earn more.’
‘You love ornaments?’
‘Everybody does. I also do.’
‘You consider yourself unfortunate.’
‘What’s there to consider? I am unfortunate. Otherwise I wouldn’t have to
look at what others possess and crave for them.’
‘Will you consider yourself fortunate if I get them made for you?’
‘Oh! Is there a goldsmith waiting for your command at the door?’
‘No, I’ll have them made for you. But you have to be patient.’
 2

Once challenged there are some capable people who can go to the extent of
taking lives to achieve their objective. But a weakling risks his own life to fulfil
a promise. Vimal decided to leave the house. He was determined to either cover
Sheetala in ornaments or make her a widow. She would either wear jewellery or
yearn for vermilion.
He was sunk deep in sadness the entire day. He wanted to make Sheetala
happy with his love. But now he realized that women did not look for love but
only for material pleasures. Late in the night he left his home and didn’t turn
back even once. There is a hint of attachment left in wilful renunciation, but
detachment born out of disappointment remains firm. The sight of material
things in light can create distractions but in darkness nobody deters from the
straight path by even an inch.
Vimal was not educated, nor did he have any special skill. But he was hard-
working and his strong sense of self-sacrifice gave him strength. He went to
Calcutta first. He worked for a rich man there for some time. There he heard
from someone that in Rangoon the wages were much better. So he left for
Rangoon immediately. He started working in the port as a loader.
Hard work, irregular food habits and bad climate took a toll on his health and
he fell sick. His body became weak and the glow on his face was gone. But still
he remained the most hard-working man in that port. There were other labourers
as well but this man was a workaholic. Once he decided on something he
pursued it with single-minded devotion.
He did not send word home regarding his whereabouts. He convinced himself
that nobody cared for him at home. His wife cared only for jewels. What he
could not grasp was that love could cohere with the yearning for material
pleasures. The other labourers used to eat their fill in the morning. They smoked
tobacco and narcotics right through the day. If they were free they roamed
around the bazaars. Many were addicted to alcohol. If they earned more in
Rangoon they spent more too. As a result, sometimes they did not even have
proper clothes to wear. But Vimal was among the rare few who lived a life of
austerity and moderation. The aim of his life was to earn and save. Within a
short time Vimal made a small fortune. With money he began to wield his
influence on the other labourers. Almost everybody knew that Vimal was a
influence on the other labourers. Almost everybody knew that Vimal was a
thakur by caste. And everybody addressed him as Thakur. Restraint and good
behaviour are keys to respectability. Vimal became the leader of the labourers
and a moneylender.
Vimal had spent three years working in Rangoon now. It was evening and he
was sitting and chatting with some of his fellow men near the seaside.
One of them said, ‘Here the women are hard-hearted. Poor Jhingur was living
with that Burmese woman for the past ten years. Few would have loved even
their legally wedded wives as much as he did this woman. He trusted her so
much that whatever he earned he handed it over to her. They had three sons. Till
yesterday they had their dinner together and went to sleep. No clash or fight.
And she left in the night, just like that. She left the boys behind. Poor Jhingur is
inconsolable. He does not know what to do with the small kid. The unfortunate
child is only six months old. Only God knows how he will survive.’
Vimal asked gravely, ‘Did he buy jewellery for her?’
Labourer: ‘She kept all the money. Who could have stopped her if she wanted
to get them made?’
Second labourer: ‘She was loaded with ornaments. When she walked, a
jingling sound filled the air.’
Vimal: ‘If she betrayed him despite that it means that all women are
treacherous.’
Suddenly, a man arrived and told Vimal, ‘Chaudhary, I met a soldier just now.
He wanted to know your name, your father’s name and your village. There is
one Babu Suresh Singh who is looking for you.’
Vimal said apprehensively, ‘Yes, there is a person by that name. He is a
landlord in my village and a distant cousin.’
Man: ‘He got a notice pasted in the police station declaring an award of one
thousand rupees to the person who gives any information about you.’
Vimal: ‘So you told the soldier everything?’
Man: ‘Chaudhary, am I such a fool? I sensed that something was amiss;
nobody will spare so much money for nothing. I told him that your name was
Jasoda Pande and not Vimal Singh. Your father’s name is Sukhu and that your
hometown is in Jhansi district. Then he asked how long you have been living
here. I told him ten years. He pondered for some time and then left. Does Suresh
Babu have anything against you, Chaudhary?’
Vimal: ‘Not anything that I know of. But who knows what might be going on
 Vimal: ‘Not anything that I know of. But who knows what might be going on
in his mind. He might usurp my land in the village by levelling some false
charges against me. You did the right thing by misleading the soldier.’
Man: ‘He said that if I gave him correct information he would get fifty rupees
for me too. I thought he’d get a thousand rupees and was trying to get away with
giving me only fifty rupees. I shrugged away his proposal.’
One labourer: ‘If he had offered you two hundred rupees then you’d have told
him everything. Wouldn’t you? Shame on you, greedy fellow!’
Man: (ashamed.) ‘What would I have said for two hundred? Even if he had
given me two thousand I wouldn’t have given him any information. Do not
consider me a traitor. You can test my loyalty whenever you want.’
The labourers kept on arguing with each other while Vimal went to his room
and lay down. His wondered, What should I do now? If a gentleman like Suresh
can change whom can I trust in this world? No, I have to go home now. If I delay
any more I’ll be ruined. If I had stayed for two more years I could have earned
five thousand rupees in total. I could have satisfied Sheetala’s desire to some
extent. But right now I have only three thousand rupees with me. This is not
enough for her. Anyway, I can go now but I’ll be back in six months. That way
my property will be saved. No, I won’t stay for six months there. Travelling both
ways will take one month’s time. Fifteen days at home will be enough. Who
cares for me there? Nobody cares if I live or die. They care only for ornaments.
With this plan in mind he left Rangoon the following day.

The world is of the view that physical beauty is of less consequence than mental
qualities. Our moral philosophers feel the same way. But reality is quite
different. Suresh’s wife, Mangala Kumari, was skilled at household work. She
was an obedient, extremely sensitive and thoughtful, soft-spoken and God-
fearing woman. But as she lacked beauty, she was an eyesore to her husband.
Suresh got annoyed with her about petty things but the next moment he would
regret his behaviour and ask for her forgiveness. This happened every day. The
trouble was that he was not corrupt like other affluent people. He wanted to fulfil
all his physical and spiritual needs within the bounds of family life, which would
afford him joy, peace and tranquillity. Deprived of conjugal happiness his entire
life appeared to him to be dull, shrunken and joyless.
life appeared to him to be dull, shrunken and joyless.
The consequence was that Mangala lost her self-confidence. If she ever tried
to do anything of her own accord, a constant fear plagued her lest her husband
got angry with her. In order to make him happy she told lies and gave excuses to
cover up her mistakes. She blamed the servants to save herself from her
husband’s wrath. She ignored her own self-respect and conscience just to keep
him in good humour. But that did not help at all. Instead of rising in her
husband’s esteem she fell in his eyes day by day. She tried new ways of decking
up but it only took her further away from him. She yearned for her husband’s
affection. She longed for his smile and a sweet word from his lips. Women
lacking beauty are not satisfied with a little love; they want the complete,
undivided love of their husbands—sometimes even more than pretty women, as
they work harder to attain that. Mangala became more frustrated as all her efforts
yielded nothing.
Gradually, her love for her husband started waning. She reasoned that such a
heartless, cruel and thoughtless man did not deserve her affection. Tit for tat—
that should be the name of the game. A man who only cared for outward beauty
did not deserve her undivided love and affection. Such a reaction though only
worsened the situation.
Mangala didn’t have to just deal with her own lack of beauty. Sheetala’s
beauty dampened her spirits even more. Though Mangala was not beautiful, she
loved her husband with all her heart. We cannot ignore those who love us. Love
has infinite power. But Suresh was stricken by Sheetala’s charm. His heart,
occupied by Sheetala, had no space for Mangala. He tried very hard to eject
Sheetala from his heart but to no avail. The impact of beauty is as inevitable as
that of wealth. Suresh had had a glimpse of Sheetala’s beauty on the day she had
come to see Mangala. But that one glance had conquered his heart. He was
totally vanquished.
Suresh sat in a corner and compared both women to find out the difference
between the two. Why did one woman attract him so much while the other
repelled him? This attraction was devoid of all lustful thoughts. In fact it was
like poet or a painter appreciating beauty. It was just a means of satisfaction for
him. He reasoned with his heart and resolved to try and make Mangala happy. It
was not her fault that she was not beautiful. But the moment she came before
him his resolve vanished into thin air. He noticed closely the shifting expressions
him his resolve vanished into thin air. He noticed closely the shifting expressions
on her face indicating what went through her heart, but like a paralysed person,
he was incapable of doing anything. He didn’t dare reflect on the consequences.
And when Mangala also started being rude to him, he lost all interest in her. He
stopped visiting her altogether.
It was very hot one evening. Even hand fans were of no help. Nobody went
for walks in the orchards. The heat sapped all energy and the people became
lifeless, like corpses. The extreme weather made everyone irritable. They lost
their temper at the drop of a hat and flared up like a bonfire. Suresh was restless.
He was scolding the servants for not sprinkling water frequently when suddenly
he heard the sound of music emanating from the house. He was startled; then he
felt a seething anger. Even the sweet music annoyed him. Was this the time to
sing? The heat was making life miserable and here people were busy enjoying
music. Mangala must have called them. Who said that love was the basis of
women’s lives? They were simply fond of good food, sleep, entertainment, as
other ordinary human beings. Now it had been an hour or so. God knows when it
would stop. Those women were straining their throats for no reason.
At last he couldn’t hold himself any more. He went to the women’s part of the
house and said, ‘What’s this raucous noise you people are making? Is this the
time for recreation? It has become difficult to sit outside with all this uproar.’
Everybody fell silent. It was like a noisy classroom falling silent on the arrival
of the teacher. Everybody bowed their heads low and slunk away.
Mangala got up and went to the front room. She called her husband inside and
asked in a low voice, ‘Why’re you so angry?’
‘I do not want to hear music at this hour.’
‘Nobody is singing for you. Do you want to control my hearing faculties?’
‘Stop this nonsense.’
‘It’s none of your business.’
‘I won’t allow this racket in my house.’
‘So where is my home then?’
Suresh ignored this question and instead said, ‘Tell these women to come
some other time.’
‘Why, just because you do not like these women being here?’
‘Yes, that’s why.’
‘Do you always do things that I approve of? Your friends come here
frequently. Their loud laughter disturbs me and everybody inside the house. But
frequently. Their loud laughter disturbs me and everybody inside the house. But
I never protest. I never said that they shouldn’t come here. Why do you interfere
with whatever I do then?’
Suresh raised his voice and said, ‘Because I’m the owner of this house.’
‘You rule outside. This is my territory.’
‘Why are you spouting nonsense? What will you gain by annoying me this
way?’
Mangala stood silent for a while. She was trying to analyse the thoughts of her
husband. Then she spoke up. ‘As you wish. If I don’t have any right over this
house then I won’t stay here. Till now I was under an illusion. But today you
cleared the illusion. I never had any right over this house. A woman who does
not have any place in the heart of her husband has no right over his property.’
Suresh was embarrassed. ‘Why are you making a mountain out of a molehill?
I did not mean that. You’ve misunderstood me.’
‘One’s real thoughts come out unhindered like this. When we are alert, we
hide our real emotions and feelings.’
Suresh was now ashamed of his rudeness. But he was afraid that the more he
tried to pacify her, the more abusive she’d become. So he left her in that state
and went out.
It was early morning and a cool breeze was blowing. Suresh was in a trance
and dreaming that Mangala was walking past him. He woke up with a start to see
that Mangala was actually standing at the threshold. The maids were wiping
their tears. Several servants were standing around. Everybody was grief-stricken
and teary-eyed. It was as though a bride was leaving her home forever.
Suresh understood that Mangala had taken the previous day’s incident to
heart. But he did not try to stop her, or make up with her or even make her
understand his viewpoint. She is humiliating me. She can go wherever she wants.
I do not have anything to do with her. She is going of her own accord. That
implies I mean nothing to her. Then who am I to stop her?
He just stood there and Mangala went away. She did not even give him one
last look.

Mangala kept walking. It was not a small thing for the wife of a landlord.
Nobody could gather the courage to speak to her. The menfolk moved out of her
Nobody could gather the courage to speak to her. The menfolk moved out of her
way while the womenfolk stood at their doors and watched her with pitiful,
curious eyes. They were thinking, ‘What a cruel fellow! He could’ve at least got
a palanquin for her!’
She crossed her village and reached Sheetala’s village. When Sheetala saw
her, she invited Mangala into her house.
Mangala went inside. The house was in a dilapidated condition. An elderly
lady was lying on a cot in the portico. Poverty was writ large everywhere.
Sheetala asked, ‘What’s happened to you?’
Mangala answered, ‘That which was in my fate.’
‘Did Kunwerji say or do something?’
‘It’s not necessary that everything be expressed in words. One’s real feelings
come out in gestures.’
‘Oh God, has it come to this now?’
When one reaches the end of one’s tether all inhibitions are lost. Mangala
said, ‘If I wanted, I could’ve continued to stay there. I would’ve spent my entire
life there. But I cannot stay any more at a place where there is no love, respect or
honour for me.’
‘Where’s your parents’ house?’
‘How can I go there?’
‘Then where will you go?’
‘I will take refuge in God. I will ask Him why he didn’t make me beautiful.
Why did he make me ugly? Sister, being born ugly is the worst curse for a
woman. It is probably she-monsters who are reborn as ugly women. Beauty
fetches love and love is the rarest commodity in life.’
Mangala stood up to leave and Sheetala didn’t stop her. She thought, What
would I offer her to eat? There’s nothing in the house.
Sheetala went into deep thought after Mangala left. How unfortunate was she
herself? I spurned the love of my husband, and this woman is renouncing the
world because her husband doesn’t love her. Did she have any dearth of
jewellery? Could these jewels keep her happy? She spurned them. And I lost
everything because of my obsession with them. Only God knows where he is, and
in what condition!
She often cursed her greed. And after seeing Mangala’s condition, she started
hating jewellery.
hating jewellery.
It was two years since Vimal had left his home. Sheetala began to have all
kinds of misgivings regarding him. She began to suffer from a sense of guilt and
remorse.
The petty landlords in the rural areas used their influence to get their work
done. Vimal’s lands were usually given on lease for farming. After he left there
was nobody to look after his lands. No farmer tilled his land. Nobody touched
his land even on a shared crop basis. They thought that if Vimal appeared
suddenly he might refuse to give anything to the share cropper. The tenants did
not pay rent. Sheetala borrowed money from the village moneylender to run the
house. She faced the same situation in the second year, too, but this time the
moneylender refused to lend her money. Sheetala had to sell her ornaments. By
the end of the second year all the family assets were disposed of. Starvation
stared them in the face. There were four members in the family—Sheetala’s
elderly mother-in-law, her younger brother-in-law, her sister-in-law and Sheetala
herself. The relatives also visited off and on. To make matters worse, Sheetala’s
parents got embroiled in a court case. Her father and elder brother had been
framed. Sheetala’s two younger brothers, sister and mother came to stay with
her. It was difficult to run the house earlier, but now it was totally ruined.
The squabbles between the two families began from early morning. The
samdhans and the brothers-in-law fought with each other. Sometimes there was
no food in the house. And many a time because of the fighting nobody ate. The
boys would steal sugar cane and green peas from the fields. The mother-in-law
would go to the neighbours’ houses and abuse Sheetala and her family for taking
over the house in the absence of her son. In this battle the victory generally went
to the daughter-in-law’s side. On a few rare occasions they managed to get some
foodgrain, but there was nobody to grind it. Sheetala’s mother said that she was
a guest and it was not proper that a guest be made to work. To which her mother-
in-law would retort that the guests were ever ready to eat but they never wanted
to work. Poor Sheetala had to do all the work alone. During mealtimes there was
always an uproar, which irritated the neighbours. Sheetala pleaded with her
mother and mother-in-law to stop fighting. But both dismissed her out of hand.
Her mother said, ‘You’ve insulted us after calling us in your house.’ And her
mother-in-law would say in return, ‘You’ve brought this woman in my house to
humiliate me and now you’re spinning yarns.’ This situation made Sheetala
forget her own plight. All her misgivings about her husband were forgotten. The
only anxiety that preoccupied her at the moment was how to overcome the
problem she was faced with. Both the elderly women—her mother and her
mother-in-law—were on the verge of death, but the angel of death didn’t seem to
be in a hurry to welcome them. She thought and thought but couldn’t find a way
out. There was no hope of help from any quarter.
One day she was standing at the door looking very sad and depressed. The
doorstep becomes one’s favourite spot when one is eagerly waiting for someone
or is in trouble. Suddenly, she saw Suresh riding a horse. His eyes turned
towards her. Then their eyes met, and she stepped back and closed the doors.
Suresh rode past. Sheetala was embarrassed about Suresh having seen her in a
torn sari. She wondered what he must think of her.
Suresh had found out about the plight of Vimal’s family from the villagers,
and he secretly wanted to help them. But the moment he saw Sheetala, he
became so self-conscious that he couldn’t even stop there for a second. It was
three months now since Mangala had left his house. He hadn’t gone out
anywhere in those three months out of shame. This was the first time he had
stepped out.
Sheetala had always been lurking in Suresh’s thoughts—there was no doubt
about that. But after Mangala’s departure that desire had turned into lust. Is there
no way I can possess this beauty? There had been no trace of Vimal for ages. It
was quite possible that he was no longer alive. But Suresh tried to control his
reckless thoughts with reason. It is because of this that he hesitated over offering
help to Sheetala despite knowing her plight. Who knows when lust might raise
its head and mount an assault on his reason and conscience? Eventually, desire
won and he went to Sheetala’s house to inquire about the well-being of her
family. He reasoned in his heart, ‘It’ll be sheer injustice if I do not help the
helpless woman when she’s in such dire straits.’ But when he returned from
there, he found that he had already bidden goodbye to his judgement and
conscience, overcome as he was by his lust and infatuation. What a pretty
picture she made! What incomparable beauty!
He lost his wits and began to mutter to himself. My body and soul belong to
you only. Let the world laugh. If it is a great sin, let it be. I care a damn. I can’t
deprive myself of this heavenly pleasure. She can’t run away from me. I will pull
my heart out and present it at her feet. Vimal is dead. If not, then he’ll die now.
What’s wrong in that? Oh, how beautiful, soft, sublime she is! Oh, her lips . . .
Suddenly he checked himself as if he had remembered something long
forgotten. In every human being there is a hidden sense, apart from the
conscious senses. This sense warned Suresh. Just as a vanquished, retreating
army finds help from an unknown source, in the same way this sense warned
Suresh and he controlled himself. He was deeply ashamed and his eyes filled
with tears. For several minutes he stood where he was, silent like a condemned
prisoner. Then he said triumphantly, ‘It’s very easy. I’ll kill this giant perversion
in a simple way. I’ll accept Sheetala as my sister. Then all these lustful thoughts
will vanish on their own. Sheetala! Sister! I’m your brother!’
He sat down right that moment to write a letter to Sheetala. ‘Sister, you’re in
so much pain, yet you didn’t think of informing me. I’m not a stranger to you!
I’m very disappointed. Anyway, God willing, you won’t face any more trouble
now.’ He sent both foodgrain and money with the letter.
Sheetala answered, ‘Brother, please forgive me. I’ll sing your glory till my
last breath. You’ve taken my sinking boat ashore.’

Many months passed. It was evening time. Sheetala was feeding her mynah,
which Suresh had brought for her from Nepal. Suresh came and sat in the
courtyard with her.
Sheetala asked, ‘Where are you coming from?’
‘I went to the police station. But I haven’t got any clue yet. We’d got some
news from Rangoon. But he turned out to be somebody else. What should I do?
Should I increase the prize money?’
‘You’ve lots of money, you can blow it if you like. He’ll come if and when he
wants to.’
‘Can I ask you something? What happened between you two? Why did he
leave?’
‘It’s nothing. I had just asked him to get some ornaments made for me. He
said, “Do I have the money?” And I said, “Then why did you marry me?” He
took that to heart.’
Suddenly, Sheetala’s mother-in-law entered. Suresh had sent Sheetala’s
 Suddenly, Sheetala’s mother-in-law entered. Suresh had sent Sheetala’s
mother and brothers back home, so there was peace in the house. The mother-in-
law had heard Sheetala talking about her son. She said heatedly, ‘There’s
nothing to hide from you. She looks like a rose but her nature contains only
thorns. She’s only worried about her looks and never cared for Vimal. He loved
her to bits but she never even talked to him properly. There’s no trace of love in
her heart for him. So he had to leave the country.’
Sheetala was peeved. ‘Is he the only man who has left the country to earn
money? It’s a man’s job to travel abroad for livelihood. ‘In Europe, couples stay
together only for material benefits. If sister had been born in Europe she would
have been laden with jewels and diamonds. Sheetala, from now on you should
pray to God to be born in Europe in your next life if He endows you with
beauty.’
Sheetala said in a grief-stricken voice, ‘The women who are fortunate enough
are laden with gold even here. Not everyone is as unfortunate as I am.’
Suresh felt the glow on Sheetala’s face became dim. Even in the absence of
her husband she was hankering after ornaments. He said, ‘Fine, I will get some
made for you.’
He meant to insult her, but Sheetala was overcome with happiness. Tears
sprang to her eyes and her voice choked. She could visualize Mangala’s heavy
ornaments in her heart. She looked at Suresh, her eyes brimming with gratitude.
She did not utter a word but it was as though every part of her body was saying
‘I’m yours!’

Sheetala’s happiness knew no bounds when she wore Mangala’s ornaments. She
was more joyful than a cuckoo perched on the branch of a mango tree, a fish
swimming in cool and calm waters and a deer prancing about in an open green
forest. She was totally swept off her feet. She stood in front of the mirror,
adoring herself. She combed her hair and put kohl in her eyes. The fog dispelled
and clear moonlight bathed the earth. She stopped doing housework altogether.
She was filled with an absurd sense of vanity.
Adornment ignites the dormant desire for sensual pleasure. When Sheetala
decked herself up from hair to toe, she longed for a lover who would appreciate
her beauty. She stood at the threshold of her house. The village women
her beauty. She stood at the threshold of her house. The village women
showered praises on her but that was not enough for Sheetala. And she’d never
thought very highly of the men of the village. So she called Suresh. Earlier, he
would come every day, but now he rarely visited despite Sheetala’s earnest
entreaties.
It was late in the night. There was darkness all around. People had retired, but
Sheetala was awake. She had got jasmine flowers from Suresh’s garden and was
making a garland—not for herself but for Suresh. Love was the only way she
could pay Suresh back.
Suddenly, she heard dogs barking outside, and the next moment Vimal
entered the house. He had a suitcase in one hand and a knapsack in another. His
body looked frail, his clothes were dirty and there was several days’ stubble on
his chin. He was so pale-faced that he looked like a convict out of prison. He
saw the light in Sheetala’s room and walked towards it. The mynah fluttered in
its cage. Sheetala was astonished to see a stranger before her. With anxiety in her
voice she was just about to ask who he was when she recognized him. She
quickly hid the flowers under a piece of cloth. She stood up, then lowered her
head and asked, ‘Now you’ve remembered us?’
Vimal did not answer her. He was shocked to see both Sheetala and the
condition of the house. It was as if he had reached a different world altogether.
She was not the half-blossomed bud that had shrivelled in misfortune. She was a
fully blossomed flower—well watered and dancing with the wind blowing under
her. Vimal had been enchanted by her beauty earlier, but this was a burning
flame that set your heart on fire and hurt your eyes. These ornaments, the
clothes, the embellishments! Feeling dizzy, he sat on the floor. He was
embarrassed about being in the presence of this beautiful sunflower. Sheetala
stood transfixed. She did not run to get water for her husband, she did not wash
his feet nor did she fan him. It was as if she had lost her senses. All her castles in
the air came tumbling down. She felt extreme repulsion for this dirty, half-clad
man. He was not Vimal, the lord of the house. He had become a labourer. Rough
and hard work affects the body and the whole personality, even the face. A
labourer cannot hide himself behind good clothes.
Vimal’s mother sensed something, and walked into Sheetala’s room to find
out what was happening. When she saw Vimal she hugged him tightly,
overcome by motherly affection. Vimal kept his head on his mother’s feet.
Warm tears were oozing out of his eyes. His mother was so delighted to see her
Warm tears were oozing out of his eyes. His mother was so delighted to see her
son after such a long time that she could not speak a word.
Vimal said, ‘Mother!’ His tone betrayed his question.
His mother understood his misgivings and said, ‘No, son, this isn’t what
you’re thinking.’
‘But what’s all this?’
‘What to do, her nature’s like this.’
‘Why was Suresh looking for me?’
‘He was trying to find you. If it wasn’t for his generosity, you wouldn’t have
found us alive.’
‘That would’ve been better.’
Sheetala said sarcastically, ‘You had made sure that we were all dead. You
did not leave us in comfort here.’
Vimal retorted, ‘But now I can see that you’re in great comfort.’
‘You aren’t the arbiter of everyone’s destiny.’
Vimal stood up shaking with anger. ‘Mother, take me away from here. I do
not want to see this monster. I feel like killing her. The rigour with which I
worked for three years for this loose woman would have fetched me God but her
love is impossible!’
He left Sheetala’s room and lay down in his mother’s room. His mother
quickly washed his face, hands and feet. She lit the stove and started frying
pancakes for him. While cooking she told him about all her woes and what they
went through in his absence. Now Vimal held no animosity against Suresh. But
all that had transpired took a toll on his health and he fell ill. The long-distance
travel, years of hard labour and now this stress finally culminated in a high fever.
He could not bear it any more.
The night passed but he remained unconscious. His mother sat by his side
fanning him and crying her heart out. The next day too passed without any
improvement in his condition. Sheetala didn’t come to see him even for a
minute. It’s all the same for me—whether he’s here or abroad. He has not spent
a single penny on me. He left the house making such a song and dance. But what
has he brought?
Suresh got the news in the evening and came running to meet Vimal. He was
entering the house after two months. Vimal opened his eyes and recognized him.
Tears started flowing from his eyes. Suresh was all love and affection for Vimal,
who hated himself for doubting him.
The moment Sheetala heard about the arrival of Suresh, she stood before the
mirror. She tousled her hair as though she was in great distress and entered
Vimal’s room. Vimal was lying half-conscious but as soon as Sheetala came in
he opened his eyes. He looked at her with bloodshot eyes and said, ‘Oh, you’ve
come now? Come after three days. You can meet Kunwer Sahib again then.’
Sheetala went back to her room. Suresh was terribly embarrassed. He thought,
She is blessed with beauty but she is so venomous! Instead of a sympathetic
heart what she has is only lust for embellishments!
Vimal’s condition worsened. Suresh brought in the doctor but the messenger
of death did not hear any plea. His heart is made of stone. Nothing can soften it.
Even if someone pulls out his heart or cries his heart out, his heart does not melt.
He takes pleasure in destroying happy homes and ruining well-grown harvests.
His cruelty is sadistic in nature. And it takes a different form every time.
Sometimes it comes as lightning and sometimes in the shape of a garland;
sometimes it appears as a lion and sometimes as a jackal. Sometimes it takes the
form of fire and sometimes it comes in the garb of water.
On the third night Vimal’s stress and heartache came to an end. A thief never
steals during the day. The Angel of Death generally comes stealthily during the
night and robs people of their lives. Even stars dimmed their light in sadness.
The trees were silent, with bowed heads, as if paying tribute to the departed soul.
The night is the veneer of mourning. The night is the playground of death. At
that time only the sound of wailing emanated from Vimal’s house—the sound
cherished by the lord of death.
Sheetala was startled by the noise and walked towards Vimal’s bed with
trepidation. She looked at the body once and stepped back, horrified. She felt as
if Vimal was staring back at her with hatred in his eyes. The flickering light of
the lamp sent a shiver down her spine. She was so terrified that she could not
stay there even for a second. She was coming out of the room when she met
Suresh. ‘I’m scared of this place,’ she said in an agitated voice. She started
crying and was going to fall at his feet when he stepped back.

7
When a traveller realizes that he has lost his way he tries his best to get back to
the right path. He gets annoyed with himself for being careless. Suresh also
wanted to make peace with Mangala. He started remembering all the things that
Mangala did to keep him happy. He finally started appreciating Mangala’s inner
beauty. She had been the epitome of love, sacrifice and forgiveness. He became
restless whenever he remembered her unconditional love for him. I was so unjust
to her! I didn’t appreciate her great worth! I just stood by silently and allowed
my Goddess Laxmi to leave this house! He was aware of the last conversation
that took place between Mangala and Sheetala. But he was not ready to believe
it. Mangala was a woman of calm disposition. She couldn’t be so insolent. She
would forgive and not want revenge. His heart said that she was alive and safe.
He wrote many letters to her parents but received only taunts and sarcasm in
answer. At last he wrote:

I’m coming to fetch the jewel of my life myself. I’ll either bring her back with me or else I’ll never
show my face to anyone.

The answer to that letter was:

Fine, you can come. We’ll see what needs to be done.

Suresh found a ray of hope in those words. He left his house the same day, and
did not take anybody along with him.
He did not receive a warm welcome in his father-in-law’s house. Nobody
smiled at him. His father-in-law even gave him a long lecture on the duties of an
ideal husband.
After dinner, when he was retiring for the night, his younger sister-in-law
came to see him. Smilingly, she said, ‘Jijaji, if a beautiful woman insults her
ugly husband and abandons him, what will you call her?’
‘Wicked!’ said Suresh seriously.
‘And a man who leaves his ugly wife?’
‘A brute!’
‘And if he is a learned man?’
‘A monster.’
‘Then I should move away quickly. I’m so scared of you.’
‘Even the apology of monsters is accepted.’
‘The condition is that it should be heartfelt and true.’
 ‘The condition is that it should be heartfelt and true.’
‘That can be judged only by the almighty.’
‘If it is true you’ll be rewarded. You’ll certainly return with Didi.’
Suresh was on tenterhooks. He implored, ‘Prabha, for God’s sake, have mercy
on me. I’m in despair. Not a day has passed in the past year when I have not
wept.’
Prabha stood up and said, ‘One has to pay for one’s actions. Please take rest.
I’ve to go now.’
Next, Mangala’s mother came into his room. She said, ‘Son, you’re a learned
man and you have been to many countries. Couldn’t you find any medicine that
makes one beautiful?’
‘Mother, please do not embarrass me more,’ Suresh pleaded.
‘You’ve taken the life of my daughter. Can’t I talk about it? I wanted to give
you a piece of my mind, something you’ll never forget all your life. But you’re
our guest. I can’t do much. Go, take rest.’
Suresh suffered silently. One moment he was filled with hope but the next
moment he was caught in the grip of hopelessness. He could not sleep and lay
restlessly in his bed. Suddenly he heard somebody speaking in a soft voice at the
door. ‘Why don’t you go inside? He isn’t sleeping.’ Somebody answered, ‘I’m
feeling shy.’
Suresh recognized the voice. The thirsty had finally got the water. The next
moment Mangala stood in front of him, her head bowed. Suresh saw a sublime
glow on her face—it was as if she had recovered from a long illness. The face
was the same but the eyes were different.

Translated from the Hindi by M. Asaduddin

 Revenge

Standing on the terrace of her three-storey house, Maya scanned the road below
with impatient, excited eyes. These were the thoughts running through her mind:
Why hasn’t he arrived yet? What is delaying him? He had written to say that
he’d be arriving by this very train. The train must have reached the station;
these people look like they are coming from the station. There is only this train
which is scheduled for arrival at this time. Maybe he is taking time getting his
luggage together; his friends must have reached the station to congratulate him;
only once he gets free from all this will he remember to come back home. If I
were in his place, I would have come straight home. I would have excused myself
from my friends saying, ‘Friend, forgive me but I need to leave now. I’ll meet
you soon.’ But he only cares for his friends.
Mr Vyas was young but was one of the most respected barristers in Lucknow.
He had been based in Lahore for the past three months defending a political case
for the government. He had written to Maya saying that he had won the case.
‘I’ll return on the 1st by the evening mail.’ Today was that evening. Maya had
spent the whole day preparing for his arrival. She’d got the whole house cleaned.
Dusted all the decorative pieces in each and every room and even got the car
washed. She had spent the past three months in penance. But Mr Vyas had still
not arrived.
Her young daughter, Tilottama, came and clung to her legs. ‘Amma, when
will Babuji get home?’
Maya picked her up, kissed her and said, ‘He must be on his way, darling. The
mail must have arrived already.’
mail must have arrived already.’
Tilottama said happily, ‘He will get nice dolls for me!’
Maya kept quiet. The wait was now turning into anger. She was thinking, The
way the mister is making me suffer, I’ll pay him back in his own coin. I will not
talk to him for an hour. He would rather stay put at the station than come home.
He likes to make me jealous. It is his old habit. But how do I console my heart?
No, I too want to behave in the same callous manner towards him as he does
with me.
Suddenly, a servant came upstairs and said, ‘Bahuji, there is a telegram from
Lahore.’
Maya felt like she’d been singed. It was as though a storm had just passed
through. She thought, What else would he write except to say that he will not be
coming by this train. It is so easy to send a telegram. Why don’t I send a
telegram too saying that I am going to my mother’s home for a month? She told
the servant, ‘Leave the telegram on the table inside.’
But she changed her mind and had just opened it when it fell from her hand.
It said:

MISTER VYAS WAS MURDERED TONIGHT AT 10 P.M. BY A GOON.

Months passed. The killer had not been caught. The experienced members of the
police secret service were looking for him day and night. A reward of twenty
thousand rupees had been announced for anyone who could give a clue about the
murderer. But to no avail.
Maya had been staying in the same hotel for about a month where Mr Vyas
had stayed earlier. She had fallen in love with the room. She looked different
these days, almost unrecognizable. But her face did not show the pale colour of
pain or helplessness. Instead, it displayed the red flush of her anger. Her
beautiful eyes dripped blood and burned with the fire of revenge. Her entire
being was consumed by this fire. This now was the only motive of her life and
her biggest desire. This burning desire for revenge was the prize of her love. She
would rest only when she saw the man who destroyed her life begging for
mercy. The police secret service was trying to find clues to the murderer by
using fear and greed as strategies in their investigation. Maya had chosen a
using fear and greed as strategies in their investigation. Maya had chosen a
different path. Mr Vyas had been interested in the study of the supernatural.
Maya had also learnt a little about it with him. It had been more of an
entertainment at the time; but now this was the only preoccupation of her life.
She would practise every day on Tilottama and increase the intensity day by day.
She was waiting for the day when she would be able to summon the spirit of her
dead husband and ask who his murderer was. She went through the ritual every
day with concentration and involvement.
It was ten. Maya had switched off the lights in the room and was practising on
Tilottama. Suddenly, she felt a luminescence in the room. She saw a flash of
light like the last flicker of a flame.
Maya asked, ‘Who are you?’
Tilottama laughed and said, ‘Don’t you know me? I am the person who
resides in your heart and who the rest of the world knows by the name of Mr
Vyas.’
‘You have come finally. I want to know the name of the murderer.’
‘His name is Eshwardas.’
‘Where does he live?’
‘Shahjahanpur.’
Maya took down the address and the details of his appearance diligently.
Tilottama came to her senses after a while. When the lights were back on in the
room, Maya’s face was glowing with triumphant happiness. She was filled with
the renewed energy of a lost traveller who has found water in the desert.
That same night she decided to leave Lahore and go to Shahjahanpur.

It was night. The Punjab Mail hurtled along the dark as if cutting its way through
it. Sitting in a second-class coach, Maya was thinking about where she would
stay in Shahjahanpur, how she would find Eshwardas’s house and how she
would avenge the murder. Tilottama was sleeping next to her unaware of all this.
On the upper berth, a man was sleeping soundly.
Suddenly, the door of the coach flung open and two men in pant suits entered.
They sat down on either side of her, surrounding her. They were English. Maya
squirmed. She did not like the way these men sat next to her. She wanted to tell
them to move away. The same woman who was going to avenge her husband’s
them to move away. The same woman who was going to avenge her husband’s
murder was herself scared at this moment. The two monsters, seeing her squirm,
came even closer. Maya couldn’t stay seated any longer. She tried to move to
another berth but one of the men caught her hand. Maya tried to pull her hand
away and said, ‘Have you lost your mind? Let go of me, you pig!’
The man pulled her to himself and, holding her close, said in a drunken voice
and broken Hindi, ‘Well, I’ll give you a lot of money.’
Maya tried to push him away with all her force and said, ‘Let go, you bastard
or I’ll break your head.’
The second man now got up and together they tried to get her on the berth.
Hearing all this commotion, the man sleeping on the upper berth woke up and
taking stock of the situation jumped down. The two white men let go of Maya
and, lunging at him, started raining blows on him. They were attacking him
relentlessly while he tried to defend himself with his two hands. He could not
find a way to fight back. Suddenly, he pulled out a knife from his bedroll and,
pulling up his sleeves, said, ‘I’ll kill the two of you if you don’t leave
immediately.’
The knife scared the two men but one of them was armed. He pulled out a
revolver from his pocket and, pointing it towards the man, said, ‘Get lost,
rascal.’
Maya was shaking with fear and dreading the imminent catastrophe. But the
sense of approaching danger also unlocks the hidden treasure of our strengths.
We cross the boundaries of fear when we are confronted with danger and even
surprise ourselves with the things that we are capable of. Maya, who till now
was shaking with fear, suddenly leapt forward like a tigress towards the white
man, pulled the revolver out of his hands and threw it out of the coach. The man
tried to bite her hand in anger but she quickly withdrew it and pulled the chain to
stop the train. The other white man had been standing in a corner all this while.
He did not have any weapon, so he steered clear of the knife. When he saw
Maya pulling the chain, he yanked open the passage door inside the train and
tried to run away. His friend was about to run when the man with the knife
pushed him so hard that he fell on his face. The man with the knife rained so
many blows, kicks and punches that he started bleeding from his mouth. The
train stopped in the meantime and the guard arrived with a lantern.

4
 4

But the two louts managed to jump out of the train just as it stopped and
vanished into the night. The guard did not pursue them and even if he had, it
would have been almost impossible to find them in the dark. There were
potholes on either side. Perhaps the train was near a river. Forget two, two
hundred men could have hidden there at the time. After ten minutes the train
started moving again.
Maya heaved a sigh of relief and said, ‘God knows what would have
happened today if not for you. Are you hurt?’
Putting away the knife in his pocket, the man replied, ‘Not at all. I was
sleeping so soundly that I did not realize when these two goons entered. I would
not have let them enter. I’ll file a report at the next station.’
Maya said, ‘Please don’t. It will spoil my reputation and cause unnecessary
trouble. There is no point in filing any report. My honour was saved today by
God’s grace. My heart is still pounding . Where are you going?’
‘I am going to Shahjahanpur.’
‘I am going there too. What is your name? At least let me know the name of
my saviour.’
‘My name is Eshwardas.’
Maya felt faint. Was it the same murderer? She now noticed that his face
matched the description that she had been given. Her heart trembling, she asked,
‘Which locality do you live in?’
‘I live in . . .’
Maya was crushed. She put her head outside the window and took a deep
breath. What was she to do now? She had found the murderer but now she was
beholden to him. Could she kill a man who had helped her in a dire situation
without knowing anything about her? He had not even cared for his life. She was
caught in a dilemma. She glanced at him—he looked like a good man. Could
such a man commit murder? She doubted it.
Eshwardas asked, ‘Are you coming from Lahore? Where will you stay in
Shahjahanpur?’
‘In an inn for now. I will have to look for a place.’
Eshwardas was surprised. ‘Are you not visiting a friend or a relative there?’
‘I need to find someone.’
 ‘I need to find someone.’
‘Where are you from originally?’
‘From Lucknow. But now I have no place. I am a widow.’

Eshwardas found a nice house for Maya in Shahjahanpur. He even got her a
servant. He would visit regularly to ask after her. Maya tried her best to not take
his help, not to get close to him, but he was so kind, guileless and noble that she
felt like her hands were tied.
One day he arrived with a lot of flower pots and furniture. He had also got
some beautiful picture frames. Maya was angry. ‘I don’t need any decorative
things. You trouble yourself unnecessarily.’
Eshwardas was mortified. ‘These things were just lying around in my house
unused. So, I got them for this house.’
‘I don’t want to be a slave to these glittery, showy things.’
Scared, Eshwardas replied, ‘Should I get them removed if you don’t want
them?’
Maya saw that his eyes were moist. She felt compelled to accept the gifts. ‘Let
it be . . . since you have already brought them. But don’t do it again.’
One day, her servant did not show up for work. Maya waited till about eight
or nine in the night. Finally she started doing the dishes herself. She had never
done this sort of work before, so she was in tears. Gone were the days when
there was an army of servants in her house. Now she had to even wash the dishes
herself. Tilottama was running around full of energy trying to help her. She was
absolutely free of worries. She was happy to work and be of use.
Then, Eshwardas arrived. When he saw Maya washing the dishes, he said,
‘What are you doing? Leave it. Let me call someone. Why didn’t you call me?
Please come away.’
Maya said indifferently, ‘There is no need. Don’t trouble yourself. I’ll do it.’
‘But you don’t have to. I’ll be back in a minute.’
‘You don’t have to call anyone. It is not a big deal.’
‘All right. Then let me help you.’
He picked up a vessel and ran out to get water. He came back with the water
and started washing the dishes.
Maya tried to pull the vessel out of his hand. ‘You are embarrassing me. Let it
 Maya tried to pull the vessel out of his hand. ‘You are embarrassing me. Let it
be. I’ll finish in a minute.’
‘Who is embarrassing who? You are a traveller in this town and I live here. It
is my duty to serve you. You have already been too hard on yourself by not even
informing me. This now is too much. I cannot tolerate this.’
Eshwardas finished washing the dishes soon. It seemed like he was used to
this kind of work. He even filled all the water jars. Finally, wiping the sweat off
his forehead, he said to Maya, ‘Tell me if you need anything from the market.
I’ll get it.’
Maya said, ‘I don’t need anything. You may leave.’
Eshwardas called Tilottama to him. ‘Come, Tilottama. I’ll take you out for a
walk.’
Maya said, ‘Please don’t. She doesn’t go out for walks at this time.’
Eshwardas was stung by Maya’s indifference. He left without a word. Maya
wondered if she had been too hard on him. There was a constant duel inside her
head because of the unfortunate incident on the train. She shivered every time
she thought of what could have happened to her if Eshwardas had not arrived in
time like her guardian angel. And her heart was filled with gratitude. Would she
bloody her hands with the murder of a man who had been her saviour? But
wasn’t it him who had been responsible for all this? She was on that train
without a friend or helper because of him. He was responsible for her
widowhood, the pain of which she was suffering now, and would have to suffer
for the rest of her life.
Her eyes would get bloodshot when she remembered all this, she would heave
a long sigh, wanting to kill him that very instant.

At last Maya arrived at a decision. She called Eshwardas for a meal. He may
have been a great help to her but no amount of kindness or obligation could
erase her pain. Eshwardas arrived at nine for the meal. Maya told him sweetly,
‘Please sit. I’ll get some warm puris for you.’
Eshwardas said, ‘Were you waiting for me? You shouldn’t have troubled
yourself in this heat.’
Putting down the plate in front of him, Maya replied, ‘I don’t really know how
to cook. Please excuse me if it is not to your taste.’
to cook. Please excuse me if it is not to your taste.’
Eshwardas ate everything with relish and praised her cooking. He had not
eaten such delicious food before.
‘You said you didn’t know how to cook.’
‘Was I wrong?’
‘Most definitely. You proved yourself wrong. I have not eaten such delicious
khasta in my life.’
‘You are only saying that to please me. Well, it does me no harm.’
‘No, I am not trying to make a fool of you. I am being honest. I want to find
some mistake but I cannot. Next time I throw a party for my friends, I’ll trouble
you for sure.’
‘Of course. I will be very happy.’
It was ten by the time the dinner was over. It was quiet everywhere. When
Eshwardas got up to leave, Maya told him, ‘Are you leaving? Why don’t you
stay here tonight? I am a little scared. You sleep in the room and I’ll sleep in the
veranda inside.’
Eshwardas thought for a second and then said, ‘All right. You never told me
that you were scared to sleep in the house alone or I’d have arranged for
someone to spend the night here.’
While Eshwardas went into his room Maya finished her dinner. But she could
not swallow a morsel. Her heart was beating rapidly. There was a shadow of fear
over her heart. What if Eshwardas woke up? She would be ashamed.
Maya had sharpened the knife. She had practised with it the whole day. She
would strike in such a way that there would be no escape. Even if Eshwardas
woke up, he would be mortally wounded.
When the clock struck twelve and she could hear Eshwardas’s loud snores,
Maya got up with the knife in her hand but she was shivering violently. Fear and
resolve, misgivings and revulsion together made her take one step forward and
one step back. The house and sky were in a whirl. Everything in the room
seemed to be spinning. But in a second, the fever ebbed and her heart clouded
with fear. She reached the room where Eshwardas was sleeping and halted.
Tears flowed down her eyes. Oh, I am so weak. The man who ruined my life,
who destroyed my happy world, who made my existence desolate, who turned my
fertile life into a desert and threw me in the fires of hell . . . I’m still unable to
take revenge. Those women, who fought with swords and guns in the battlefields
and willingly sacrificed themselves on the burning pyres of their husbands, were
my sisters too. She imagined Mr Vyas standing in front of her, telling her:
‘Finish the job, avenge me; my soul is thirsty for revenge; will you let me suffer
like this forever?’ Was this the true test of her love? These thoughts created an
emotional turmoil in her heart. Her eyes reddened, she bit her lips and tightened
her grip on the knife. She felt almost intoxicated. She entered the room but by
now Eshwardas had woken up. A faint light came from the lantern in the room.
Hearing her footsteps, he sat up and paled on seeing the apocalyptic vision of
Maya walking towards him with the unsheathed dagger.
He jumped up from the bed and asked in a scared voice, ‘What is it, sister?
Why are you carrying this knife?’
Maya replied, ‘This knife is thirsty for your blood because you murdered my
husband.’
Eshwardas paled. ‘Me?’
‘Yes, you. You killed my husband in Lahore when he was there for a case. Do
you deny it? My husband’s spirit told me about you.’
‘You are Mr Vyas’s wife?’
‘Yes. I am his unfortunate wife and you are the one who caused me to suffer
this widowhood. You have been kind to me but no amount of kindness can quell
my heart. It will only be satisfied with your death.’
Eshwardas looked at Maya with pleading eyes and said, ‘If that is your
decision then I present my head to you. If my death can bring any solace to your
heart then I’d gladly die. But just as you feel duty bound to avenge your
husband’s murder, I felt it was my duty to kill Mr Vyas. You are aware that he
went to Lahore to fight a political case. But I could not watch the way he used
his legal acumen to help the police create false testimonies and destroy the lives
of helpless, innocent young men with ruthlessness and heartlessness. Those days
the court used to be filled with spectators. Everyone cursed him. I knew the
reality of the case so it was not enough for me to just curse or abuse him. What
can I say? Mr Vyas turned every lie into truth knowingly and with great skill. He
sent many young men to the gallows. Many mothers are weeping bitterly for
their lost sons today because of him and many women are forever cursed to be
widows. I am not scared of police torture. We don’t expect anything else from
them. The police force is full of scoundrels and debauchers. The government has
created this department with the sole purpose of crushing the citizens. But we
created this department with the sole purpose of crushing the citizens. But we
pin our hopes on the lawyers. We respect them. They are the top breed of
educated and aware men. We get very angry when we see these men dancing to
the tune of the police. I was a fan of Mr Vyas. But I started hating him when I
saw him torturing innocent men so they would confess to crimes that they had
not committed. The poor accused used to be hung upside down for entire nights.
Only to make them confess to the crimes that they had not committed. Chilli
smoke used to be thrust into their noses. Mr Vyas didn’t just watch all this
happen in front of him. In fact these things were done on his instigation.’
The hardness on Maya’s face receded gradually. In its place was righteous
anger. ‘What proof do you have for all that you are saying?’ she asked.
‘Everything I said is common knowledge. Even a child in Lahore knows it. I
saw all this with my own eyes. I can give you no other proof. Their only crime
was that they were the true sons of this soil and spent all their time helping and
educating ordinary people. They would go hungry themselves but they would
not let the police and the rulers torture the citizens of this country. This was their
crime and to punish them for this, Mr Vyas connived with the police.’
The knife fell from Maya’s hand. Her eyes watered, and she said, ‘I did not
know that he was capable of all this.’
Eshwardas said, ‘Don’t think for a moment that I am levelling these charges
against your husband because I am scared of your knife. I have never cared for
my life. If you do not believe me then pick up this knife and end this life. I will
not stop you. If you can’t do that, then call the police. They will kill me easily. It
won’t be difficult to collect evidence against me. I would have confessed but I
do not think that I have committed a crime. If by ending one life I have saved
thousands more then it is not murder. I only want to stay alive because I may be
needed again for a similar task.’
Maya was crying now. She said, ‘If you are telling the truth, then I forgive
you. Only God will decide whether you did right or wrong. I only request you to
lead me to the homes that were destroyed by my husband so that I can go and
serve them.’

Translated from the Hindi by Payal Agarwal

 Trickery

Maya, Pandit Balakram Shastri’s wife, had longed for a necklace for the longest
time and had pleaded with Panditji for one over and over again. But Panditji’s
answers were always evasive. He didn’t actually say that he didn’t have the
money. What would that do to his status as a husband! He would escape into
arguments instead. Jewellery is utterly useless, and acquiring it like a disease.
One does not get the genuine metal. Pure gold is not available anyway. On top of
that the jeweller makes us pay double the true value of the ornament. And, the
biggest argument of all: Storing jewellery in the house is an open invitation to
thieves. Only a fool would buy a headache for a moment’s beautification. Poor
Maya was not familiar with the art of debate or logic. Such strategies rendered
her speechless. The sight of her neighbour’s ornaments stirred desire in her. But
to whom could she disclose her sorrow? Had Panditji been hard-working this
difficulty could have been overcome easily. But he was a lazy man and spent all
his time eating and sleeping. He was ready to listen to the bitter words of his
wife, but it was impossible to reduce his hours of sleep.

One day when Panditji returned from school he saw a gold necklace adorning
Maya’s neck. The shine of the necklace added a glow to her face.
Never had Maya appeared so beautiful to Panditji.
‘Whose necklace is this?’
‘This necklace belongs to the wife of our neighbour, Babuji. I went to meet
 ‘This necklace belongs to the wife of our neighbour, Babuji. I went to meet
her today. I saw this necklace and liked it very much. I wore it and came to show
you. Just make one necklace like this for me.’
‘You had no right to bring away what belongs to someone else. What if it gets
lost? We will have to compensate for it. On top of that, think of the bad name it
could bring!’
‘I must have the very same kind of necklace—twenty tolas, nothing less.’
‘Still so obstinate?’
‘When everyone else has one, why shouldn’t I?’
‘If everybody jumps in the well, will you also jump? Just think a bit . . . it will
cost six hundred rupees to get this necklace made. If we pay an interest of one
rupee on every hundred rupees, in five years it will come to one thousand rupees.
But in five years your necklace will hardly be worth three hundred rupees. What
possible pleasure can wearing such a necklace bring if it leads to such a big loss?
Return this necklace. Have your meal and make yourself comfortable.’ And
Panditji walked out.

Suddenly in the night Maya began to shout, ‘Thief! Thief! Thief in the house!
He is dragging me away.’
Panditji woke up with a start and said, ‘Where, where? Run, run!’
‘He entered my room. I saw his shadow.’
‘Bring the lantern! Fetch my stick!’
‘I am so scared I can’t even stand.’
‘Where is Panditji, has there been a sendh?’ called many people from outside
the house.
‘No, no,’ said Maya. ‘The wall is intact, so they must have come from the
roof. When I woke up, I saw someone leaning over me. Hai Ram! He took my
necklace! I fell asleep wearing it. Rascal! He stole it from my neck. Hai Ram!’
‘Why didn’t you take off the necklace?’
‘How was I to know that this calamity would befall us today? Hai Ram! How
can I ever face anyone again!’
‘What’s the use of lamenting now? Weep over your fate. This is why I often
say to you that things will not always go smoothly. You can never tell what will
happen—and when. Now do you understand what I was saying? Or do you still
happen—and when. Now do you understand what I was saying? Or do you still
have doubts? Just check if anything else is missing.’
The neighbours arrived with lanterns. They checked every corner of the
house. They checked the terrace and the locks. They checked the front and the
back, and even peeped into the toilet. But the thief was nowhere to be found.
‘It is the work of an insider,’ said one of the neighbours.
‘Without an insider’s help such things are not possible. Did he take anything
else?’ That was another neighbour speaking.
‘Nothing else is missing. The utensils are untouched. The trunk is locked. If
the wretch had to take anything he could have taken something that belonged to
me. It was somebody else’s possession. God! What will happen now?’
‘Now have you experienced the pleasure of jewellery?’
‘Hai Ram! This is a disgraceful calamity. And on top of that you rub salt into
my wound. The ill-fated could have taken every speck in the house, I wouldn’t
have grieved. That poor woman had only just got the necklace made.’
‘Are you certain that it was twenty tolas?’
‘Yes, that is what she said.’
‘A crippling loss has to be sustained now, what else?’
‘I will tell her that there’s been a theft in the house. Will she kill me? Are we
to steal to make good her loss?’
‘It is from your house that the item was stolen. You and you alone will have to
pay for it. How does it matter to her whether it was stolen or if you’ve hidden it?
She will not believe you.’
‘So, where will we get so much money? It will be a potful of money.’
‘It will have to come from somewhere or the other. How else will we save our
honour? But you’ve made a grave mistake.’
‘God couldn’t bear even a borrowed thing. I was in the grip of Satan.
Otherwise what pleasure did I get in wearing it for a while? I am really
unfortunate.’
‘What is the use of regrets and curses? Sit quietly. Tell the neighbour not to
worry. We will not rest until we return her possession.’

Now Panditji began to worry day and night about the necklace. If he had washed
his hands of the whole affair right at the beginning he would have had no
his hands of the whole affair right at the beginning he would have had no
worries. The neighbour would have been left with no option but to resign to her
fate. Who would dare invite a Brahmin’s curse? But Panditji didn’t want to sell
the honour of a Brahmin at such a low price. His mood and manner changed.
And he became busy making money.
He renounced sleep for six months and did not know night from day. Earlier
he used to rest after returning from school. A Brahmin has various ways of
earning money. He’d never taken those paths. But now after returning from
school he’d go to a particular place to recite the Bhagavad. After returning from
there he’d cast horoscopes till eleven o’clock, and predict yearly gains, and so
on. Early in the morning he went to the temple to recite slokas in praise of
Durga. Seeing him like this, Maya wondered if she had taken the matter too far.
If he fell ill it would be a big problem. Watching him lose weight she grew
concerned for his health. Thus did five months pass.
One day, she was just about to light the lamp when Panditji arrived. He took
out a small packet of paper from his pocket and placed it before her and said,
‘Here, I am now free of the debt you incurred.’
On opening the packet Maya found a gold necklace. Her heart thumped at the
sight of its beauty and glitter. A glow of happiness lit her face. Looking at
Panditji from the corner of her eye, she asked, ‘Does giving this to me make you
happy or angry?’
‘How does it matter? The debt has to be repaid, happily or unhappily.’
‘This is no debt.’
‘Then what else! A repayment?’
‘Not even a repayment; it’s a token of your love.’
‘What? So will I have to make another necklace to repay the debt?’
‘No, ji! That necklace wasn’t stolen. That was a false alarm I created—a
drama.’
‘Really!’
‘Yes, I’m speaking the truth.’
‘Swear on me.’
‘I touch your feet and take oath that it is.’
‘So you tricked me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Never mind, your desire has been fulfilled. But, for God’s sake, do not play
 ‘Never mind, your desire has been fulfilled. But, for God’s sake, do not play
such a trick on me again.’

Translated from the Urdu by Shaheen Saba with Mini Krishnan

 Satyagraha

His Excellency the viceroy was coming to Benares. Government servants, from
the lowest-to the highest-ranked, were busy preparing for his welcome. At the
same time, the Congress had issued a notice for a general strike. This created a
flutter among the government employees. On the one hand the streets were being
cleaned, shamianas erected, flags put up, and on the other, sentries from the
military and the police, armoured to their bayonets, were parading up and down
the streets and the lanes. The government servants were desperate for the strike
to not happen, but the Congressists were equally desperate for it. They
proclaimed that if those in the government had muscle power, they had moral
force; and so it would be put to the test this time as to who held the field.
The magistrate, seated on his horse, would be at the shopkeepers’ from
morning to evening, swearing that he would send each and every one of them to
the gaols, that he would plunder their bazaar, and so on and so forth. The
shopkeepers would mutter meekly, ‘O huzoor, our lord and master, O divine
legislator, do as your lordship pleases. But what shall we do? These
Congresswalas will never let us live in peace. They will sit in dharna in front of
our shops, grow odiously long beards1, jump into our wells, and go on a hunger
strike. Who knows, if a couple of them take their own lives, then our names
would be sullied forever. If you, huzoor, make these Congressists understand,
you would bestow upon us your utmost munificence. Tell us, sire, what can we
stand to gain by going on strike? Here we would have such big and important
dignitaries coming, and, with our shops remaining open, we would be selling our
wares at double the price, we would be making such profitable transactions . . .
but what to do, against these rapscallions we are completely undone.’
Rai Sir Harnandan, Raja Lalchand and Khanbahadur2 Maulvi Mahmudali
were all the more ill at ease. Along with the magistrate, and even on their own,
they threw in all their efforts. They would invite shopkeepers to their houses and
propitiate, appease, or glare angrily at them; give a dressing-down to the horse-
carriage and buggy drivers; placate the labourers; but the iron-hold of a handful
of Congressists was such that no one listened to them. Even the greengrocer lady
in the neighbourhood spoke out with nary a sign of fear, ‘Huzoor, even if you
kill me I won’t open the shop and allow my nose to be cut off.’ The biggest fear
was what if the labourers, carpenters and blacksmiths employed to erect the
pandals abandoned work, surely it would be a catastrophe then.
Rai Sahib said, ‘Huzoor, bring shopkeepers from another town and organize a
separate bazaar.’ The khanbahadur opined, ‘There’s so little time that setting up
a new bazaar will be impossible. Huzoor, have all the Congressists arrested, or
their property sealed; then see how tamely they behave!’ The raja observed,
‘Lock-ups and arrests will only make them all the more belligerent. Rather,
announce to the Congress, huzoor, that if you don’t go on a strike, all will be
provided with a government service. Most of them are jobless; the lure of it
would puff them up.’
But the magistrate found none of these proposals up to the mark. Now there
were only three days to go for the viceroy’s visit.

Then the raja hit upon a plan. Why don’t we play the morality card? After all, it
is moral conduct and righteousness3 that the Congressists make such a lot of fuss
about. We employ the same scheme, and make the lion bite the dust in its own
den. We need to produce a person who will announce, ‘I’ll embark on a fast unto
death and give up my life if the shops don’t remain open.’ The requisite is that
this person should be a Brahmin, whom the townsfolk revere and hold in great
esteem.
The formula resonated with the raja’s fellow conspirers immediately, and they
leapt up in joy. Rai Sahib said, ‘Yes, now we’ll break the siege. But tell me,
who’ll be our man? Pandit Gadadhar Sharma?’
who’ll be our man? Pandit Gadadhar Sharma?’
Raja: ‘Oh no, sir, who listens to him? He just keeps writing something in the
newspapers. What would the townsfolk know about it?’
Rai Sahib: ‘The wealthy Savant is our man then.’
Raja: ‘Oh no, sir, who, except for the college students, is aware of this chap?’
Rai Sahib: ‘The fatso Pandit Moteram4 Shastri?’
Raja: ‘That’s it! What a brainwave you’ve had! He’s just the person to be
called for such a situation. He’s learned, lives by his religion and rituals, and is
wily too. If we get him on our side we’ll win the gamble.’
Rai Sahib sent word to the pandit’s place immediately. Shastriji was at his
puja then. He wound it up hurriedly as soon as he got the summons. What a
fortune! His Majesty the raja has sent for me. He said to his wife, ‘The moon
seems to be shining on me today. Hurry up and get my garments, let me go find
out the reason for this call.’ The wife said, ‘The food’s ready, have it; who
knows when you’ll be free to return.’
But Shastriji didn’t feel it proper to keep the messenger-man waiting. The
days were wintry. He put on a green woollen doublet which had red chords on it,
and wrapped a gold brocade stole around his neck. Then he wound a Benarasi
turban around his head, tied a wide, red-bordered silk dhoti and slipped into his
wooden sandals and started on his way. He had a divinely radiant sheen about
his face. It was discernible from afar that a mahatma was on his way. Whoever
met him bowed in reverence; many shopkeepers got up on their feet with a
deferential greeting. They thought—who else but such a soul did Benares retain
its prestige in these times? How polite his manners were. He has such a nice
smile when he speaks to children. Trailing such reputations Panditji reached the
raja’s house where the three friends stood up in salutation. The khanbahadur
said, ‘We hope, Panditji, your mood is pleasant. God be praised, you seem to me
the perfect human specimen to be put up in an exhibition. Your Heaviness must
be weighing not less than ten maund?’
Rai Sahib: ‘For one maund of learning you need ten maund of the grey matter.
By the same logic, for one maund of the grey cells a ten maund body is
necessary, or else how would the weight above be carried?’
Raja: ‘You, my friends, don’t get the point. Intelligence is like an
inflammation; when it can’t be contained in the brain it spills down to the body.’
Khanbahadur: ‘But I have heard the elders say that the corpulent are enemies
of wit.’
of wit.’
Rai Sahib: ‘Khan, your mathematics is weak, it seems, or else you would’ve
understood this much at least, that when the ratio between the brain and the body
is 1:10, then the fatter a person is, the weightier his brain would be.’
Raja: ‘Which proves the theorem that the fatter a man is, the fatter his brain
would be.’
Shastriji: ‘If my fat brain is the talk of the king’s court, would I need a
slimmer one!’
After these light moments, the raja presented the problem to the pandit and
elaborated upon the plan thought out to counter it. He said, ‘So then, Panditji,
suffice it to say that your future this year is completely in our hands. Perhaps no
one gets presented with an opportunity to set right one’s fate as you have today.
If the strike is called off, if nothing else then this much is guaranteed that you
won’t have to stand at any gate asking for donations and remuneration for your
Brahminical chores all your life. Just think of a penance that would send shivers
down the spine of the townsfolk. Those in the Congress have reached this
position of strength taking the route of dharma. Chalk out such a ploy that would
hit back at their same morals.’
Shastriji replied gravely, ‘This would not be such a difficult task. I possess the
power to perform such a variety of solemn rituals that would make the sky rain,
render powerless the seize of epidemics, decrease or increase the price of grains.
Quelling these Congressists would hardly be a big thing. These English-educated
so-called prominent people think nobody else can do the things they can. But
they have no knowledge of the secret arts.’
Khanbahadur: ‘One has to say then, most gracious sir, that you are a second
God. How could we know that the powers of nature lie encompassed within
you? Or else, why would we have remained disconcerted for so many days?’
Shastriji: ‘Sirs, I can trace hidden wealth. I can summon ancestral souls. But it
all depends on how qualified my hosts are. There is no dearth as such of
invaluable people on earth, only invaluable patrons are scarce. Pricelessness
hasn’t disappeared, priceless patrons have.’
Raja: ‘Well, what can we offer you for this ceremonial observance of yours?’
Shastriji: ‘With a holy heart whatever you deem fit.’
Raja: ‘Can you give us an idea about what sort of a ceremony you have in
mind?’
Shastriji: ‘Chanting of mantras with a fast. If I don’t shake this town up then
 Shastriji: ‘Chanting of mantras with a fast. If I don’t shake this town up then
Moteram is not my name.’
Raja: ‘So then, when do you begin?’
Shastriji: ‘I can begin from today itself. But first, please arrange for some
money for the invocation of the gods.’
There was no paucity of funds. The money was given to Panditji, and he
returned home thoroughly happy and narrated the whole incident to his wife.
Anxiously, she said, ‘You have taken up this ill-begotten matter on yourself
unnecessarily. What if you can’t withstand the hunger pangs? You will become a
joke for the whole town to guffaw over! Go and return the money.’
Shastriji assured her, ‘How won’t I be able to resist hunger? Am I such a fool
that I’d go right now and sit there on fast? First arrange a meal for me; get all the
sweets you can—rasgullas, laddus and imartis. Let me tuck in properly. Then I’ll
have half a ser of cream topped up with half a ser of dry fruits. And if a corner of
my stomach still remains empty I’ll stuff it with yogurt. How would hunger flirt
with me then? I wouldn’t even be able to breathe for three days, let alone think
of eating. And by then there would be a brouhaha in the whole town. Fate is on
the ascendance now, any dilly-dally would only bring repentance later. If the
bazaar remains open, know for sure that I’ll be loaded with money. If not, what
do I stand to lose from my pocket! I’ve already got a hundred rupees, haven’t I?’
So while preparations were made for Shastriji’s meal he tom-tommed the
message that he would lecture on the political problem the country faced that
evening at the Town Hall ground, asking people to attend without fail. The
pandit was known to keep himself away from politics. And today he was going
to speak on it; this had to be attended, people thought with increasing curiosity.
At the appointed hour a few thousand of them gathered on the ground. Panditji
started from his home well prepared. His tummy was so full that he was finding
it difficult to walk. People prostrated respectfully as soon as he arrived.
Shastriji spoke, ‘People of the town, businessmen, distinguished merchants
and moneylenders! I have come to know that having fallen under the spell of
these Congressists you all have decided to go on strike on the day of His
Excellency’s welcome arrival. What absolute ungratefulness is this? If he so
wishes, he could have you all tied to the mouths of the canons today; he could
raze this town to dust. It’s not a matter of fun and play; he is the king. Thank
your stars that he is taking pity on your condition. You are behaving like a herd
your stars that he is taking pity on your condition. You are behaving like a herd
of cattle out to graze the forbidden field at the risk of being slaughtered! His
Excellency, if he so wishes today, can halt the trains, stop the post, disrupt the
transaction of all merchandise. Tell me, then what will you do? Where can you
go running away from him? Is there a place you can go? So, if one has to stay in
this land under his authority, why create such disturbance? Remember this well,
your very life is in his hands! He can bring down plague on you by spreading
viruses. You are trying to block a storm with mere broomsticks. Beware of
closing down the bazaar, I’m warning you, or else, I will give away my life right
at this spot by refusing food and water.’
One man expressed his apprehension, saying, ‘Maharaj, it would be at least a
month by the time the vital breath leaves your body. What can happen in three
days’ time?’
Shastriji bellowed, ‘The soul does not reside in the body, it resides in the
cosmos. If I wish, I can make my spirit depart this very moment through my
yogic power. I have warned you, now it is up to you to decide what to do. If you
listen to me, you will earn divine benediction. If not, you will be damned with
murder and won’t be able to show your face anywhere in the world. So be it
then, here and now I take my seat.’

People were stunned as the news spread in the town. This new trick employed by
the administrators left them at their wits’ end. The Congressists kept on saying
that the entire thing was a sham. That the loyalists had greased the pandit’s
palms to play this farce. The entire government machinery—the bureaucracy, the
judiciary and the legislature—having failed, this was the ruse they had
employed. And that it was nothing but the bankruptcy of the polity. Else, since
when did our Panditji become such a well-wisher of our nation that the plight of
it would move him to undertake a fast? Let him die of hunger, although staying
off food for two days would surely bring him back on track. This new subterfuge
had to be pulled up by the roots! Otherwise, if this ploy succeeded, the officials
—mind you—would get a new weapon in their hands, and they would deploy it
every time. The people aren’t so sensible to discern these complexities. They’d
be easily outfoxed by the bluff.
 But the merchants and moneylenders of the town, who were generally morally
timid, became so alarmed that the reasoning of the Congressists had no effect on
them. They started saying, ‘Sirs, we became an eyesore for the government
listening to you, gave up our business with them, prepared ourselves for picking
up losses—so many of us were rendered bankrupt. We lost face with the
officials; whenever we used to go to them earlier they’d greet us saying,
“Welcome, welcome, Sethji” and behave with us respectfully, and now we get
pushed about on the railways and nobody bothers. Whether we generate revenue
or not taxes keep mounting even on our dead stocks. We have tolerated all these
things, and will tolerate them further; but in the matters of our dharma we cannot
accept your directions. When a learned, noble and pious Brahmin sacrifices his
food and water over us, how can we eat and stretching our feet go off to sleep? If
at all he dies, what answers would we give God?’
To cut things short, not a single explanation of the Congressists worked. A
deputation of the traders presented themselves at the service of Panditji at nine in
the night. As such, Panditji had had his more-than-a-full meal for the day, yet
eating a meal like this was nothing out of the ordinary for him. Almost twenty
days a month he would get an invitation and on such occasions it was quite
normal for him to eat that much. Heavy meals were sometimes due to a feeling
of competition among his peers at the invitation, sometimes at the humble
insistence of his host, but on most occasions he would inevitably partake a meal
of extra-large servings due to the palatability of the menu. And Panditji’s gastro-
intestinal juices were used to coping with the stress of such an intake. So, now
that it was dinner time, Panditji’s erstwhile firm decisions started wobbling. This
was not because he was by any way perturbed by the lack of food, because his
stomach sent no such signals. But it often happens that at the usual mealtimes,
even if there is no reaction from the guts and no feeling of feebleness felt by the
body, it is the mind that sends the stimulus for the desire for food. This was what
happened to Panditji at this time. His heart wanted to call out for a hawker, but
the administration had posted quite a few sepoys around him for his bodily
protection, and they showed no signs of going away from there. Panditji’s
massive intellect was completely occupied with how to get rid of these
messengers of death. Unnecessary nuisances, these! Am I a convict who would
run away from here?
The administration, on the other hand, had posted these guards to prevent the
 The administration, on the other hand, had posted these guards to prevent the
Congressists from trying to abduct Panditji. Who knew what schemes these
Congressists had? It was the officials’ duty right now to protect Panditji from
such untoward and disrespectful incidents.
It was under these circumstances, when he was absorbed in deep thought, that
the traders’ delegation presented themselves in front of him. Shastriji, who was
lying down, supporting his body against his elbow, sat up straight. The leaders of
the delegation touched his feet and said, ‘Maharaj, why have you turned your
wrath on us? Your wish would be our command. Please get up and have your
meal. We didn’t know that you had really made up your mind about this fast, or
else, we would have come to request you earlier. Please be kind to us. It is going
to be ten. We will never go against your word.’
Shastriji: ‘These Congressists will not rest until they bring you to ruin. They
are drowning themselves, and they will take you down with them! If the bazaar
remains closed, whose loss would it be, yours or the government’s? You’ll give
up your jobs and starve yourselves to death; would the government be affected?
You’ll go to the jails, grind the mill there, would it affect the government? God
only knows what prompts these fellows to ruin themselves and others. Don’t you
come under the spell of these scatterbrains! Tell me, will you keep your shops
open?’
Delegate leader: ‘Maharaj, as long as the panchayat of the town doesn’t
assemble on this issue, we can’t guarantee you anything. Who will come to our
rescue if the Congressists ransacked our shops? You please get up and partake of
your meal, we will call the panchayat tomorrow and whatever the decision is, we
will faithfully report back to you.’
Shastriji: ‘Come back tomorrow then, after the panchayat.’
When the deputation started to return, the crestfallen Panditji asked, ‘Is
nobody carrying snuff?’ A gentleman took out his box and gave it to him. After
they left Panditji asked the policemen, ‘Why are you all standing here?’ They
said, ‘Boss’s orders, what to do?’
‘Go away.’
‘Just because you say so? If we get discharged tomorrow, will you feed us
then?’
‘I’m telling you, leave; or else I’ll leave this place myself. Am I a prisoner to
be watched over like this?’
‘You dare not leave, sir.’
 ‘You dare not leave, sir.’
‘Dare I not, you rogue! Have I committed a crime?’
‘Okay, let’s see you try.’
Incensed with Brahminical rage, Panditji got up and gave a sepoy such a hard
shove that he landed a few feet away. Seeing him the others lost courage. They
had all taken his girth to be as only flab, so seeing his power they all slunk away
silently.
Moteram immediately started to look around for a hawker so that he could
buy something. But he realized instantly that if the man happened to report it to
anyone people would clap and jeer at him. No, one would have to operate with
guile—so that the act doesn’t reach a single ear. It’s only in such crises that one
recognizes the power of one’s intelligence. Within a second he had figured out
how to handle this difficult situation.
And as if by godsend a hawker was seen passing by at that very time. It was
past eleven o’clock, and the area had become desolate. Panditji called out,
‘Vendor, here, vendor!’
‘Yes, sir, what can I give you? You have started feeling hungry, haven’t you?
Sacrificing food and water suits sadhus, not those like me and you.’
‘What are you blabbering, you dullard? Am I any less than a sadhu? I can lie
down for months without hunger or thirst affecting me if I so wish. I called for
you only so I could borrow your kerosene lamp. Let me see what’s wriggling
there. I’m afraid it might be a snake.’
The vendor unhooked his lamp and passed it to Panditji, who started searching
the ground for something. Suddenly, the lamp slipped out of his hand and the
flame went out. The entire kerosene spilled out. Panditji made sure that not a
drop remained by giving it a knock further.
The vendor shook the lamp and said, ‘Maharaj, there is no oil left here. I could
have sold four paise worth of goods, but now you have gone and created this
trouble.’
‘Brother, it was just a slip of the hand; the lamp fell—should I cut off my
hand or what? Take this money. Go and get some oil now.’
The vendor took the money and asked, ‘Why would I come back here after
filling the oil?’
‘Let your basket be here, now just fly off and get some oil; or else, if a snake
bites me you’ll have a murder on you. There is surely some creature there. See,
bites me you’ll have a murder on you. There is surely some creature there. See,
there it crawls . . . it’s gone. Run now, fella, and come back with some oil. I’ll
look after your basket. If you are worried about your savings, take your money
with you.’
The hawker was in a moral bind now. If he reached for his money, he was
afraid Panditji’s sentiments would be hurt. He would think that he was doubting
his integrity. If I leave my money there, who knows what his intentions are?
People’s motives do change. In the end, he decided to leave his basket there,
thinking what was in his stars would be. No sooner had he proceeded towards
the bazaar than Panditji gave the hawker’s basket a once-over, and became very
despondent. There were very few sweets left; five or six items, from which there
was no scope of pilfering more than two pieces each. And there was every
chance of his sham being exposed. Panditji thought, How would this scant
measure suffice? It would only intensify the hunger; a lion tasting a bit of blood.
It’s an unpalatable crime. And he went back to his place and sat down. Yet just
a breath later his craving returned. He thought, At least there would be some
relief. Howsoever little the food may be, it still is food. He got up and took out
the sweets and had just kept the first laddu in his mouth when he saw the vendor
retracing his steps with his lamp lit. Panditji had to finish off the sweets before
the vendor returned, so he put two pieces together inside his mouth and was
chewing furiously when he realized that the devil had come ten steps closer. He
quickly took four pieces and gobbled them up half-chewed. Now only six
remained, and the vendor had already come up to the gate of the maidan. He
stuffed all of them down at once, and found that he could neither devour them
nor spit them out. The fiend was still approaching at the speed of a motor-car,
shining his light. Panditji hastily swallowed the whole lot. But he was a human
being after all and not a crocodile. His eyes watered, his throat choked, and his
whole body was seized by wild tremors, and he began to cough violently. The
vendor extended the lamp towards him and said, ‘Take this now and have a look.
Such a hankering you make for your life, and yet you are sitting on a fast. Even
if you lose your life, why do you have to worry, the government would look
after your family.’
The enraged Panditji felt like showering curses on the brute, but not a sound
escaped his throat. Silently, he took the lamp, pretended to look around, and then
returned it.
‘And anyway, what made you decide to tow the government’s line? The
 ‘And anyway, what made you decide to tow the government’s line? The
panchayat will go on the whole day tomorrow, and arrive at a decision only by
night. By then, you’d be seeing stars!’
So saying, the vendor left the place and Panditji, after coughing for some
more time, went to sleep.

The traders began their deliberation early the next morning. Even among the
Congressists there was much ado. The officials of the Peace Committee pricked
up their ears too. What a nice way this was to twist the arms of the naive traders!
The pandits of the town called a separate meeting wherein it was unanimously
declared that Pandit Shastri had no locus standi to delve into political matters.
What did they have to do with politics, they asked. The whole day went by in
these hot debates by the concerned groups, and not one inquired after Panditji.
People were heard openly saying that Panditji had taken a thousand rupees from
the government to have this ceremony arranged. Poor Panditji spent the night
tossing and turning, but when he got up, he felt as if his body was a corpse. If he
tried standing up, his eyes would start smarting and his head swimming. It felt as
if something was gnawing away sitting inside his stomach. His eyes were glued
to the street expecting people coming to pacify him. The time for the twilight
prayers went away in such expectation. At this time he was in the habit of having
a snack while performing his puja. Today, though, till now his tongue hadn’t
even touched water. Who knew when that propitious hour would arrive? Then, a
feeling of intense anger started building up against his wife. She must have gone
off to sleep last night having eaten a proper dinner, and now must have even had
evening refreshments. Yet not even mistakenly had she peeped in here to find
out whether he was dead or living. Couldn’t she have, on the pretext of
discussing something, brought in some mohanbhog? But is anyone bothered?
She took the money and kept it, and would do so again if he got more. He had
been made a fool.
So Panditji kept waiting the whole day but nobody came to placate him. What
prevented people from doing that was the doubt lodged in their hearts that
Panditji had made a give-and-take pact to act out this whole thing, and that he
stood to benefit from this hypocrisy.
 5

It was past nine in the night. Seth Bhondumal, who was the leader of the traders’
delegation, opined in a decisive tone, ‘Granted that Panditji has arranged this
show out of his selfish motives, but that doesn’t take away the pain that a living
being suffers without food and water. It is against the sacred laws that a Brahmin
forsakes his meals for our acts and we stuff ourselves and sleep to our heart’s
content. If he has behaved against the code of ethics, it would bring suffering to
him in due time. But why should we turn away from our duties?’
The Congress secretary said in a hushed tone, ‘I have said what I had to. You
are all the frontrunners of society, we shall accept whatever you decide. Let’s go
then, I’ll accompany you; and in the process partake a bit of this pious deed. But
please listen to a request of mine—allow me to approach him first. I would like
to speak to him alone for ten minutes. All of you please stand at the gates till
then, and meet him after I return.’ Why would anyone have an objection to this?
The plea was granted.
The secretary had served the police department for a long time; he understood
the weaknesses of the human mind. He went straight to the bazaar and bought
five rupees’ worth of sweets. He took the sweets, which were smeared with
fragrance and wrapped in silver foil, in a leaf-container and proceeded on his
puja of appeasing the Brahmin God. He poured cold water into a latticed jug and
added the scent of a screw pine flower. Fragrance oozed out from both
containers. Who doesn’t know the exciting capacity of the smell of food? It can
incite a craving even when one is not hungry, so imagine what it can do to a
hungry man.
Panditji was, at that time, lying inert on the ground. He hadn’t had anything to
eat the previous night. The half-a-score sweets that he had consumed were
hardly worth mentioning! He hadn’t had anything in the afternoon either. And
now it was past dinner time. Hunger did not generate hopeful yearning any more
but the frigidity of hopelessness. The limbs were loose. Even his eyes would not
remain open; he would try time and again, yet they would close on their own.
His lips were parched. If there was any sign left of life, it was in his slow
moaning. Such a crisis had never fallen upon him. He had complaints about
indigestion a couple of times in a month, but he would attend to them with doses
of the myrobalan fruit; he had never given up food altogether even during the
of the myrobalan fruit; he had never given up food altogether even during the
times of indigestion. He had spent the day showering an entire array of abuses
on the townsfolk, the Peace Committee, the government, the gods, the Congress
and his wife. There was no hope from any one of them. And now, he had no
strength left to stand up and go to the bazaar. He was certain that tonight was the
night his soul would fly away. After all, the circle of life could hardly be said to
have been formed out of chords so unbreakable that they wouldn’t snap
howsoever one tugged at it!
The secretary called out, ‘Panditji!’
Shastriji opened his eyes without getting up. The pathos in them was like that
of a child whose only sweet has been snatched away by a crow.
The secretary placed the container of sweets in front of him and, tilting the
contents of the jug into a clay cup, said, ‘How long will you keep lying here?’
The fragrance of food had a sanjivani-like effect on Panditji’s senses. He sat
up and said, ‘Let’s see by when this thing is decided.’
‘No decision will be arrived at. The panchayat went on the whole day, yet
there was no conclusion. And the viceroy will arrive only by tomorrow evening.
Who knows what will happen to you by then? Your face . . . it has gone so pale!’
Shastriji: ‘If it is fated that I die here, who can avert it? Are there kalakand
sweets inside this container?’
‘Yes, and many other sweets. Specially prepared for the wedding of a
relative.’
‘No wonder then it smells so divine. Would you open the lid a bit?’
The secretary smiled and opened the container, and Shastriji started devouring
the sweets with his eyes. Even a blind man getting his sight back would not have
stared at this world with such deep longing. His mouth watered. The secretary
said, ‘Had you not been on fast, I would’ve asked you to taste a few. I’ve
purchased these at five rupees a ser.’
‘These would be of the very best quality then. It’s been many days since I’ve
tasted kalakand.’
‘It is you who has got himself entangled in this unnecessary fracas. What use
would wealth be if you don’t get to live?’
‘I’m in a tight spot now, what to do. (Feeling them with his hands.) These are
from Bhola’s shop?’
‘Taste a couple?’
‘How? I’m in a moral bind now.’
 ‘How? I’m in a moral bind now.’
‘Come, come, just taste a few. The happiness it would bring now cannot be
compared to coming across even a lakh of rupees. And anyway, would one
disclose such things to anyone else?’
‘You think I fear anyone? Here I am dying without food and water, and
nobody is bothered in the least. So, why should I be afraid? Come, pass on the
container to me. Go and tell everyone that Shastriji has called off his fast. To
hell with the market and the business! I don’t give a damn. When there is no
righteousness left, why should I be the only one around to uphold it?’
With these words Panditji dragged the leaf container towards himself and
started gobbling up the sweets in fistfuls. He ate with such haste that within a
moment half the container was empty. The secretary went to the traders standing
at the gate and said, ‘Just go and watch the spectacle. Now you neither have to
worry about keeping your shops open, nor about humbling yourselves in front of
Panditji. I have solved the entire problem. It is the glory of the Congress.’
The moonlight had spread all around. People went in to see Panditji engrossed
in cleaning up the sweets just the way a sage is lost in a deep meditative trance.
Bhondumal said, ‘I touch your feet, Panditji. We were on our way here . . .
why did you have to hurry things up? We would have disclosed such a stratagem
to you that your vow wouldn’t have been broken and yet our purpose would
have been solved.’
Shastriji replied, ‘My task is accomplished. This is supernatural bliss, which
can’t be gained by heaps of wealth. If you revere me even a little bit, then get me
a second helping of the same amount of the same thing from the same shop.’

Translated from the Hindi by Sanjay Mukherjee

 The Roaming Monkey

Jeevan Das was a poor juggler. He earned his living through the acrobatics of his
monkey, Mannu. Both he and his wife, Budhiya, loved him deeply. Since they
were childless, Mannu alone was the object of their love. Both of them fed him
with their own hands and put him to sleep in bed like a child. Nothing was
dearer to them than Mannu.
Once, Jeevan Das brought a ball for him, which Mannu played with in the
courtyard. There was an earthen bowl for his food, a sack cloth for sleeping and
a blanket rag for covering his body. There was also a rope hanging from the roof
for his jumps. Mannu deeply cherished these things. He wouldn’t eat until
something was put in his bowl. His sack cloth and his blanket rag were dearer to
him than a shawl or a mattress. He spent his days happily. Every morning, he ate
his chapattis and went with Jeevan Das to perform his acrobatic feats. His skill at
acting captivated the spectators. Grabbing a stick, he would walk like an old
man, sit in a position of prayer, make the gesture of a tilak on his forehead and
hold pages from the scriptures in his hand and pretend to read them. He would
beat the drum and pretend to sing in such an endearing way that the spectators
split their sides with laughter. When the spectacle got over, he saluted everyone
and touched people’s feet to beg money from them. Mannu’s bowl would fill
with coins. After this, if someone fed Mannu a guava, someone else threw a
piece of sweet before him. Boys never got tired of watching him. They would
run to their houses to fetch pieces of bread to feed him. Mannu was the main
entertainer for the people of the mohalla. As long as he was in the house,
someone or the other would come to play with him. The street vendors would
someone or the other would come to play with him. The street vendors would
give him something to eat. If any of them tried to go past him without giving
him anything, he touched their feet and extracted his share from them, as he
stayed in the house free, without being tied. The only creatures Mannu had a
distaste for were dogs. No dog dared pass by his house. If any did, Mannu served
him one or two tight slaps. This was another reason for his popularity. On some
days, when Budhiya slept in the sun, Mannu would stand near her head and pick
out lice from her hair. Sometimes Budhiya sang for him. Mannu followed her
wherever she went. Surely even a mother and her son weren’t so attached to
each other.

One day, Mannu felt like eating some fruits. Now, there were fruits to eat, but
the pleasure of climbing up trees and hanging from the branches, eating some
and throwing away others was something else. Monkeys are usually entertaining.
Mannu was a little more so. So far, he had never been caught or beaten.
Climbing up trees and eating fruits came to him naturally. He didn’t know that
even objects in nature belonged to someone or the other. Why, people exerted
claims on even water, air and light, never mind orchards and gardens. When
Jeevan Das returned at noon after the show, Mannu made his escape. He usually
roamed around the mohalla, so no one suspected him of going anywhere else. He
roamed the streets, jumped over the roofing tiles and finally reached an orchard.
He saw that the trees there were laden with fruits. He was delighted to see
gooseberries, jackfruits, litchis, mangoes and papayas hanging from the trees. It
was as though the trees were beckoning him to come and feed on the fruits as
much as he wanted. He leapt on a wall and then leapt up a tree. He ate some
mangoes and then moved on to litchis and threw the stones around. Then he
climbed up the highest branch of another tree and began to shake the branches.
The ground filled up with ripe mangoes. The noise woke up the gardener from
his siesta. The moment he sighted Mannu, he began to throw stones at him.
These stones didn’t reach him, and the ones that did he escaped by ducking or
manoeuvring his body cleverly. He even frightened the gardener by making
faces at him and baring his teeth, threatening to bite him. The gardener backed
off but came back again with a fresh supply of stones. The boys of the mohalla
gathered around to see the fun and raised a racket:

Hey, monkey, loyelaaye,

We shall pull out your hairs toyetaaye,
Hey monkey, your face is red,
And your cheeks are shrunken.
His maternal grandmother is dead,
While the moustached-one has a broken leg.

Mannu was enjoying the fun and frolic. He ate half the fruits and threw the rest
down, which the boys picked up promptly. They clapped their hands and sang:

Bandar Mamu, can you say,

Where do you stay?

When the gardener saw that the situation couldn’t be brought under control, he
went and informed his master. This gentleman was an official in the police
department. The moment he heard the news, he lost his temper. What audacity!
How dare this monkey come to my orchard and raise such a racket. I pay the
rent of the bungalow, not him. I have crushed many who have stepped in my way
—even the newspaper people are scared of me! And I’m being challenged by a
monkey! He picked up his gun and went to the orchard, where he saw Mannu
shaking a tree vigorously. Furious, he aimed his gun at Mannu. The monkey lost
his wits at the sight of the gun. No one had ever aimed a gun at him. However,
he had heard the sound of the gun and seen birds killed following gunshots.
Even if he hadn’t seen it before, it was natural for him to be scared at the sight of
the gun. His animal instincts made him stay clear of his enemies. But it was as
though Mannu’s feet were paralysed. He couldn’t even jump to another tree. He
stayed on the same branch quietly. The owner of the orchard liked Mannu’s
ways and he suddenly took pity on him. He sent the gardener to catch Mannu
and bring him over to him. The gardener was scared, but he was familiar with
his master’s anger. He climbed up the tree quietly, tied the monkey with a rope
and brought him down.
Mannu was tied to a pole in the corridor of the bungalow. He lost his spirit.
He stayed there till late evening, whining. At sundown, a servant came and threw
a fistful of grams before him. Mannu became acutely aware of the change in his
situation. There was no blanket, and no sackcloth. He was lying on the bare floor
and whining. He didn’t even touch the grams. He was regretting his little
adventure now, and kept thinking about the juggler. The poor fellow must be
wandering around, searching for me. The juggler’s wife must be calling my
name, holding pieces of bread and milk in her hand. Where have I landed? He
kept waking through the night, and circled the pole. Tommy, the master’s dog,
barked at him every now and then to frighten him. Mannu felt extreme anger
towards him and wanted to hit him hard. But the dog didn’t come close. He only
kept barking from a distance.
When the night turned into dawn, the master came and gave Mannu a few
tight slaps. ‘Swine! Spoiled my sleep at night by yelping constantly. I couldn’t
close my eyes even for a second. If you create a racket today, I’ll shoot you.’
Saying this, he left. Now it was the turn of the naughty boys. Some of them were
from the mohalla, some of them were from outside. Some made faces at Mannu,
some threw stones at him, while others beckoned him with sweets. No one came
to his rescue, no one felt any pity for him. He tried every possible method to
save himself, but he couldn’t escape. He saluted the boys, showed them his
posture of pray and worship, and the only reward he got from the boys was more
teasing. That day no one even threw grams at him. Even if they did, he was not
in a position to eat. Sorrow had dulled his urge for eating.
The juggler reached the sahib’s house in the evening, after much inquiry.
When Mannu saw him, he leapt with such impatience it almost seemed as if he
would break the shackles and bring down the pillar. The juggler hugged Mannu
and said to the sahib, ‘Huzoor, he is a mere animal. Even men make mistakes.
Give me whatever punishment that you want, but please spare him. Master, he is
the only source of my livelihood. My wife and I will starve to death without him.
We have reared him like our own child. My wife hasn’t had any food since he
ran away. Please have some mercy, Master. May you be prosperous forever, may
you achieve a higher status, may your pens become mightier and may your cases
be liquidated. You are the good son of your father, may you always remain
strong. May your rivals be ruined.’ But the sahib remained unmoved. He berated
the juggler. ‘Shut up, you rogue, you have annoyed me with your endless
talking. First you let your monkey ruin my orchard, and then you come here to
placate me with your glib tongue! Just go and see how many fruits he has
spoiled. If you want to take him with you, then compensate my losses with ten
rupees, otherwise be on your way without a word. He will die here with his
rupees, otherwise be on your way without a word. He will die here with his
limbs tied until someone pays the penalty and takes him away.’
The juggler left in despair. Where on earth could he manage to get the ten
rupees from? He told Budhiya about the situation. Budhiya was more convinced
about her ability to elicit sympathy. She said, ‘I know you! You must have given
him a tongue-lashing. You must use your words carefully while talking to these
masters. Only then will they be pleased. Come with me, watch me bring him
back.’ She tied all of Mannu’s belongings in a bundle and went to the sahib
along with her husband. This time Mannu jumped so forcefully that the pillar
actually shook. Budhiya said, ‘Master, we’ve come to beg at your door. Please
give this monkey to us as charity.’
The sahib replied, ‘I consider charity to be a sin.’
The juggler’s wife said, ‘We roam around villages and towns. We will sing
your praises.’
‘I don’t care for anyone singing my praises.’
‘God will reward you for this.’
‘I know nothing about God.’
‘My lord, forgiveness is a great virtue.’
‘To me, punishment has great virtue.’
‘My lord, you’re our master. You have to do justice to us. Please don’t take
the lives of two individuals for a few fruits. It is justice which makes a man
great.’
‘My greatness doesn’t lie in forgiveness and justice. It is not my duty to
ensure justice. My work is to enjoy myself.’
None of Budhiya’s arguments had any effect on this vain person.
Disheartened, she said, ‘Sir, show some kindness and let us keep these things
near the monkey. He is attached to them.’
‘I’ve no place here to keep your dirty rags.’
The juggler and his wife left in utter despair.

When Tommy saw that Mannu was a harmless creature he grew bolder. He
moved closer to Mannu, growling. Mannu leapt at him, catching his ears, and
gave him such tight slaps that the dog was dumbfounded. Hearing his screams,
the master came out of his room and gave Mannu several kicks. He ordered his
the master came out of his room and gave Mannu several kicks. He ordered his
servants not to give any food to the rogue monkey for three days.
It was a coincidence that the manager of a circus company visited the master
that day to seek his permission to hold shows. When he saw Mannu sitting
tearfully, tied to a pole, he came close and smiled at him. Mannu jumped up, fell
at his feet and began to salute him. The manager understood that he was
domesticated. He needed a monkey for his circus. He talked to the master, gave
him a fair price and took Mannu with him. However, Mannu soon realized that
he had now landed up in a worse place. The manager gave him to a servant who
was in charge of the monkeys. The servant was a very cruel and crude person.
There were several monkeys in his care. Each one of them was in terrible pain.
The keeper would eat up all the food meant for the monkeys. The other monkeys
didn’t welcome Mannu into their midst. His coming created a commotion among
them. If the keeper hadn’t separated them, they would’ve made mincemeat of
him. Mannu had to learn new acts now—riding a bicycle, climbing on to a
running horse and standing on it with his two hind legs, walking on a fine rope
and other such scary activities. He was often subjected to beating so he could
learn these things properly. If he made the slightest mistake, he was caned on the
back. Even more painful was the fact that he was confined to a cell throughout
the day so that no one could see him. Mannu had performed acrobatics even
when he lived with the juggler, but there was great difference between the two
lives. The juggler had loved him, talked to him endearingly. But in this place, he
was a prisoner, subjected to beatings and cruelty. He was taking time to learn the
new skills because he was still constantly thinking about running away to Jeevan
Das. Every day, he waited for an opportunity to run away but the animals were
kept under strict surveillance in the circus. They didn’t even get fresh air, let
alone the smallest opportunity to run away. Everyone was busy making him
work; no one cared for his meals. Mannu had escaped the master’s bungalow
quickly enough but he had now spent three months in this prison. His health
worsened, and he was completely miserable. He had to work, whether he wanted
or not. The owner of the circus only wanted to earn money; he didn’t care if
Mannu lived or died.
One day, the circus tent caught fire. All the workers in the circus were
gamblers. They would gamble, drink liquor and fight amongst themselves
throughout the day. Amidst this mess, the gas pipes exploded suddenly. A
commotion ensued. The spectators ran for their lives. The employees of the
commotion ensued. The spectators ran for their lives. The employees of the
company started clamouring for their belongings. No one bothered about the
animals. There were two lions, many cheetahs, one elephant and a bear. The
number of dogs, horses and monkeys was much more. The company had never
even cared for the lives of its employees in its quest for earning money. The
animals were taken off their tethers only for their performances. When the fire
broke out, they all ran away. Mannu, too, made his escape. He didn’t even look
back to see whether the tent had burnt completely or if it was still safe.
Mannu went straight to Jeevan Das’s house. But the door was closed. He
climbed up on the roofing tiles and made his way inside the house. But, there
was no one inside. The place where he slept, which was usually plastered clean
with cow dung by Budhiya, was now covered with grass. The wood on which he
would climb up and jump around had been consumed by termites. The people of
the mohalla recognized him immediately. A noise broke out—‘Mannu has come,
Mannu has come.’
Mannu would go to the house every day in the evening and lie down on his
old spot. He would roam around the mohalla throughout the day and only ate if
someone gave him anything. He never touched anyone’s belongings. He still
hoped to meet his old master somewhere in the area. The pitiable sound of his
whining could be heard in the nights. Everybody was moved to tears by his
plight.
Several months passed in this manner. One day, Mannu was sitting in the
street when he heard some boys making a commotion. He saw an old woman,
her head uncovered and her hair dishevelled. She was unclothed save for the rags
wrapped around her waist. Like a ghost, she walked towards him. The boys
behind her were pelting stones at her, shouting, ‘Mad Naani, Mad Naani’ at her
and clapping their hands as they followed her. Every now and then she would
stop and tell the boys, ‘I’m not insane. Why are you calling me mad?’ Finally,
she sat on the ground and said, ‘Tell me, why do you call me mad?’ She wasn’t
even a bit angry with the boys. She neither cried nor smiled. She kept quiet even
when the stones hit her.
One of the boys asked, ‘Why don’t you wear clothes? What else is this if not
madness?’
The old woman replied, ‘Clothes are worn for protection against the cold in
the winter season. It’s summer these days.’
the winter season. It’s summer these days.’
The boy asked again, ‘Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?’
The old woman answered, ‘What is it that you call shame? There are so many
ascetics who remain naked all their lives. Why don’t you hit them with stones?’
The boy said, ‘They are men.’
The old woman asked, ‘Is shame the preserve of only women? Shouldn’t men
feel this shame?’
‘You eat whatever is thrown at you. Only a mad person does that,’ the boy
persisted.
‘What is so mad about it? If one feels hungry, one has to fill one’s belly.’
‘You’ve no sense of discrimination. Don’t you feel repelled by these things?’
‘I don’t know what repulsion is. Nothing repels me now.’
‘Everyone is repelled by something or the other. Shall I explain to you what
repulsion is?’
Another boy piped in, ‘Why do you throw away the money people give you?
If someone offers you clothes, you don’t take them. Why shouldn’t we call you
mad?’
‘What should I do with money or clothes?’
‘You need them. Everyone lusts for money.’
‘What is lust, son? I’ve forgotten it.’
‘That is why we call you mad granny. You’ve no lust, no repulsion, no shame,
no sense of discrimination. That’s why you’re called mad.’
‘Then so be it. Let me be a mad woman.’
‘Why don’t you feel anger?’
‘I don’t know, son. I just don’t feel angry at anything. Do people really feel
angry? I’ve forgotten how to.’
At this, several boys broke out into a clamour—‘Mad woman, mad woman’—
but the old woman quietly proceeded on her way. When she came close, Mannu
recognized her. It was Budhiya. He threw himself at her feet. A startled Budhiya
looked down at him, and then clutched him to her chest.

As soon as she took Mannu in her lap, Budhiya realized that she was naked.
Overcome by shame, she sat down and called out to a boy. ‘Son, could you give
me something to wear?’
me something to wear?’
‘Didn’t you say that you’d lost your sense of shame?’
‘No, son. Now I’ve got it back. I don’t know what had happened to me.’
When the boys again shouted ‘Mad woman, mad woman,’ she started hitting
them with stones. She even ran after them.
One of the boys asked, ‘A moment ago, you knew nothing about anger. So
why on earth are you getting furious now?’
‘I don’t know why I am getting angry now. If anyone calls me mad again, I’ll
have him bitten by the monkey.’
One of the boys came running with a tattered rag. The old woman wore it. She
also arranged her hair. The insanity that glowed on her face earlier was replaced
by the sombre glow of reflection. Crying, she said to Mannu, ‘Oh, son, where
had you gone? It has been such a long time . . . didn’t you care about us? Your
master passed away longing for you. I begged in order to fill my belly. The
house was reduced to shambles. When you were here, I cared about food,
clothes, jewellery and the house. But all my desires vanished as soon as you
went away. I was troubled by hunger, but nothing else mattered for me in this
world. My eyes didn’t even shed any tears when your master died. He was
groaning with pain while lying on the cot, but my heart had turned into stone.
Forget getting medicines for him, I didn’t even care to stand beside his bed. I
would think “Who is he?” Now when I remember all those things and the state
which I was in, I have to admit that I had indeed become insane and it was only
right that the boys should call me “Mad Naani”.’
Budhiya went with Mannu to a garden outside the town. She lived in that
garden under a tree. There was only some straw there for her to lie on. There was
no other object necessary for survival.
From that day onwards, Mannu began to live with Budhiya. He’d leave the
shelter in the morning and return home with some vegetables and bread that he’d
earned showing off his acrobatics or simply begging. Even if Budhiya had a son,
he wouldn’t have showed his mother the kind of love that Mannu showed.
People were delighted by his acts and gave him money in return for the
entertainment. Budhiya bought food from the market with this money.
People were amazed by Mannu’s deep love for Budhiya. They declared that
Mannu was not a monkey but a deity.
Translated from the Hindi by M. Asaduddin
 The Prophet’s Justice

Not much time had passed since Prophet Muhammad had received the divine
revelations. Apart from a score of neighbours and close relatives, not many had
accepted his faith. Even his daughter Zainab and her husband, Abul Aas, who
were married before Muhammad had attained prophethood, had not accepted the
faith. Zainab had visited her parents a couple of times and had heard her father
preaching. She respected Islam from her heart, but couldn’t muster enough
courage to embrace it because of Abul Aas. Abul Aas was a successful
businessman and believed in the freedom of thought. He exported dates and
other products to many ports. He was hard-working and upright and honest in his
transactions, and could spare little time from his worldly routine to think about
the hereafter. Zainab was in a dilemma: If her soul was with the new faith, her
heart was with her husband. She couldn’t give up either the faith or her husband.
The other members of the family were all idol worshippers and enemies of this
new community. Zainab hid her devotion to the new-found faith, even from her
husband. It was not the age of religious tolerance. Rivers of blood would flow
even in trivial matters. Entire families would be wiped out. Tales of valour
would be sung in every street. There was nothing in the name of political
structure. Blood for blood. Death for loss of wealth. Death for insult. It was as
though blood-letting was the only solution to any quarrel. In such a situation,
expressing her loyalty to the new faith would have brought Muhammad and his
small band of followers in conflict with Abul Aas’s powerful family. Her love
for her husband also stood in the way. To enter into the new faith meant that she
would be separated for all times from her husband, whom she loved more than
would be separated for all times from her husband, whom she loved more than
her life. The Quraish tribe, in which Muhammad had been born, considered such
mixed marriages an insult to the community. Caught between love and faith,
Zainab did not know what to do.

Attachment to a faith is a sign of weakness. But when the attachment is intense,

it overwhelms the mind. It was noon. The sun was so strong that one couldn’t
bear to look at it. Hazrat Muhammad was sitting steeped in thought. Despair
seemed to envelop him from all sides. Khadija, his wife, was sitting beside him
with her head lowered, and was mending a tattered shirt. Whatever they
possessed had already been sacrificed at the altar of the new faith. The enmity of
his rivals was increasing day by day. His followers were being subjected to all
kinds of travails. It was difficult for the prophet himself to move out of his
house. People sometimes threw stones at him. He often got news of his followers
being robbed or injured, which made him extremely sad. He prayed to God for
patience and forgiveness.
The Prophet said, ‘These people won’t allow me to stay here any more. I can
bear it, but I can’t bear to see my friends undergoing such travails.’
Khadija replied, ‘If we leave this place, then we’ll have no refuge. At least
they can come to you now and share their plight. When in misfortune, one needs
a shoulder to cry on.’
‘I don’t want to leave alone. I intend to take all my friends with me. We are
scattered here. It is difficult to reach out to one another for help. If all of us live
in one place like a close-knit family, no one will dare attack us. Our collective
strength will turn us into a sand hill over which no one will dare to climb.’
Suddenly, Zainab entered. There was no one with her. She was panting for
breath. Khadija hugged her and asked, ‘What is it, Zainab? Are you all right?’
Zainab told her about her inner struggle and expressed the desire to be
initiated into the new religion by her father.
The Prophet’s eyes brimmed over as he said, ‘Daughter, nothing would bring
me greater happiness. But I know very well that you’ll be in trouble.’
Zainab replied, ‘Most esteemed sir! I’ve decided to give up everything for
God. I do not want to risk my salvation for worldly happiness.’
 ‘Zainab. You’ll face many difficulties in the path of God.’
‘Abba jaan, when one’s heart is suffused with devotion one doesn’t mind
difficulties.’
‘Your relationship with your husband’s family will be ruptured.’
‘My relationship with God will compensate for it.’
‘How about Abul Aas?’
Zainab’s eyes became moist. She said feebly, ‘Abba jaan, it is his thought that
kept me away from you all these days. If it were not so, I would’ve adopted the
new faith long ago. I know I can’t live without him. He would also find it
difficult to bear my separation. But I have this firm belief that some day he’ll
accept the new religion and then I’ll have the opportunity to be of service to
him.’
‘Abul Aas is honest, kind and a good orator. But his pride might keep him
away from God. He doesn’t believe in destiny. He doesn’t have faith in the soul,
in heaven and hell. He says there’s no need for God. Why should we fear Him?
Our conscience and intellect are sufficient to guide us. Such an individual cannot
have faith in God. It is easy to challenge non-belief, but when it takes the shape
of philosophy no one can change it.’
Zainab said firmly, ‘Esteemed sir, I want that which uplifts my soul. I won’t
allow any human being to come between me and God.’
The Prophet blessed her. ‘May God be kind to you. You’ve made me so
happy.’
He took Zainab in his arms.

On the following day Zainab was made to read the kalma, the profession of faith,
in the mosque and initiated into the new faith.
When the people of the Quraish tribe came to know of this, they were furious.
What a calamity! Islam is beginning to poach people from established families!
If it continues unchallenged, it will slowly grow in strength and it’ll be difficult
for us to stop it.
A huge gathering took place in the house of Abul Aas. Abu Sufiyan, the
foremost enemy of Islam, said to Abul Aas, ‘You must divorce your wife.’
Abul Aas said, ‘Certainly not.’
 Abul Aas said, ‘Certainly not.’
Abu Sufiyan asked him, ‘Are you thinking of becoming a Mussulman
yourself?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘Then she must live in Muhammad’s house.’
‘No. I seek your permission to bring her home.’
‘Surely not.’
‘Can’t my community show me this much understanding? If it can’t, then you
can make me an outcast. I’ll happily undergo any other punishment that you may
decide to give me. But I can’t leave my wife. I don’t want to rob anyone of their
religious freedom, least of all my wife.’
‘Are there no other girls in the Quraish tribe?’
‘There’s no one like Zainab.’
‘We can tell you of girls whose beauty will put even the moon to shame.’
‘I’m not a worshipper of beauty.’
‘We can provide you girls who are adept at housekeeping, who have a sweet
tongue, who cook food that tastes good even to the sick, who are so skilled at
stitching and darning that they can transform an old rag into a new fabric.’
‘I do not care for any of these. I’m simply a worshipper of love. And I’m sure
no one in the world can love me as deeply as Zainab does.’
‘If she loved you so deeply, would she have betrayed you in this way?’
‘I don’t want her to give up her individualism because of me.’
‘This means you want to stay like an antisocial within the community. By
God, the community will not allow you to do it. I can say for sure that you’ll
regret your decision.’

When Abu Sufiyan and his team left after administering the threat, Abul Aas
picked up his stick and reached Muhammad’s house. It was evening. The
Prophet was saying the evening prayers with his disciples. Abul Aas greeted him
and watched them closely as long as the prayer was on. He felt a wave of respect
welling in his heart when he saw them bending together, sitting and prostrating
in the course of the prayer. Unconsciously, he began to do the same movements
as the congregation did. The atmosphere was infused with God’s spirit, so much
so that it swept Abul Aas away for a moment.
so that it swept Abul Aas away for a moment.
When the prayer was over and the congregation dispersed, Abul Aas went
over to the Prophet and said, ‘I’ve come to take Zainab with me.’
The Prophet was surprised. ‘Do you know that she has embraced Islam?’
‘Yes, sir, I know.’
‘Do you also know that Islam forbids such relationships?’
‘Does it mean that Zainab has divorced me?’
‘If indeed she has, then?’
‘Nothing. Good luck to her with her new-found devotion for God and His
Prophet. I’d like to see her once, then return home, and never see her face again.
But don’t blame me if the Quraish tribe wants to pick a fight with you for this.’
‘I do not want to have a fight with the Quraish.’
‘In that case, allow Zainab to come with me. Then I’ll be the target of the
tribe. No calamity will befall you or your disciples.’
‘Will you try to turn Zainab away from God?’
‘I consider it inhuman to violate anyone’s religious freedom.’
‘People will put pressure on you to divorce Zainab.’
‘I’ll part with my life before parting with Zainab.’
Abul Aas’s words reassured the Prophet. He held Abul Aas in high esteem.
He allowed Abul Aas to meet Zainab in the women’s part of the house.
Abul Aas said to Zainab, ‘I’ve come to take you home. I hope embracing the
new religion has not turned you against me?’
Zainab fell at his feet, crying, and said, ‘No, my lord. Our hearts are bound
together. I am yours, no matter where I am. But will the community allow us to
stay together?’
‘If the community does not allow us to live together, then I’ll leave it. There
are many places in the world where we can live in peace. You know very well
I’m a champion of religious freedom. I’ll never interfere with the matters of your
religion.’
As Zainab was leaving, Khadija gave her a necklace of precious pearls as a
gift.

The non-Muslims increased their torment of the Muslims. Earlier, the Muslims
were simply ignored, but now they were threatened. The enemies conspired to
were simply ignored, but now they were threatened. The enemies conspired to
wipe them out. Help was sought from tribes living afar. The Muslims did not
have the power to face the enemies in armed combat. Hazrat Muhammad
decided to leave Mecca and go elsewhere. In Mecca, the Muslims were scattered
in different parts of the city. They couldn’t provide help to each other in times of
crisis. Muhammad wanted to settle in a place where all of them could live
together and face the combined forces of the enemies collectively. Eventually he
settled for Madina and sent word to all his followers. The devotees got together
and one day they migrated from Mecca to Madina. This is what is known as
‘hijrat’.
The Muslims found new energy and a new spirit when they reached Madina.
They began to observe their religious rituals fearlessly. There was no need now
to hide themselves from their neighbours.
They gained greater self-confidence. The non-Muslims mobilized themselves
against them. Both sides began to assemble their own armies. The non-Muslim
Arabs resolved to wipe out the name of Islam from the face of the earth. The
Muslims, too, resolved to give them a fitting reply.
One day, Abul Aas came and told his wife, ‘Zainab, our leaders have declared
war on Islam.’
Scared, Zainab said, ‘These people have already left Mecca. What is the need
for war now?’
‘They may have left Mecca, but they haven’t left Arabia! Their audacity is
increasing. There was no other option except declaring jihad on them. It’ll be
necessary for me to take part in the jihad.’
‘If you feel so strongly about it, then you must go. I’ll also accompany you.’
‘Accompany me?’
‘Yes, I’ll look after the injured Muslims there.’
‘Of course.’

A fierce battle took place. Both sides fought valorously. Brothers fought with
brothers, and fathers fought with sons. It was proved that the bond of faith was
stronger than the bonds of blood and lineage.
Both sides fought with courage. The difference was—the minds of the
Muslims were filled with religious fervour; they expected heaven after their
Muslims were filled with religious fervour; they expected heaven after their
death. They had the firmness of belief, as is usually found among new converts.
This spirit of ‘sacrifice’ was missing among non-Muslims.
The battle went on for several days. Although the Muslims were lesser in
number, their religious fervour triumphed in the end. A large number of non-
Muslims were killed, many were injured, and many more were taken prisoners.
Abul Aas was one of them.
The moment Zainab heard that Abul Aas had been taken prisoner, she
immediately sent ransom money to Prophet Mohammed. It was the same
precious necklace given to her by Khadija. Zainab didn’t want to place her father
in a tricky situation, which would have risen if no ransom money was available.
He couldn’t have released Abul Aas even if he wanted to.
All the prisoners were presented before the Prophet. Many had accepted the
new religion, while others were released when they paid the ransom money. The
Prophet looked at Abul Aas, who was standing aloof with his head hung. He
looked deeply embarrassed.
The Prophet said, ‘Abul Aas, Islam wouldn’t have triumphed if God had not
come to its support.’
Abul Aas replied, ‘If, as you put it, there’s one God in the world, then he can’t
allow one of his people to kill another fellow being. The Muslims won because
of their martial spirit.’
One of the companions of the Prophet asked, ‘Where is your ransom money?’
The Prophet remarked, ‘Abul Aas’s necklace is undoubtedly priceless. What
is your decision? You very well know that he is my son-in-law.’
Abu Bakr said, ‘You have Zainab with you, for whom even a thousand
necklaces can be sacrificed.’
Abul Aas asked, ‘So are you implying that Zainab should be my ransom
money?’
Zayed replied, ‘This is exactly what I mean.’
Abul Aas said, ‘It would’ve been far better if you had killed me.’
Abu Bakr said, ‘We won’t kill the Prophet’s son-in-law even if he is a non-
Muslim. We’ll extend to you all the courtesies we can.’
Abul Aas was faced with a terrible dilemma. It was an insult for him to accept
the hospitality of the victors; he was also suffering intensely from Zainab’s
separation. He decided to undergo the suffering, but not to submit to the insult. I
shall sacrifice my love and my soul for my pride.
He said, ‘I accept your decision. Zainab will be my ransom.’

At Madina, the Prophet’s daughter was given as much respect as was due to her.
There was prosperity, happiness and great enthusiasm for the new religion, but
there was no love. She pined away for Abul Aas.
Three years passed as though they were three centuries. She couldn’t set her
eyes on Abul Aas.
The society put pressure on Abul Aas to marry again, but the sweet memories
associated with Zainab were enough to provide him solace. He plunged himself
into his trade with renewed vigour and didn’t return to his home for months.
Earning wealth had now become the chief objective of his life. People were
surprised to see him risking his life for wealth. People drowned their despair and
worry in wine just as they become crazy when they are in love. Abul Aas had
now become crazy about wealth. Behind this lust for wealth was his despair in
love. Chasing money was a disguise for his renunciation of love.
Once he was taking a caravan laden with goods from Mecca to Iraq. There
were many other traders in the caravan. There was a security cordon as well.
Several Muslim caravans had already been raided by non-Muslims. When they
got to know of this caravan, Zayed got together a couple of men and raided the
caravan. The security guards fought them and died. The people travelling in the
caravan fled away. Immense wealth came into the hands of Muslims. Abul Aas
was taken prisoner again.
On the following day, he was presented before the Prophet. The Prophet gave
him a piteous look. The Prophet’s companions asked, ‘Hazrat, what have you
decided about Abul Aas?’
The Prophet replied, ‘I leave it to you to decide about him. He is my son-in-
law. It is quite possible that I may not be able to act impartially.’
He went inside the house. Zainab fell at his feet and said, ‘Abba jaan, you’ve
released the others. Is Abul Aas a worse offender than them?’
The Prophet replied, ‘No, Zainab, anyone who sits on the seat of justice must
be free of partiality and prejudice. Even though I am the one who put this
be free of partiality and prejudice. Even though I am the one who put this
procedure in place, I’m not its master but its slave. I love Abul Aas. However, I
can’t have my sense of justice tainted by my love.’
All the companions of the Prophet were deeply moved by his sense of justice.
Abul Aas was released with all his goods.
The way the Prophet dealt with the case and his sense of justice left a great
impact on Abul Aas. On his return to Mecca, he settled his accounts, paid his
creditors and returned people’s goods. Then he left everything and went to the
Prophet seeking his refuge. Zainab’s long-cherished desire was fulfilled.

Translated from the Hindi by M. Asaduddin

 Sudden Downfall

The streets of Delhi were being drenched in the blood of its citizens. Nadir
Shah’s army was wreaking havoc in the city. Whoever they found was executed
by the sword. Nadir Shah’s fiery anger wasn’t being extinguished at all. The rain
of blood couldn’t quench the fire of his wrath.
Nadir Shah was seated on the throne in the open court. Flames were flying
from his eyes. How dare the people of Delhi insult his soldiers! The cowards
have some nerve! These barbarians were routed at his army’s first battle cry.
Hearing the crying and wailing of the residents of the city even the heart of the
army was on the verge of trembling. But Nadir Shah’s wrath was not diminished
and even his commander-in-chief couldn’t muster the courage to come before
him. Truly courageous people are merciful. They don’t vent their anger on the
helpless, on women, or the weak. They consider it beneath their dignity to wreak
vengeance on them. But Nadir Shah’s anger knew no mercy.
The emperor of Delhi was seated next to Nadir Shah with his head bowed
low. The king, who was used to a life of luxury and leisure with his harem, was
listening to Nadir Shah’s insulting speech. But he didn’t have the courage to
open his mouth. If he feared so much for his own life, who was there to worry
about his people? He was thinking, Best not to say anything . . . what if he turns
on me?
Finally, when the army’s obsessive cruelty reached its peak, Mohammed
Shah’s vizier couldn’t bear it any longer. He was very eloquent. He was a poet,
careless about his own life. He came before Nadir Shah and recited this couplet
in Persian:
in Persian:

Your glance’s sword has severed every head

For more, you’ll have to resurrect the dead.

The couplet struck Nadir Shah’s heart. There are holes even in rocks, greenery
on mountains, softness in the stone-hearted. This couplet melted stone. Nadir
Shah called his commander-in-chief and ordered him to stop the massacre.
Suddenly, the swords were sheathed. The raised hands of the killers were frozen.
Every soldier became a statue wherever he was. Evening fell. Nadir Shah was
found strolling in the garden, chanting the couplet again and again, as if in a
trance.

Your glance’s sword has severed every head

For more, you’ll have to resurrect the dead.

The treasury of Delhi was being ransacked. There was a guard at the royal
palace. No one could enter or exit the palace. Even the royal ladies were afraid
to step out of their palaces into the gardens. Nadir Shah’s men were not content
with simply plundering the treasury. Gold and silver utensils, priceless pictures,
and other decorative goods were being taken away. Nadir Shah, sitting on his
throne, was looking closely at the piles of diamonds and jewels, but the object
his heart had longed for for the longest time was not to be seen. He had heard
praises and legends of the powers of a diamond called the Mughal-e-Azam.
Whoever possessed this diamond was supposedly blessed with a long life—no
disease could touch him. It even apparently had the power to grant offspring.
One of his motives for attacking Delhi was to get hold of this diamond. Even
though his eyes were dazzled by the piles of gold and silver and the precious
jewels, his heart was not happy. He was obsessed with the Mughal-e-Azam, and
the Mughal-e-Azam was nowhere to be found. Mad with anger, he looked at the
royal viziers and yelled at the officers, but he couldn’t really articulate why he
was so furious. No one understood why he was so restless. This was an
opportunity to swell with happiness. Immense wealth was lying before him. No
one could really count how much. Any emperor in the world would consider
himself fortunate if he had a mere portion of this wealth. But this man, who had
himself fortunate if he had a mere portion of this wealth. But this man, who had
never laid eyes on even a hundredth of this treasure before, whose life had been
spent grazing sheep, couldn’t care less. Finally, when night fell, and the
emperor’s treasury was emptied, and still the diamond was not found, Nadir
Shah’s anger flared up again. He summoned the vizier whose eloquence had
saved so many lives and said, ‘You have seen my wrath. If you don’t want to see
it again, you must be straightforward with me. If my anger flares up again, Delhi
will be destroyed.’
‘Your Highness, we, your humble slaves, have not committed any mistake.
All the keys of the treasury have been handed over to your commander-in-chief.’
Nadir Shah said, ‘You have committed treachery.’
The vizier raised his eyebrows. ‘The sword is in your hand, and we are weak.
Say what you will, but I cannot accept this accusation.’
‘Is it necessary to provide you with evidence?’
‘Yes, because the punishment for treachery is death, and no one would agree
to be executed without cause.’
‘I do have evidence, although Nadir has never provided evidence to anyone.
He is the emperor by his own will, and he considers giving evidence a detriment
to his glory. But this is a personal matter. Why have you hidden the Mughal-e-
Azam?’
The colour drained from the vizier’s face. The diamond is dearer than life to
the emperor, he thought. He doesn’t let it out of his possession for even a
moment. How can I tell him? It will be such a shock to him. His realm is gone,
his treasure is gone, his respect is gone. He only retains this one symbol of the
empire. Oh, how can I tell him? It’s possible that in anger he might throw it
away somewhere or smash it. It’s only human nature to think it better to destroy
a thing rather than give it up to an enemy. The emperor is the emperor. He may
lose his country, his prestige, his army, but it is impossible to wipe out a lifetime
of self-will in one day. If Nadir doesn’t get the diamond, there’s no telling what
cruelties he will inflict on Delhi. I am getting goose bumps just thinking about it.
God forbid Delhi see such a day again.
Nadir asked abruptly, ‘I’m still waiting for your answer. Is this not enough
evidence of your treachery?’
‘Your Highness, that diamond is dearer to the emperor than his life. He never
parts with it.’
‘Don’t lie to me. The diamond belongs to the emperor and not the other way
 ‘Don’t lie to me. The diamond belongs to the emperor and not the other way
round. By saying that the diamond is dearer to the emperor than his own life,
you mean only that the diamond is very precious to the emperor, and this is no
reason why I should not take it from him. If he won’t give it to me easily I know
what I have to do. You go and handle this matter with the same delicate sense
that you displayed yesterday. Aah, what a wonderful couplet!’

Your glance’s sword has severed every head

For more, you’ll have to resurrect the dead.

3
The vizier left, wondering how to solve the problem. When he reached the
emperor’s chamber, he saw that the emperor had the diamond in his hand and
was looking really preoccupied.
At the moment the emperor was worrying about the diamond like a waylaid
traveller who doesn’t want to give up his honour willingly. He knew that Nadir
knew about the diamond. He also knew that Nadir was really angry about not
finding it in the treasury. But he still had no intention of giving up the diamond.
The dying man will not let go of his last breath, even if it kills him. Oh, where
should I hide it? The palace is so big that a whole city can fit inside it, but there
is no place for such a small thing, just as there is no refuge for an unfortunate
one in this wide world! Instead of putting it in a safe place, why not hide it
somewhere where no one would think to look for it? Who could guess that I have
hidden it in my flagon? Or what if I put it in the base of my hookah? Even the
angels won’t be able to find it.
So he put the diamond in the base of his hookah. But he immediately had the
feeling that hiding such a precious gem in a place like that was unfitting. What if
the tyrant takes a liking to my hookah! He quickly poured the water out of his
hookah into a basin and extracted the diamond. The water stank but he didn’t
have the courage to call a servant to throw it away. He was afraid that the
servant would suspect something.
The emperor had been pondering over this matter when the vizier entered and
saluted him. The emperor trusted the vizier completely. But he was so ashamed
of his petty action that he could not reveal his secret to him. For a stunned
moment he just stared at him.
 The vizier started the conversation. ‘The diamond was not found in the
treasury today. Nadir was very upset. He told me, “You have cheated me. I’ll
raid the city again and slaughter everyone; I’ll turn Delhi into black ashes.” I
said, “Sir, you have the right. You may do what you will. But we have given all
the keys of the treasury to your commander-in-chief.” He didn’t say anything
clearly. He only insinuated. And he’s prowling around restlessly like a hungry
jackal, wondering who to sink his teeth into.’
Mohammed Shah said, ‘I’m afraid of sitting in front of him. It’s as if I’m
beside a tiger. The tyrant’s eyes are so sharp and terrifying! Is he a man or a
devil? And I’m confused about where to hide the diamond. I don’t have any
sorrow about the end of the sultanate, but I won’t give up this diamond until
someone has me by the neck and seizes it.’
‘God forbid. May Your Majesty’s enemies suffer this insult. May I suggest a
strategy? My lord, hide it in your turban. Nadir Shah will never think of looking
for it there.’
Mohammed Shah jumped up and said, ‘By God, you’re right. Really, what a
good idea! The bully will search here and there and then he’ll take his
disappointed face away. Who will search my turban? This is why I named you
Luqman. Wise man! It is decided. If you had come a little earlier I wouldn’t
have had to bear such a headache.’

The next day there was a truce between the two kings. The vizier fell at the feet
of Nadir Shah and said respectfully, ‘Now only you can bring this sinking ship
to the shore. Otherwise only God can save it. The Hindus have begun to rise up
in revolt. The Mahrattas, Rajputs, Sikhs are all gathering their forces. The day
we face them in battle will be the day our ship falls into the whirlpool, and
having spun around a few times it will sink in the water forever.’ It had been a
long time since Nadir Shah had left Iran. Every day there was news about some
uprising or rebellion there. Nadir Shah wanted to return as soon as possible. He
didn’t have time to establish his regime in Delhi. He agreed to the truce. The
kings signed a treaty.
Both kings said their prayers together, ate at the same table, smoked from the
same hookah, and, having embraced each other, went to their own places.
same hookah, and, having embraced each other, went to their own places.
Mohammed Shah was happy, not so much about the kingdom, but because the
diamond was still in his hands. But Nadir Shah didn’t seem unhappy about not
having got the diamond. He spoke to everyone amiably, as if he were the model
of mercy and humility.

It is morning. Drums of joy are being played in Delhi. Celebrations of happiness

are being arranged. Three days ago, rivers of blood were flowing here. Today the
tide of happiness is rising. Today Nadir Shah is departing from Delhi.
Lines of camels laden with gold guineas are ready to go, precious goods are
being loaded into the carts. The armies of both sides are embracing each other.
Yesterday they were thirsty for each other’s blood, today they have become
brothers.
Nadir Shah is seated on the throne. Mohammed Shah is also seated on the
throne next to him. Here, too, is a scene of mutual love. Nadir Shah smiled and
said, ‘May God grant that this truce forever remain intact and permanent. And
may God erase the memories of those bloody days from the hearts of the
people.’
Mohammed Shah: ‘Nothing will happen to endanger this truce from my side. I
will pray to God constantly to preserve our friendship.’
Nadir Shah: ‘All the conditions of the treaty have been met. Only one thing is
left. It is a custom among us that upon making a truce, we exchange turbans.
Without this ritual, we consider the work of the treaty incomplete. Come, let us
exchange our turbans. Here, I offer you mine.’
Nadir Shah took off his turban and offered it to Mohammed Shah. The
emperor was shocked. He realized that he had been tricked. The commanders-in-
chief of both sides were standing in front of him. He was at a loss for words.
There was no way to get out of this situation, nor was there even a moment to
think of a scheme. No solution came to his mind. There was no room to refuse.
He couldn’t do anything except control his heart. Silently removing his turban,
he offered it to Nadir Shah. His hands were shaking, his eyes full of tears of
sorrow and anger. A faint smile appeared on his face, denoting more sorrow and
pain than his tears. Perhaps it would have cost him less pain to offer his life.
Nadir Shah, having crossed mountains and rivers, was going to Iran. His heart
 Nadir Shah, having crossed mountains and rivers, was going to Iran. His heart
was leaping with happiness seeing seventy camels and lines of almost as many
bull-carts. He was thanking God again and again, whose unlimited grace had
made his fame shine. Now he wasn’t only the king of Iran, but also the master of
a huge country like India. But the thing he was most happy about was the
Mughal-e-Azam, looking at which again and again his eyes’ pleasure was not
sated. He was thinking about how he would enter the court wearing this diamond
—and how the eyes of everybody at the assembly would dazzle seeing it.
His army was having difficulty finding food and water. Rebel troops were
constantly harassing him, and ten or twenty people were being killed daily. But
Nadir Shah didn’t have time to stop. He kept going without a pause.
The condition of Iran was very precarious. The prince himself had gone to put
down the rebels but the rebellion was becoming more and more terrifying. The
royal army had been defeated in several battles. Every moment there was a fear
that the king would be surrounded by enemies.
But as soon as the enemies heard that Nadir Shah had reached Iran, their
courage collapsed. Just the sound of his powerful voice was enough for the
enemies to surrender. While Nadir Shah was entering Tehran, the enemies
pleaded with the prince for peace and came under his protection. When Nadir
Shah heard this, he believed that it was all because of the diamond. It was the
power of the diamond that had defeated his enemies and won the lost game.
When the prince returned victorious, the public welcomed him with great
pomp and show. All of Tehran glittered with the light of lamps. Every street
echoed with songs of happiness.
The court convened, poets sang odes of praise. Nadir Shah rose with pride and
adorned the prince’s crown with the Mughal-e-Azam. Shouts of ‘Hail, Hail’
came from all sides. From the glitter of the diamond the splendour of the
prince’s face increased twofold. Nadir Shah’s heart filled with paternal love; the
Nadir who had made rivers of blood flow in Delhi was now shedding tears of
pride and joy.

Suddenly the sound of a gun was heard—bang! bang! The court was shaken.
People’s hearts quailed. Alas, lightning had struck! Alas, misfortune! The sound
of the gun was still ringing in everyone’s ears when the prince collapsed to the
of the gun was still ringing in everyone’s ears when the prince collapsed to the
ground like a felled tree. His diamond-decorated crown fell at Nadir Shah’s feet.
Nadir Shah raised his hand and said, crazed with anger and sorrow, ‘Catch the
murderers!’ And he fell down upon the dead body of the prince, completely
distraught. All of his life’s hopes had come to an end.
People ran towards the assassins. Again the sound was heard—bang! bang!—
and both assassins fell. They had committed suicide. They were both rebel
leaders.
Oh, human desires! Your foundations are so feeble. A wall built on sand
collapses in the rain but even without rain your wall is soon buried under earth.
You can have some hope for a lamp in a windstorm, but there is no hope for you.
Compared to your fickleness, a children’s playhouse is an unmovable mountain
and a whore’s affection firmer than a sati’s resolve.
People lifted Nadir Shah from the prince’s body. Their hearts were shaken by
the sound of his crying. Tears were flowing from everyone’s eyes. What had
happened was so unexpected, so brutal, so merciless.
Nadir Shah picked up the diamond from the ground. He looked at it once with
a sorrowful gaze, then put the crown back on the prince’s head and told his
vizier to bury the diamond with the prince’s body.
It was night. Tehran was filled with mourning. Nowhere was seen the light of
lamp or fire. No one lit a lamp or cooked a meal. The pipes of the opium-
smokers were cold. But there were torches glowing in the cemetery. The prince’s
funeral was in progress.
When the last prayer had been said, Nadir Shah laid the crown in the grave
next to the body with his own hands. Masons and sculptors were at hand and
right away a tomb of bricks, stones and lime began to be built.
For a whole month Nadir Shah didn’t stir from the spot for even a moment.
He used to sleep there and run his kingdom from there. The idea had stuck in his
heart that the diamond was the source of all his troubles, the cause of his
downfall and destruction.

Translated from the Urdu by Afroz Taj

 Road to Salvation

A peasant feels as much pride at the sight of his harvest field as a soldier takes
pride in his red turban, a beautiful lady in her jewellery and a doctor in the
crowd of patients waiting to see him. Whenever Jhingur looked at his cane fields
he felt a wave of enthusiasm washing over him. His three bighas of land would
yield him an easy six hundred rupees. And if by God’s grace the rates went up,
they’d yield even more. Both his bullocks had grown old so he’d buy a new pair
at the Batesar fair. If he could find two more bighas of land, he’d acquire them.
Why worry about money? The moneylenders were pleading with him. He
thought no end of himself, and so there was hardly anyone in the village he
hadn’t fought with.
One evening he was sitting with his son in his lap, shelling peas. Suddenly, he
saw a flock of sheep coming towards him. He said to himself, ‘This is not the
way for sheep to pass. Can’t they go along the dyke? Why should they be driven
along this path? They’ll eat and trample the crop. Who’ll compensate for that? It
must be Buddhu, the shepherd. He’s become so haughty, just look at his nerve!
He can see me standing here but he doesn’t bother to drive his flock back. What
good has he ever done me that I should put up with this? If I want to buy a ram
from him he’s sure to demand five rupees. Everywhere you can get a blanket for
four rupees but he won’t settle for less than five.’
By now the sheep had reached close to the harvest. Jhingur yelled, ‘Hey you,
where do you think you’re taking those sheep? Do you have any sense?’
Buddhu said meekly, ‘Master, they can pass through the boundary path. If I
take them back they will have to travel several extra miles.’
take them back they will have to travel several extra miles.’
‘And do you expect me to allow you to trample my field to save you the
hassle of a detour! Why didn’t you take them through some other boundary path!
Do you take me for a helpless tanner or has your money gone into your head?
Turn them back!’
‘Master, allow me to go just today. If I come back this way ever again you can
give me any punishment you want.’
‘I told you to turn them back. If one of them crosses the boundary, you’re
going to be in a mess.’
‘Master, if a single sprout is trampled by my sheep, you can curse me a
hundred times.’
Buddhu was still speaking timidly but he had already made up his mind to not
take the sheep back. He thought to himself, ‘If I drive the flock back because of
such a small matter, I’ll never be able to graze them.’
Buddhu was a strong man too. He owned two hundred and forty sheep and
earned eight cowries a night by letting them stay in people’s fields to fertilize
them. He sold their milk, too, and made blankets from their wool. Why’s this
man losing his temper? he was thinking now. What can he do to me? I’m not his
servant. When the sheep saw the green leaves around them they got restless and
broke into the field. Buddhu beat them with his stick to bring them over to the
boundary line but they just broke in from somewhere else.
Furious, Jhingur said, ‘You’re trying to force your way through here, aren’t
you? I’ll teach you a lesson!’
He put down his son, picked up his staff and pounced on the sheep. Even a
washerman would not have beaten his donkeys so mercilessly. He smashed their
legs and backs while they bleated piteously. Buddhu stood there and watched
silently, as right before his eyes the destruction of his army took place. He
neither shooed away his flock nor said anything to Jhingur. He just kept
watching the scene. In a couple of minutes Jhingur had driven the sheep away
with his brute force. Having accomplished his task Jhingur said with the pride of
victory, ‘Now, march on straight! And never think of coming this way again.’
Looking at his injured sheep, Buddhu said, ‘Jhingur, you haven’t done a good
thing. You’re going to regret it.’

2
 2
To take revenge on a peasant is the easiest thing in the world, because his entire
treasury remains exposed in fields or barns. He brings home grains after going
through many natural and unforeseen calamities. If they are combined with
someone’s enmity, then the peasant is lost forever. When Jhingur came home
and told his family about the fight, they were really alarmed. They berated him,
‘Jhingur, you’ve invited trouble on yourself! You can’t pretend that you don’t
know Buddhu. What a quarrelsome fellow you are. You can still salvage the
situation. Go and pacify him, otherwise the entire village will come to grief
along with you.’ Jhingur understood the situation. He regretted crossing swords
with Buddhu. If the sheep had nibbled a little of his crop it wouldn’t have ruined
him. We peasants should always remain servile for our own good. Even God
doesn’t like us to walk with our heads held high.
Jhingur didn’t relish the idea of going to Buddhu’s house, but the others egged
him on, so he finally set out for it. It was the month of Aghan in winter; mist had
set in and everything around was covered in darkness. He had just come out of
the village when he saw a fire blazing in the direction of his sugar cane field. His
heart began to race. Someone had set fire to the field! He ran wildly, hoping it
wasn’t his field. But as he got closer, his deluded hope evaporated. The calamity
he’d set out to avert had already occurred. The scoundrel had set fire to his field
and was destroying the whole village because of him. As he ran it seemed to him
that his field looked much closer than before, and the fallow land that stood
between didn’t exist.
By the time he reached his field the fire had consumed the greater part of the
harvest. Jhingur broke out into a loud wail. The villagers came running. They
pulled out lentil stalks and started beating the fire out. It was a deadly fight
between the fire and the human beings. The devastation went on for a good part
of the night. Sometimes one party had the upper hand, sometimes the other. The
warriors on the side of the fire put up a valiant fight, and when they seemed to
have been all but extinguished rose up again. Among the human warriors,
Buddhu shone the brightest. His dhoti tucked around his waist, he took his life
into his hands and leapt into the fireballs with the determination to subdue the
enemy or die in the process. He escaped narrowly many times. In the end, the
human warriors won, but the victory was worse than defeat. The sugar cane crop
of the entire village was reduced to ashes, sounding a death knell for all their
of the entire village was reduced to ashes, sounding a death knell for all their
hopes.

It was an open secret who had set the fire. But no one dared say anything about
it. There was no evidence and it was pointless to talk about a case without any
evidence. As for Jhingur, it became difficult for him to go out of his house.
Wherever he went he had to listen to people’s imprecations. People said right to
his face, ‘The fire broke out because of you! You’ve ruined us. Where’s your
sky-high vanity now? You’ve destroyed yourself and the entire village. If you
hadn’t picked that fight with Buddhu, none of this would have happened.’
Jhingur was more hurt by these jibes than by the destruction of his crop. He
stayed in his house the whole day. It was the month of Poos, when usually
bullocks pulled the cane press the entire night, the aroma of molasses filled the
air, fires were lit and people smoked hookah sitting by the fireside. But now
there was total desolation. The chill drove people indoors in the early evening,
where they lay cursing Jhingur. The month of Maagh was even more painful.
The cane crop not only brought prosperity to peasants but also sustained their
lives. They tided over the winter with its help. They drank hot cane juice while
cane leaves gave them warmth, and they fed tender cane shoots to animals. All
the dogs of the village that slept in the warmth of the ashes died; many animals
died for lack of fodder. The chill intensified and the entire village got inflicted
with fever and cold. All this happened because of the wretched Jhingur, the
murderer!
Jhingur thought and thought and finally resolved that Buddhu must be reduced
to a situation similar to what he was facing. He has ruined me and is living a life
of comfort. I’ll destroy him.
Since the day of their deadly fight Buddhu had stopped coming by Jhingur’s
area. Jhingur decided to get close to him. He wanted to show Buddhu that he
didn’t suspect him of starting the fire. He went to Buddhu one day on the pretext
of getting a blanket, and then he went on another day to get some milk. Buddhu
greeted him with utmost courtesy. A man offered hookah even to an enemy, and
Buddhu wouldn’t let Jhingur go without making him drink milk and syrup.
These days Jhingur was working in a jute-wrapping mill to earn his livelihood.
Often, he was paid several days’ wages together. It was only with Buddhu’s help
Often, he was paid several days’ wages together. It was only with Buddhu’s help
that he was able to manage his day-to-day expenses. Jhingur took this
opportunity to deepen his intimacy with Buddhu. One day, Buddhu asked him,
‘Jhingur, what would you do if you found out who had set fire to your cane
field? Tell me honestly.’
Jhingur said in a sombre tone, ‘I’ll tell him—brother, you’ve done me a good
turn. You’ve destroyed my vanity and made a man out of me.’
‘Had I been in your place, I wouldn’t have rested until I’d burnt down his
house.’
‘This worldly life is so short—why nurture ill will against anyone? I’ve been
ruined. What shall I gain by ruining him?’
‘Sure, that is true dharma, which we should follow. But, brother, such
reasoning vanishes in the heat of rage.’

It was the month of Phagun. The peasants were readying the field for planting
cane. Buddhu was doing a brisk business. His sheep were in great demand. One
always saw some peasants standing at his door fawning over him. Buddhu didn’t
have a kind word for anyone. He doubled the rate of hiring out his sheep to
fertilize the field. If anybody objected he’d say bluntly, ‘Look, brother, I’m not
foisting my sheep on you. If you’ve a problem, don’t take them. But I can’t
decrease the rate even by a cowrie.’ The fact was—everybody needed them, so
they swarmed around him despite his rudeness, clinging to him as the pandas
cling to pilgrims.
Lakshmi’s image isn’t huge, but it grows big or small according to
circumstances. Sometimes she can contract her most glorious manifestation into
some small figures printed on a paper. Sometimes she goes to sit on the tip of
somebody’s tongue, and her form vanishes. Even so, she needs quite a bit of
space to live permanently. When she comes the house begins to grow larger.
Buddhu’s house also began to grow larger. A veranda was built in front of the
door. Six rooms were built where there were two rooms earlier. In fact, the entire
house was being built anew. Buddhu demanded wood from one peasant, from
another he extracted cow-dung cakes to be used as kiln fuel for making tiles,
from some others he got bamboo and reeds. He had to pay for building the walls,
though, but he didn’t pay in cash even for that. He paid in kind, in the form of
though, but he didn’t pay in cash even for that. He paid in kind, in the form of
young lambs. This was Lakshmi’s blessing. The entire job was accomplished
gratis; a fairly good house was built without spending practically anything.
Preparations began in earnest for the house-warming.
Jhingur had to work hard through the day, which brought him just enough to
fill half his belly, while gold was raining on Buddhu’s house. If Jhingur was
consumed with jealousy, who could blame him? Who could ever bear such
injustice?
One day, Jhingur, while taking a stroll, happened to go in the direction of the
tanners’ settlement. He met Harihar, who greeted him and filled a hookah for
him. They began to smoke. Harihar was the leader of the tanners and was a
mischief monger. Every peasant was scared of him.
Taking a drag of the chillum, Jhingur said, ‘Aren’t you singing Phaag to
welcome spring this time? I haven’t heard you.’
Harihar replied, ‘Where’s the time to think of Phaag? One has to work the
entire day to fill one’s belly. How are you getting along?’
‘Not well. It’s a hard life. I have to work all day long in the mill to eke out a
living. These days Buddhu’s making a lot of money. He doesn’t have room to
store it! He’s built a new house, bought some more sheep. Nowadays everyone’s
talking about his house-warming. He’s going to send paan to all the seven
villages to invite people.’
Harihar said, ‘When Mother Lakshmi comes, people grow generous. But just
look at him, his feet do not touch the earth. He always talks with a swagger!’
Jhingur replied, ‘And why not? Who’s there in the village to meet his clout?
But yes, brother, it’s not good to show vanity. When God showers His blessings
one should bow one’s head and accept them humbly. One shouldn’t be proud as
to think that he’s above everybody. When I hear him bragging, my whole body
burns. Yesterday’s shepherd is today’s millionaire. How he swaggers in front of
me! Why, I have seen him wearing a loincloth and driving away crows in the
field. Now, his fortunes are on the upswing.’
‘Shall we do something about it?’
‘What can we do? He doesn’t rear cows or buffaloes for fear that someone
will poison them.’
‘But he has his flock of sheep.’
‘They’re not worth the trouble.’
 ‘Well, think about it carefully.’
‘Think of a strategy so that he’s not able to rise again.’
Their conversation became hushed. It’s a mystery that while the good brings
out jealousy in people, the bad binds them in love. A scholar is jealous of
another, a saint is jealous of another saint, and a poet is jealous of another poet.
They do not even want to see each other’s faces. But when a gambler meets
another gambler, a drunkard meets another drunkard or a thief meets another
thief, they form a bond and help one another. If a pandit sees another stumbling
and falling on the ground in the dark, he wouldn’t help him stand but instead
would give him two kicks so that he’s not able to stand on his feet. But when a
thief sees another in a tight situation, he helps his comrade. Everybody hates the
bad, that’s why there’s love among people who are bad. On the other hand,
everybody loves the good, and that’s why there’s rivalry among the good. What
will a thief gain by beating another thief except hatred? But if a scholar defames
another scholar, it increases his own fame.
Jhingur and Harihar finished their conversation. The plot was hatched. The
method, time and sequence of action were decided. Jhingur wasn’t walking back
—he was strutting! He’d already killed his enemy—there was no way Buddhu
could escape now.

The following day, on his way to work, Jhingur stopped by Buddhu’s house.
Buddhu asked him, ‘Aren’t you working today?’
‘I’m on my way, but I came to request you to allow my calf to graze with your
sheep. The poor thing remains tied up to the post the whole day. There’s neither
grass nor fodder. What do I feed him?’
‘Brother, I don’t keep cows and buffaloes. You know the tanners, they’re all
murderers. That Harihar killed two of my cows, I don’t know what he fed them.
Since then I’ve taken a vow not to keep cattle any more. But yours is just a calf,
no one will harm her. Bring her over whenever you want.’
Then he began to show Jhingur the articles he had bought for the house-
warming. Ghee, sugar, flour and vegetables were all on display. They were now
waiting for the Satyanarayan katha. Jhingur’s eyes popped out. He had never
seen such an array of goods before, nor had he seen anyone organizing such an
event. When he returned home after work the first thing he did was to take his
calf over to Buddhu’s house. That night the Satyanarayan katha was held and a
feast offered to the Brahmins. Through the night the Brahmins were treated with
great honour and hospitality. Buddhu had no time to even go and see his flock of
sheep. He had only had a meal in the morning (he didn’t find time to eat at
night). Suddenly, a man came to him and said, ‘Buddhu, you’re sitting here
while your calf is lying dead among the sheep. My good fellow, you didn’t even
take the rope off its neck.’
Buddhu felt as though he’d been hit by someone. Jhingur, who was there,
broke out in a wail, ‘Oh God, my calf? I want to see her! Look, I never tied her
with a rope. I brought her over and left her with the flock of sheep. Then I went
back home. When did you tie her with a rope, Buddhu?’
‘God knows, I haven’t even seen any rope! I haven’t had time to watch my
own flock since morning.’
‘If you didn’t, then who else would’ve put the rope around her neck? You
must have done it and forgotten.’
One of the Brahmins remarked, ‘But it’s lying dead in your flock. People are
going to say that the calf died because of Buddhu’s negligence, no matter who
tied the rope.’
Just then Harihar appeared on the scene and said, ‘I saw him tying the calf last
night among his sheep.’
Buddhu asked, ‘Me?’
‘You had your stick over your shoulder and you were tying up the calf!’
‘And you call yourself an honest fellow, don’t you? You really saw me tying
up the calf?’
‘Why are you getting so annoyed, brother? If you want to say you didn’t tie
her up, so be it!’
The Brahmin said menacingly, ‘We will have to come to a decision about it. A
cow has been slaughtered, and it must be atoned. Do you think it’s a joke?’
Jhingur remarked, ‘‘Maharaj, the killing was not intentional.’
‘What difference does it make? This is slaughter. How else does one slaughter
a cow?’
‘That’s right. Tying and untying cows is a risky act.’
‘The scriptures designate it as the greatest sin one can commit. Killing a cow
 ‘The scriptures designate it as the greatest sin one can commit. Killing a cow
is no less than killing a Brahmin.’
‘Correct. The cow is a sacred animal. That’s why we respect her. She’s our
mother. But, Maharaj, a mistake has been made. Find a way for the poor fellow
to come out of this without much loss.’
Buddhu stood listening to how easily he was being charged with murder. He
understood that this was Jhingur’s ploy. But no one was going to listen to him
even if he swore a million times that he hadn’t tied the calf. They’d say he was
doing it to avoid atonement.
The Brahmin God also stood to benefit from such atonement. He was not
going to pass up such an opportunity. The outcome was that the charge of cow
slaughter was slapped on Buddhu. The Brahmin who had been incensed with
Buddhu got an opportunity to extract his revenge. The atonement involved three
months of begging in public, then a pilgrimage to the seven holy sites, feeding
five hundred Brahmins and giving a gift of five cows. Buddhu was stunned as he
listened to the verdict. He began to howl. Seeing his condition the period of
begging was reduced to two months. No other concession was granted. There
was no scope for appeal, no one to complain to. The poor fellow had to accept
the punishment. Buddhu left his sheep in God’s care. His children were young.
And what could his wife do on her own? The poor fellow wandered from one
door to another. Hiding his face, he’d beg for alms, saying, ‘I’ve been punished
for cow slaughter!’ He received alms but he had to listen to the insults hurled by
people. In the evening, he would sit under a tree, cook whatever he had gathered
during the day and then go to sleep right there. He did not mind the hard life, as
he was accustomed to wandering all day with his sheep and sleeping under trees.
As for food, the fare at his home wasn’t much better. What really rankled him
was the shame of begging, especially when some people taunted him saying,
‘What a fine way to earn your bread!’ It pierced his heart but what could he do?
Buddhu returned home after two months. His hair was long, and he looked as
feeble as an old man of sixty. He now had to arrange money for his pilgrimage.
Which moneylender was interested in lending money to a shepherd? One could
not rely on sheep. Sometimes an epidemic broke out and an entire flock lay dead
in the span of a single night. On top of it, it was the month of Jeth, when there
were no earnings from sheep. Finally, an oilman agreed to lend him money at an
interest rate of two rupees. In eight months the interest would be equal to the
principal amount. Buddhu did not dare borrow money on these terms. During the
principal amount. Buddhu did not dare borrow money on these terms. During the
two months that he was away, many of his sheep had been stolen. When his
children took them out to graze, people from other villages would steal one or
two sheep from the flock and later slaughter and eat them. The boys, poor things,
couldn’t catch anyone, and even when they saw the thieves, how could they fight
them? The entire village ganged up to fight the boys. In a month, the flock had
been reduced to less than half. It was a serious crisis. Helpless, Buddhu sent for a
butcher and sold the whole flock to him for five hundred rupees. From this he
took two hundred rupees and set out on his pilgrimage. The rest of the money
was set aside for feeding the Brahmins.
During his absence Buddhu’s house was broken into twice, but by some
stroke of luck the family woke up and the money was saved.

It was the rainy month of Saavan. Everything had turned green all around.
Jhingur had no bullocks now and had rented out his field to share croppers.
Buddhu was done with his atonement, and with it had got rid of the trappings of
wealth. Neither Jhingur nor Buddhu had anything left to boast about. They had
no reason to feel jealous of each other.
The jute mill where Jhingur worked had closed down. Jhingur now worked as
a labourer at construction sites. A very large rest house for pilgrims was being
built.
Thousands of labourers worked there. Every seventh day Jhingur collected his
wages and went home and after spending the night there he would go back to the
site the next morning.
Buddhu also reached the same site looking for work. The supervisor thought
him too weak for hard work and employed him to carry mortar to the masons.
Once when he was carrying a tray on his head to fetch mortar he encountered
Jhingur.
‘Ram, Ram,’ they greeted one another and Jhingur filled the tray. Buddhu
lifted it up. They went about doing their work the rest of the day.
In the evening Jhingur asked him, ‘Are you going to cook something?’
‘How can I eat if I don’t?’
 ‘I munch on something in the morning. In the evening I have some sattu with
water. Why fuss!’
‘You can gather some of the wood that’s lying around. I’ve brought some
flour from home. I had it ground there—it costs the earth here. I’ll knead it on
the rock here. You won’t eat the rotis I prepare; so I’ll just get them ready and
you can make them.’
‘But there’s no pan.’
‘Don’t worry about pans. I’ll scour one of these mortar trays.’
The fire was lit, the flour kneaded. Jhingur made his half-baked rotis, Buddhu
brought the water. They both ate the rotis with salt and pepper. Then they filled
the chillum, and lay down on the rocks and smoked.
Buddhu said, ‘I was the one who set fire to your cane field.’
Jhingur said light-heartedly, ‘I know.’
After a little while Jhingur said, ‘I was the one who tied up the calf and
Harihar fed it something.’
Buddhu said in the same light-hearted tone, ‘I know.’
Then they went to sleep.

Translated from Urdu by the M. Asaduddin

 Money for Deliverance

Of all the trades that we have in India, the business of lending money is the most
advantageous. Usually the annual rate of interest is charged at twenty-five per
cent but for vast pieces of land or large amounts of money the annual rate of
interest is charged at twelve per cent. It is generally impossible to get a loan at a
lesser rate of interest. There is hardly any business that provides a profit margin
of over fifteen per cent, and that too without much hassle. And apart from the
money received from interest, additional expenses like token money, paperwork,
brokerage and money spent on court proceedings are also borne by the borrower.
All this income, in some way or the other, finds its way into the moneylender’s
pocket. This is the reason that the business of lending money is on the rise.
Advocates, doctors, government employees, landowners, whoever has surplus
wealth, can start this business. This is an excellent way to utilize one’s savings
wisely.
Lala Daudayal was also a moneylender of this category. He worked as a
solicitor and lent whatever he saved at twenty-five to thirty per cent of interest a
year. He mostly did business with lower-class people. He was cautious of high-
class people; he never let them loiter around him. His belief was (and every
businessman would support this) that it’s better to throw money into a ditch than
lend it to a Brahmin, Kshatriya or Kayastha. At the time of receiving the loan
they would appear to possess enough wealth to secure the loan, but the moment
the money reached their hands, all their wealth seemed to disappear. Their
wives, sons or brothers would materialize from somewhere to assert their right
on the wealth and it would, in a way, seem that their wealth never actually
on the wealth and it would, in a way, seem that their wealth never actually
existed in reality. And their legal preparation was such that many erudite
scholars of law would also concede defeat.
One day Daudayal was returning home from court when he witnessed a
strange incident. A Muslim man was selling his cow on the road, and many
people had surrounded him. Some thrust money in his hands while a few tried to
snatch the tether from him, but the poor Muslim man only kept on looking at the
faces of the customers and after pondering over something held the tether even
more tightly. The cow was a beauty. She had a slender neck, heavy haunches
and milk-filled udders. A beautiful, sturdy calf stood by, glued to its mother. The
Muslim man seemed extremely agitated and sad. He was looking at the cow with
compassion-filled eyes, trying to contain his emotions. Daudayal was delighted
to see the cow. He asked, ‘Hey, do you want to sell the cow? What’s your
name?’
When the Muslim man saw Daudayal, he went to him happily and said, ‘Yes,
sir, I want to sell her.’
‘Where have you brought her from? What’s your name?’
‘My name is Rehman and I live in Pacholi.’
‘Does she give milk?’
‘Yes, sir, she will give around one kilolitre of milk at a time. She is so good
that she allows even a child to milk her. Children keep playing around her feet
but that never annoys her.’
‘Does anybody know you here?’ The solicitor was suspicious, thinking that
the cow might be stolen.
‘No, sir, I am a poor man, nobody knows me.’
‘What is your asking price?’
Rehman asked for fifty rupees. The solicitor felt that thirty rupees was the
correct price to strike a deal. For a while both sides haggled. One craved the
money while the other craved the cow. It didn’t take long to seal the deal. It was
fixed at thirty-five rupees.
Rehman had made the deal but he was still ensnared by love. He kept standing
there for some time lost in thought, then he began to follow Daudayal with the
cow slowly.
Then another man said, ‘Hey, I will give you thirty-six rupees. Come with us.’
‘I won’t give you the cow; you can’t force me.’
 ‘I won’t give you the cow; you can’t force me.’
Another man said, ‘Take forty rupees from me . . . that should make you
happy, yes?’ He tried to take the cow from Rehman’s hand, but Rehman did not
relent. Finally, everybody left in disappointment.
After a little while Rehman said to Daudayal, ‘Sir, you are a Hindu, you will
rear her well and take care of her. All those people are merciless; I wouldn’t
have sold her to them for even fifty rupees. You came on time; otherwise they
would have snatched the cow away by force. I have fallen into deep trouble, sir,
that is why I had to sell the cow. Otherwise I wouldn’t have ever sold her. I have
raised her on my own. How could I have sold her to those butchers? Sir, if you
feed her oilcakes she will give you ample milk. Even a buffalo’s milk is not as
sweet and thick as hers. Sir, I have one more request, tell your herdsman not to
ever beat her.’
Daudayal looked at Rehman in astonishment. God! A person of his class has
so much goodness and compassion! Even fervent devotees of Lord Shiva and
great mahatmas sell cows to brutes to not incur losses of any kind. And this poor
man sold the cow to me despite suffering a loss only to ensure she’s not
mistreated. The poor also possess such wisdom!
He returned home and gave the money to Rehman. Rehman tied the money in
a knot, looked at the cow lovingly once more and took his leave.
Rehman was a poor peasant, and everybody is out to exploit the poor. The
landowner had filed a case against him in the court claiming an increased rate of
land revenue. Money was required to contest the case in the court. Rehman
didn’t have any property except for a pair of oxen. He loved the cow more than
his life, but as he couldn’t arrange for the money, he was forced to sell her.

There were many Muslims living in Pacholi. The route to hajj had opened after
many years. During the World War in the West the route had been closed. Men
and women started to go on hajj again in hordes from the village. Rehman’s old
mother was also preparing to go on hajj. She said to Rehman, ‘Son, I only have
one desire left in my heart. I don’t want to leave this world without seeing this
desire fulfilled. Allah will reward you for it.’ Devotion to their mothers is a
special characteristic of rural people. Earlier, Rehman had failed to collect
enough money to send his mother on hajj but now he dared not ignore her
command. He thought of borrowing money from somebody. He reasoned with
himself, Some I will return after harvesting this season’s sugar cane crop, the
rest I will repay next year. By Allah’s grace the sugar cane has grown like never
before. This is all because of mother’s prayers. But whom should I ask? I need a
minimum of two hundred rupees. I do not even know any moneylenders. The few
that we have here are always after their customers’ lives. Maybe I should go to
Lala Daudayal. He is better than the rest. But I have heard that he is known to
extract his money back as per the deal, he doesn’t relent one bit. If he doesn’t
get his money back there is no respite for the customer. He starts a dialogue only
after he has filed a lawsuit against the customer. Although, it is true that he
doesn’t cheat his customers . . . he keeps the transaction transparent.
For many days he was in a fix—should he approach Daudayal or not? What if
he was unable to return the money? Daudayal wouldn’t relent without dragging
him to court. His house, cattle, everything would get auctioned. But having
reached his wits’ end, he finally went to Daudayal and asked for the loan.
‘Weren’t you the one who sold the cow to me?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I will lend you the money but you must return it as per your promise. If you
fail to keep the deadline then the onus falls on you. I won’t give you any
concession then. Tell me, when will you return the money?’
Rehman did some calculations in his head and answered, ‘Sir, give me two
years.’
‘If you don’t return the money in two years the rate of interest will become
thirty-two per cent. I will be generous enough not to file a case against you.’
‘Do as you please. I won’t run away.’
Rehman got one hundred and eighty rupees instead of two hundred. Some
money was deducted for the paperwork, some was kept as token money, and
some for brokerage. He returned home and sold some jaggery that was kept in
the house. He advised his wife on how to manage the family affairs and left for
Mecca with his mother.

When the deadline for returning the money passed, Daudayal summoned
When the deadline for returning the money passed, Daudayal summoned
Rehman to him and said harshly, ‘Haven’t your two years elapsed? Come on,
where is the money?’
Rehman answered piteously, ‘Sir, I’ve fallen on hard times. My mother has
been sick ever since she returned from hajj. The entire day I keep running from
pillar to post to get her medicines. I just want to be by her side as long as she is
alive; work I can do all my life. There was no harvest this time, sir. The sugar
cane dried up because it didn’t get any water. The other plants in the farm have
also wilted. I didn’t get enough time to even carry them to the granary. I couldn’t
even prepare the soil for the spring crop; the seeds are still lying wasted. Allah
knows how difficult my days have become. Sir, I will repay each and every
penny of yours. Grant me a period of one year. The moment my mother gets
better, I’ll be back to work.’
‘The rate of interest will become thirty-two per cent.’
‘As you wish, sir.’
Rehman returned home to find that his mother was on her deathbed. It had
become painful for her to even breathe. She only wanted a glimpse of her son,
which was fulfilled as soon as he entered. His mother looked at him with
fondness, bestowed her blessing on him and departed for heaven. Until then,
Rehman had been up to his neck in debt. Now the debt pretty much drowned
him.
He borrowed some money from his neighbours for the funeral but in order to
provide peace and satisfaction to the soul it was essential to give a portion of
one’s land as alms, read prayers for the dead and also give offerings to saints. A
shroud was required too, and apart from all this, along with various other rituals,
he also had to organize a feast for the community, give money to the poor and
read from the Holy Koran.
The only way he could show devotion to his departed mother was by
observing all the rituals. All his responsibilities towards his mother—temporal
and spiritual—were coming to an end. Only her memories would be left behind
to invoke at the time of difficulties. ‘I could have achieved so much, if only God
had given me the means. My condition is worse than the people around me.’
He started thinking about where he could get the money from. Now even
Daudayal wouldn’t give him a penny. ‘I must at least visit him once. Who
knows, may be his heart will melt after hearing my bitter story. He’s a big man;
if he chooses to be compassionate, a couple of hundred rupees will not even
if he chooses to be compassionate, a couple of hundred rupees will not even
matter to him.’
After making up his mind he went to visit Daudayal. It wasn’t easy for him to
make the journey. How could he show his face to Daudayal and ask for more
money? Only three days have gone by since I promised him I would return the
loan in a year’s time. What will I say when I ask for two hundred more! If I had
been in his place maybe even I wouldn’t have given it. He may think that I’m not
honest. What if he shuns me, or threatens me? What if he asks me on what
grounds am I asking for more money? What will I say then? My hands are all
the wealth I have. What else do I have? My house is of no value. The farms
belong to the landowner; I have no claim left on them. I’m going in vain. He is
sure to throw me out and whatever self-respect is left will be lost too.
In spite of such a disheartening thought he plodded on ahead like a widow on
her way to the police station to make an appeal.
Daudayal had returned from court and was as usual reprimanding the servants.
‘Why haven’t you sprinkled water at the gate or kept chairs in the veranda?’
Meanwhile, Rehman inched towards him.
Daudayal was already annoyed, so he asked him with irritation, ‘What are you
here for? Why are you after my life? I don’t have the time to talk right now.’
Rehman couldn’t utter a word. He was so disappointed by the harsh words
that he retraced his steps. Hadn’t I expected this? Didn’t I know this would
happen? I was foolish to hope.
Daudayal became a little sympathetic. When Rehman had gone down the
steps of the veranda Daudayal called him back and asked him kindly, ‘Why have
you come? Is it for some work?’
‘No, master, I just dropped by to ask about your well-being.’
‘There is a saying that a peasant never asks about someone’s well-being
without having an ulterior motive. What do you want, tell me.’
Rehman burst into tears. Daudayal guessed that his mother must have died. He
asked, ‘Rehman, has your mother passed away?’
‘Yes, sir. It’s been three days.’
‘Don’t cry, what good will it do? Calm down, this was God’s will. Don’t shed
tears over her death. She died in front of your eyes, what can be better than
that?’
‘Sir, I have a request, but I can’t gather the courage to voice it. My previous
loan is still unpaid, how do I ask for more money? But Allah knows there is no
loan is still unpaid, how do I ask for more money? But Allah knows there is no
possibility of getting money from anywhere else and my need is such that if I
don’t get the money for my purpose I will repent my whole life. I don’t have the
right to bother you. The rest is up to you. If you decide to give me the money
then do bear in mind that you are throwing that money in a ditch. All I can say is
that if I stay alive I will return each and every penny with interest. But do not
refuse me at this hour.’
‘Your loan has already added up to three hundred. In two years it will turn
into seven hundred rupees. Do you realize that?’
‘O Merciful! God willing, I will make a profit of five hundred by selling two
acres’ land worth of sugar cane, and in two years I will be able to return every
penny of yours.’
Daudayal once again gave him two hundred rupees. People familiar with his
nature were surprised to see his leniency.

There are similarities between farming and the condition of an orphan child. If
air and water are provided in required measures there will be a heap of grains.
Without them even flourishing crops betray us like false friends. Crops need to
survive hailstones and dike, famine and flood, locusts and weeds, termites and
storms in order to reach the granary. And there is natural animosity between
granaries and fire and electricity. If it is able to escape from all these enemies
then it can be called a harvest; otherwise it might turn out to be a fatal
judgement! Rehman toiled night and day. He didn’t take a moment’s rest. He
forgot about his wife and children. His sugar cane grew so tall that if an elephant
entered the farm it would have disappeared in it. The whole village was
astonished. People said to him, ‘Friend, you are very fortunate this time. You
will definitely earn a minimum of seven hundred. All your problems will come
to an end.’ Rehman decided that the moment he got the money for the jaggery he
would lay all of it at Daudayal’s feet. Only if Daudayal himself returned four or
five rupees would Rehman take it, otherwise he would spend the whole year on
barley and bran.
But who can change the course of destiny? It was the month of December;
Rehman was sitting on the boundary of his farm to guard it. He only had a
coarse blanket to cover himself with, so he burned a few sugar cane leaves to
keep himself warm. Suddenly, a gust of wind took a burning leaf towards the
harvest. The farm caught fire. The villagers ran to smother the fire but the flames
were like shooting stars which started from one end and quickly reached another.
All measures to contain the fire failed. The whole farm burned to ashes and
along with it Rehman’s aspirations also shattered. The poor man was devastated.
His heart sank. He lost all hope. It seemed as if a plate laden with food had been
snatched away from him. When he returned home the anxiety about returning
Daudayal’s money again took hold of him. He wasn’t bothered about himself or
his children. A peasant is accustomed to hardship, to remain starved and
unclothed. He was worried about the loan. ‘The second year has begun. In a few
days Daudayal’s man will come to ask for the money. How will I show my face
to him? I must again plead with him to give me a year’s time. But then the
amount will jump from seven hundred to nine hundred. And if he files a case I
may have to return a thousand. Who is going to shower wealth on me in a year?
He is such a considerate man; he lent me two hundred rupees so readily. Even
my farm cannot be auctioned off. The oxen will barely fetch me four hundred.
They aren’t half as strong as they were. Now my honour is in the hands of God. I
have done whatever I could.’
It was early in the morning. Rehman was standing at the boundary of his farm,
witnessing the scene of his own destruction. He saw Daudayal’s servant
approaching him with a stick on his shoulder. He had been dreading the visit.
‘God, only you can save me from this situation. What if he abuses me the
moment he sees me? O God, where shall I hide!’
The servant approached Rehman and said, ‘You don’t want to return the
money? The term ended yesterday. Don’t you know the master! Even if one
delays by a day he registers a case against that person. You will suffer terribly.’
Rehman started shivering. He said, ‘You must have observed the condition of
the farm.’
‘I don’t want to listen to any of your excuses. Fool someone else. Come
quickly with seven hundred rupees.’
‘My sugar cane crop has been gutted in the fire—all of it! Allah knows, this
time I would have returned every penny.’
‘I don’t know all this. Only you are responsible for your sugar cane. Now,
quick, follow me, Master has summoned you.’
quick, follow me, Master has summoned you.’
The servant grabbed Rehman’s arm and started dragging him away. The poor
man wasn’t even given enough time to tie a turban around his head.

They had covered around ten miles now. Rehman had not lifted his head even
once. Every now and then he muttered, ‘Allah, save me from this mess!’ He had
faith in Allah. Only this mantra kept him going for this long. Otherwise he
would have fallen into pieces already. He had reached that level of despair where
it was a kind of delusion rather than rationality that governed him.
Daudayal was standing at the gate. Rehman fell at his feet and said, ‘I am in
big trouble again. Allah knows that all my fortune has turned to dust.’
‘Did all the sugar cane burn?’
‘Master, have you heard about it already? It’s as if somebody has swept the
farm clean. The sugar cane crop had reached so high, kind master, that if the
mishap hadn’t occurred, I would have at least repaid the loan.’
‘What do you intend to do now? Will you pay now or shall I file a suit?’
‘Sir, you are my master, do as you please. I just know that I owe you money
and must repay every penny. I don’t care about myself. I promised you twice and
both the times I failed to keep the promise. Now I won’t make any promises;
whenever I earn something I will keep it at your feet. I will toil, starve and save
in whichever way I can to return your money.’
Daudayal smiled and said, ‘What is your deepest desire right now?’
‘The same, to return your money. Honestly. Allah knows.’
‘Okay, then consider it repaid.’
‘Master, how can this be true? If I don’t pay you here I will have to repay you
after my death in another world.’
‘No, Rehman, do not worry about this any more. I was testing you.’
‘Sir, don’t say that. I don’t want to die with this burden.’
‘What kind of burden? You don’t owe me anything. And even if you did, I
have waived that, for this world and for the world after this too. Now you don’t
have to return anything to me. Actually I am only paying back whatever I owed
you. I am your debtor, you are not my debtor. Your cow is still with me. She has
given me at least eight hundred rupees’ worth of milk. And also two calves as an
additional profit. If you had given the cow to some brutes how would I have
enjoyed this profit? You bore a loss of five rupees that time to sell the cow to
me. I still remember your honesty. It isn’t in my power to repay that favour.
When you could bear the loss of five rupees in order to save the life of a cow
despite being so poor, how can I, being a hundred times more affluent than you,
be doing such a big service by waiving off four or five hundred rupees? Maybe
you didn’t intentionally do me a favour but it was a favour done to my rectitude.
I gave you money for a just cause. Now you and I are even. Both your calves are
here with me. If you like you can take them with you, they will help you till the
soil. You are an honest and respectable person; I will always be ready to help
you. In fact, tell me if you require money even now—you may take as much as
you like.”
Rehman felt as if an angel was sitting in front of him. If a man is generous, he
appears like an angel; and if despicable, he seems like a devil. These are the two
faces of a man. Rehman was so speechless that he could not even thank
Daudayal. He somehow kept his tears in check and said, ‘Sir, God will reward
you for this kindness. I will consider myself your slave from this day onwards.’
‘No, you are my friend.’
‘No, sir, your slave.’
‘The money a slave pays in order to free himself is called muktidhan. You
have already paid that. Now never utter this word again in your life.’

Translated from the Hindi by Shradha Kabra

 Forgiveness

Muslims had been ruling Spain for several centuries. Mosques had been built in
place of churches; the sound of the call to prayer had replaced the sound of bells.
In Granada and Alhambra, palaces had been built that laughed at the ravages of
time. Even today, their ruins show sight-seers a glimpse of their former glory.
Prominent Christian men and women were leaving the protection of the Messiah
to join the brotherhood of Islam, and even today historians are surprised by how
any trace of Christianity survived there. Among the Christian leaders who had
not yet surrendered to the Muslims and who still dreamt of establishing
independence in their own land was a merchant named David. David was wise
and courageous. He didn’t let Islam set foot in his neighbourhood. Poor and
indigent Christian rebels from various parts of the country came to him as
protégés and he fostered them with great compassion. The Muslims were always
suspicious of David. Not being able to win him over with the force of the faith,
they wanted to sway him with the power of arms, but David would never
confront them. Yes, wherever he heard of Christians converting to Islam, he
would go there like the wind and with counsel or humility inspire them to stay
true to their original faith. Finally the Muslims started closing in on all sides,
preparing to arrest him. Soldiers had surrounded his neighbourhood. David had
to flee for his life with his associates. Having fled his home, he came to Granada,
which was at that time the Islamic capital. There, staying aloof from everyone,
he passed his life in anticipation of better days. Muslim spies tried in vain to
discover his whereabouts. Enormous rewards were offered for his capture, but
not a clue was found about David’s location.
not a clue was found about David’s location.

One day, bored of his lonely existence, David went out for a stroll in one of
Granada’s gardens. It was twilight. There were Muslims walking on the paths in
their flowing robes, wearing very large turbans on their heads and swords at their
waists. Women in white burqas with gold-embroidered slippers were sitting on
the benches and chairs. Keeping a distance from all of them, David lay on the
green grass thinking about the day his homeland would be released from the
claws of the oppressors. He was imagining the past when Christian men and
women would have strolled these paths, when this place would have bloomed
with their convivial laughter.
Suddenly, a Muslim youth sat down beside David. He looked at David
carefully from head to toe with a derogatory gaze and said, ‘Has your heart not
yet been illuminated with the light of Islam?’
With deep feeling. David replied, ‘The light of Islam can only reach the
mountain peaks; it cannot penetrate the deep, dark valleys.’
The Muslim Arab’s name was Jamal. At this allegation he said sharply, ‘What
do you mean by that?’
David said, ‘By this I mean that it is the higher class of Christians who may
come into the fold of Islam out of greed for wealth or status or out of fear of
punishment, but for the weak or indigent Christians, where in Islam is the
Kingdom of Heaven that our revered Messiah has destined for them in his lap?
Islam was spread by the might of the sword, not by the might of service.’
Affronted by the slight to his religion, Jamal got up angrily and said, ‘That is
completely false. The power of Islam lies in its internal brotherhood and feeling
of community, not in the sword.’
‘Islam has spilled enough blood in the name of religion to drown every
mosque.’
‘The sword has protected the eternal truth.’
David, with an even temper, said, ‘That which has to take the protection of the
sword is not truth.’
Jamal swelled with pride and said, ‘The sword will be necessary as long as
disciples of falsehood remain.’
 ‘Truth that looks to the sword is itself falsehood.’
With his hand on his sword-hilt, the Arab said, ‘I swear to God, if you weren’t
unarmed, I would let you taste the consequences of insulting Islam.’
David drew out the dagger he had concealed in his breast and said, ‘I am not
weaponless. On the day I have that much trust in Muslims, I won’t remain a
Christian. Go ahead, do what your heart desires.’
Both drew their blades and fell upon each other. The Arab’s heavier sword
lagged before the lighter dagger of the Christian. One struck like the hood of a
poisonous serpent while the other reared like a she-snake. One lashed like waves
while the other glittered like fish. For a while both warriors suffered wounds.
Suddenly the she-snake jumped up and drove the weapon into the guts of the
Arab. He fell to the earth.

As soon as Jamal fell people came running from all directions. They began to try
to surround David. When David saw people coming at him with swords drawn,
he tried to run for his life, but wherever he went his way was blocked by the
garden wall. The wall was high; it would be difficult to get over it. It was a
matter of life and death. No hope of shelter anywhere, no place to hide. And the
Arabs’ blood lust was increasing by the moment. This was not just an attempt to
punish a criminal. It was revenge for a communal insult. A subjugated Christian
with the boldness to raise his hand against an Arab! What an offence!
David’s condition was that of a squirrel running helter-skelter from a pack of
hounds, trying to climb a tree but falling again and again.
His breath became short from running, his feet heavy. It occurred to him
several times to fall upon his pursuers and take down as many as possible as he
died, but then seeing the numbers of his enemies he lost courage.
Sounds of ‘Take him, run, catch him!’ filled the air. At times the pursuers
came so close that it seemed like the end was upon him, the sword would fall
soon; but his constant running pace, his weaving and bobbing saved him by a
hair from the bloodthirsty swords.
Now David began to find a sportsmanlike pleasure in the chase. It was certain
that his life was a forfeit; Muslims knew no mercy. For this reason alone he was
enjoying his manoeuvres. Now he got no happiness from the fact that his life
enjoying his manoeuvres. Now he got no happiness from the fact that his life
was saved when somebody missed, rather he got pleasure from how he had
foiled his would-be killer.
Suddenly, he saw that the garden wall was a little lower to his right. Aha!
Seeing that, his feet found a new infusion of strength, new blood began to flow
in his veins. Like a deer he ran in that direction and in one leap he reached the
other side of the wall. There was but the distance of one step between life and
death. Behind was death and ahead lay the open field of life. As far as he could
see there were shrubs and bushes. The ground was rocky and uneven. There
were large boulders at places. David sat down under one of the boulders.
In a breath the pursuers arrived and started searching here and there in the
bushes, trees, hollows, and under the boulders. One Arab came and stood on the
very boulder beneath which David was hiding. David’s heart was pounding. He
was dead! If the Arab just peered a little lower then it was the end of him.
Chance—his life now depended on mere chance. He stopped breathing, made
not a sound. His fate would be decided with a single glance, so close was the gap
between life and death.
But the Arabs didn’t have enough time to look carefully under the boulders.
They were in a hurry to catch the murderer. The fate hanging over David’s head
moved on. They left after peering into nooks and crannies.

Darkness fell. In the sky the stars came out and with the stars David emerged
from under the boulder. But he saw that even then there was commotion in every
direction. A group of foes with torches was wandering in the underbrush; there
was even a watch on the perimeters. There was no way to escape. David stood
under a tree and started to wonder why his life had been spared. He wasn’t
particularly concerned about it. He had tasted all the joys and sorrows of this
world. If he had one desire, it was only to see how this war would end. Would
his compatriots lose courage, or would they stand firm with undiminished
bravery on the battlefield?
When most of the night had passed, and it seemed that his enemies’ deadly
efforts were not diminishing at all, David spoke God’s name and emerged from
the bushes, and on tiptoe, under the cover of the trees, avoiding being seen by
the men, set off in one direction. He wanted to get out of the bushes and get to a
the men, set off in one direction. He wanted to get out of the bushes and get to a
settled area. Desolate areas make poor cover; a village populace provides its own
camouflage.
For some distance no obstacle was encountered in David’s way. The trees
sheltered him, but when he emerged from the uneven land into a more level area,
he was sighted by an Arab. He raised the challenge. David ran. ‘The murderer is
getting away!’ This cry echoed but once in the air and in a moment Arabs from
all sides were again hot in pursuit. For a long distance ahead there was no trace
of human habitation. Far off, a faint lamp was glimmering. Let me just reach it
somehow, David thought. He was running towards the light with such speed it
was as if as soon as he got to it he would have nothing to fear. Hope made him
fly. The Arab mob was left behind; the light of the torches faded away. Only the
starry heavens ran along with him. Finally he arrived before that hopeful lamp.
There was a little thatched house. An old Arab was sitting on the ground, reading
the Koran on a bookstand by the dim light of the lamp. David could go no
further. His courage had failed him. He fell there, exhausted. The weariness of
the journey becomes known only upon reaching the house.
The Arab got up and said, ‘Who are you?’
‘A poor Christian. I’m in trouble. If you give me shelter now, my life will be
saved.’
‘God will help you. What trouble has befallen you?’
‘I’m afraid that if I tell you, you too will thirst for my blood.’
‘Now you have come under my protection; you shouldn’t have any doubts
about me. We are Muslims: once we have taken someone into our protection, we
keep him safe all his life.’
David said, ‘I have killed a Muslim youth.’
The elderly Arab’s face turned red with anger, and he said, ‘His name?’
‘His name was Jamal.’
The Arab clutched his head and sat down. His eyes became red, the sinews in
his neck tightened; his face was flushed, his nostrils flared. It appeared as if a
furious battle was raging in his mind and that he was suppressing his emotions
with all his might. For several minutes he sat staring at the ground in this fraught
condition. Finally, with his throat constricted, he said, ‘No, no, I will have to
keep the vow of protection. Aah! What cruelty! Do you know who I am? I am
the unfortunate father of that youth, whom you murdered today so mercilessly.
Do you know what a terrible thing you have done to me? You’ve wiped out the
Do you know what a terrible thing you have done to me? You’ve wiped out the
last trace of my family! You’ve extinguished my lamp! Ah, Jamal was my only
son. All my dreams were dependent on him. He was the light of my eyes, the
guide in my blindness, the base of my life, the life of my feeble body. I’ve just
come from laying him in the lap of the grave. Ah, my tiger, tonight you’re
sleeping beneath the dust. There is not another youth among my people so brave,
so devout, so handsome. Cruel man, you didn’t have even a little mercy when
you raised your sword against him? Your stony heart didn’t have a trace of
sympathy? Do you know how angry I am at you right now? My heart wants to
grab your neck with both hands and squeeze it until your tongue protrudes from
your mouth and your eyes pop out like cowrie shells. But no, you have taken my
protection; duty binds my hands; because our Holy Prophet taught us not to raise
our hand against someone who is under our protection. I don’t want to break the
command of the Prophet and ruin my life in both this world and the next. You’ve
destroyed my life here; shall I ruin my faith with my own hands? No. It is
difficult to bear but I will bear it so that I don’t have to lower my eyes when I
face my prophet. Come, come into the house. Your pursuers are running this
way. If they see you then all my pleading won’t save your life. You know that
Arabs never forgive a murder.’
The old Arab grabbed David’s hand and took him inside and hid him in a
room. No sooner had he gone back out than a group of Arabs came up to the
door.
One man asked, ‘Well, Shaikh Hasan, have you seen anyone come this way?’
‘Yes, I saw someone.’
‘Why didn’t you catch him? That was Jamal’s killer.’
‘I let him go despite knowing that.’
‘What? God save us! What have you done? When Jamal accosts us on
Judgment Day, what answer will we give him?’
‘Say that his father has forgiven his killer.’
‘No Arab has ever forgiven a killer.’
‘That’s your responsibility. Why should I take it on my head?’
The Arabs didn’t argue long with Shaikh Hasan; they ran off in search of the
murderer. Shaikh Hasan sat back down on his mat and resumed reading the
Koran but he couldn’t concentrate. The custom of taking revenge from an enemy
was foremost in the customs of the Arabs. Blood for blood. For this custom,
rivers of blood flowed, whole tribes were wiped out, towns and cities were laid
waste. For Shaikh Hasan, it seemed that it would be impossible to conquer this
custom. Again and again his beloved son’s face would hover before his eyes,
again and again his mind was filled with the powerful urge to go and douse the
fire of his wrath with David’s blood. Arabs were warriors. Violence was not an
unusual thing for them. They would shed a few tears for the dead and then get on
with their business. They only preserved the memory of a dead person in a
situation when blood revenge was necessary. Finally, Shaikh Hasan panicked.
He was frightened that now he would not be able to control himself. He drew his
sword from the sheath, tiptoed to the door of the room in which David was
hidden and stood outside. Hiding the sword in his clothing he opened the door
slowly. David was pacing. Seeing the angry face of the old Arab, David
perceived the nature of his thoughts. He felt sorry for the old man. He thought,
‘It’s not the fault of religion or nationality. If someone had killed my son then
doubtless I would be thirsty for his blood too. It’s just human nature.’
The Arab said, ‘David, you know how painful the death of a son is.’
‘I haven’t experienced it, but I can guess. If even a part of your pain can be
lessened by my death, then here, my head is forfeit. I give it to you with
pleasure. You must have heard the name “David”.’
‘Peter’s son?’
‘Yes. I’m that unfortunate David. I’m not just your son’s attacker. I’m the
enemy of Islam. By taking my life, you will not only take revenge for Jamal’s
death, but you will also be performing a true service to your religion and
people.’
Shaikh Hasan said with deep emotion, ‘David, I have forgiven you. I know
that Christians have suffered a lot of pain at the hands of Muslims. Muslims
have subjected them to great cruelties, snatched away their freedom! But this is
the fault of Muslims, not of Islam. The exultation of victory has turned their
minds. Our Holy Prophet did not teach us to act the way we are acting today. He
himself was the supreme example of forgiveness and mercy. I will not damage
the reputation of Islam. Take my she-camel and flee as far as you can before
dawn. Don’t even stop for a moment. If the Arabs pick up your scent, your life is
lost. Go, and may God see you home safely. And pray for old Shaikh Hasan and
his son Jamal.’
David reached home safely, but he was no longer the same David who wanted
 David reached home safely, but he was no longer the same David who wanted
to eradicate Islam. There had been a great change in his way of thinking. Now he
honoured Muslims and mentioned the name of Islam with respect.

Translated from the Hindi by John Caldwell

 The Lashes of Good Fortune

Boys, whether rich or poor, are known to be particularly cheerful. Their

playfulness does not depend on wealth or familial circumstances. Nathua’s
parents were dead and the orphaned boy was usually found hanging about Rai
Bholanath’s gates. Rai Sahib was a compassionate man and, occasionally, he
would give Nathua the odd paisa. Enough food was left over in Rai Sahib’s
kitchen to fill the stomachs of many orphans like him. Now and then, Nathua
was also handed old clothes belonging to the boys in the family. So, even though
he was an orphan, Nathua was not unhappy. Rai Sahib had rescued him from the
clutches of a Christian. He did not care about the fact that Nathua would get
some material comfort and schooling at the Mission; his only concern was that
Nathua remain a Hindu. To him, the leftovers of his house were more blessed
than the freshly cooked meal at the Mission. Sweeping his many rooms was
better than getting schooled by the Christians. He must remain a Hindu, in
whichever condition. If he turned Christian he would be lost forever.
Nathua had no other work except for cleaning Rai Sahib’s bungalow. After his
meal he played around the whole day. Nathua’s work decided his position in the
caste hierarchy and he was assigned a place in the sweeper community.
Therefore, the other servants called him an untouchable, a bhangi, but he didn’t
mind. The poor boy was not aware of the effects this name could have on him
and he saw no harm in being a bhangi. While sweeping, he often found some
money or other things on the floor with which he could buy cigarettes. Even as a
child he had acquired a taste for tobacco, cigarettes and paan in the company of
other servants.
There were many boys and girls in Rai Sahib’s household, for dozens of
nieces and nephews lived with him. But he had only one daughter, whose name
was Ratna. She was educated at home by two tutors and a British woman who
came to teach her English. It was Rai Sahib’s ardent desire that Ratna be
accomplished and skilled so that, like the Goddess Laxmi, she would bring
prosperity and fortune into her husband’s home. He did not allow Ratna to
mingle with the other children. She was given two rooms to herself—one to
study in and the other to sleep.
People say that too much affection makes children wilful and naughty. But, in
spite of being pampered, Ratna was well behaved and decent. She did not call
the servants ‘hey you’ haughtily. She was not even rude to a beggar. She gave
money and sweets to Nathua and sometimes also chatted with him. So the
servant boy had become quite free and informal with her.
One day Nathua was sweeping Ratna’s bedroom while she studied with the
English memsahib in the other room. As he swept the floor, an unfortunate
thought came to him: He longed to lie on Ratna’s bed. How clean and white the
sheet was, how soft and cushioned the mattress and how beautiful the shawl!
Ratna slept so cosily in the bed, just like chicks in a nest. That was why her
hands were so soft and fair. It seemed as though her body was filled with cotton
wool. Who will see me here, he thought to himself, and wiping his feet on the
floor he quickly climbed into the bed and covered himself with the shawl. His
heart filled with pride and joy. He happily jumped on the bed two or three times.
He felt as though he lay cushioned on soft downy cotton. His body sank a
finger’s length into the mattress as he turned from one side to the other. Oh!
Why is such joy not meant for me? Why didn’t God make me Rai Sahib’s son?
These thoughts troubled Nathua and he sorely felt his own privation in the soft
comfort of Ratna’s bed. Just then Rai Sahib happened to come into the room. His
eyes immediately fell on Nathua lying on Ratna’s bed. Incensed, he shouted,
‘Why, you pig, what are you doing?’
Nathua was petrified; he felt as though he had lost his foothold and toppled
into a river. He leapt from the bed and snatched up his broom.
Rai Sahib asked again, ‘What were you doing, wretch?’
‘Nothing, master!’
 ‘Nothing, master!’
‘Are you brazen enough to sleep in Ratna’s bed now? Ungrateful scoundrel!
Bring me my whip.’
Rai Sahib flogged Nathua mercilessly. Nathua folded his hands and fell at Rai
Sahib’s feet but Rai Sahib’s anger was implacable. All the servants crowded
round and began to rub salt on his wounds. Rai Sahib’s rage grew and throwing
aside the whip he began to kick Nathua. When Ratna heard Nathua’s cries she
came running into the room. Once she had gathered the cause of the ruckus she
pleaded with her father, ‘Dadaji, the poor boy will die; have mercy on him now.’
Rai Sahib growled, ‘If he dies, I’ll have his carcass thrown out. At least he
will have reaped the fruit for this wickedness.’
‘It is my bed, isn’t it? And I forgive him.’
‘Just look at the state of your bed. The filth from the rascal’s body must have
rubbed off on it. What was he thinking? Why you . . . what came over you?’
Rai Sahib leapt at Nathua again but he ran and hid behind Ratna. There was
no refuge elsewhere. Ratna stopped her father. ‘Dadaji, I request you, please
forgive him.’
Rai Sahib: ‘What do you mean, Ratna? How can such villains be forgiven?
All right, because of you I will let him go, otherwise I would have killed him
today. You, Nathua, hear me, if you know what’s good for you don’t ever come
here again. Get out right now, you no-good swine!’
Nathua ran for his life. He didn’t look back even once and only stopped
running when he reached the road. Rai Sahib could not touch him here. Here,
people would not take Rai Sahib’s side just to please him. Someone would be
sure to speak up for him. After all, he was only a boy. Surely he couldn’t be
killed for making a mistake. Let him try and beat me here, he thought, I’ll abuse
him and run away. This idea bolstered his courage. He turned towards the
bungalow and shouted, ‘Come and hit me here, if you dare!’ Then he took to his
heels, in case Rai Sahib had heard him and was indeed coming after him.

Nathua had gone only a little distance when he saw Ratna’s memsahib coming
after him on her tamtam, the one-horse carriage. He was afraid she was chasing
him to nab him. He fled at top speed once again but when he was too tired to run
any further he had to stop. His mind said, What can she do to me? What harm
have I done her? Meanwhile, the memsahib had reached him. Stopping her
tamtam she said, ‘Where are you going, Nathua?’
Nathua answered, ‘Nowhere.’
‘If you go back to Rai Sahib’s he will beat you. Why don’t you come with me
to the Mission? You can live there comfortably and be educated and cultured.’
‘Will you make me a Christian?’
‘A Christian is not worse than a bhangi, silly!’
‘No, Ma’am, I won’t become a Christian.’
‘Don’t, if you don’t want to. No one can force you to become one.’
Nathua went some distance in the tamtam but then suddenly he jumped down,
for he was still suspicious of the Mission. The memsahib asked, ‘What is it, why
aren’t you coming with me?’
‘I’ve heard whoever goes to the Mission becomes a Christian. I won’t go. You
are tricking me.’
‘Foolish boy, you’ll be schooled there and not have to slave for anyone. In the
evening you’ll get time to play and have a coat and trousers to wear. At least
come and see what it’s like for a few days.’
Nathua did not respond to this temptation and ran down the alley. Only when
the tamtam had gone quite far did he relax and begin to take stock of his
situation. Where do I go? I hope no policeman seizes me and takes me to the
police station. If I go where people of my community live, will they take me in?
Why shouldn’t they? I won’t just sit and eat; I will work and earn a living. I only
need support, someone to stand behind me. If today I had someone to back me
Rai Sahib would not have dared to beat me like that. The entire community
would have rallied round and the whole house left uncleaned. Even the doorway
would be unswept. Then, all his pride in his title would have been reduced to
nothing.
Having made up his mind. He wandered towards the bhangi quarter of the
town. It was evening and many bhangis sat on mats under a tree playing the
shehnai and the tabla. Music was their livelihood and they practised daily. The
torment that music was subjected to here could not have happened elsewhere.
Nathua went towards the players. A bhangi, who watched him listening very
carefully, asked, ‘Do you sing?’
Nathua replied, ‘Not as yet, but if you teach me I will.’
 Nathua replied, ‘Not as yet, but if you teach me I will.’
‘Don’t make excuses, sit down; first let’s hear you sing something and find
out whether you have a good voice or not, otherwise how can one teach you?’
Like all the boys of the bazaar, Nathua also knew how to sing a little. He often
sang and hummed while walking on the road. So he promptly broke into song.
The teacher, respectfully called the ustad, heard him and understood that the boy
was not worthless. He asked Nathua, ‘Where do you live?’
Nathua introduced himself and poured out his tale of misery. He not only
found shelter there but also got the chance to grow in a way that raised him from
the earth and catapulted him into the heavens.

Three years flew by. Nathua’s singing became the talk of the town. Singing
wasn’t the only thing he excelled in; his talents were manifold. In addition to
singing, he played the shehnai, pakhawaj, sarangi, tamboura, and sitar—and he
was skilled in all. Even his teachers wondered at his amazing genius. It seemed
as though he was merely honing what he already knew. People practise playing
the sitar for as long as ten years and still fail to learn it but Nathua had mastered
its strings in just one month. So many gems like Nathua are lost in the dust
because they do not meet a person discerning enough to see their hidden
brilliance.
Serendipitously, a music conference was organized at Gwalior one day.
Distinguished musicians from the country and abroad were invited. Nathua’s
teacher Ustad Ghurey also received an invitation. Nathua was his student. The
ustad took Nathua along with him to Gwalior. The celebration went on for a
week there. Nathua earned a lot of fame at the conference. He won a gold medal.
The chairman of the music school of Gwalior requested Ustad Ghurey to admit
Nathua into his music school. He would be taught music at the school and be
educated as well. Ghurey consented and Nathua agreed to study there.
In five years Nathua had earned the highest degree of the school. Apart from
music, he also showed proficiency in language, mathematics and science. He
now had an honourable place in society. No one asked him his caste any more.
His lifestyle, habits and demeanour were not of the low-caste singers but of an
educated and genteel person. To safeguard his dignity be began to behave like
high-caste people. He gave up meat and drink and took to regular puja. Not even
high-caste people. He gave up meat and drink and took to regular puja. Not even
a high-born Brahmin could have observed custom and conduct as he did. He was
already known as Nathuram; now his name was further refined to N.R. Acharya.
Often, he was simply called ‘acharya’, the learned and accomplished one. The
acharya was also addressed as ‘mahashay’, or gentleman. Furthermore, the royal
court began to give him a good salary. Very rarely does a talented man achieve
such fame at the age of eighteen. However, the thirst for fame is never quenched.
It is akin to the thirst of Rishi Agastya who drank up the ocean and was still not
sated. The acharya also wanted to excel in Western music. He enrolled in the
best music school of Germany and after five years of unrelenting labour and
hard work he earned a master’s degree. He toured Italy before returning to
Gwalior and within one week of his arrival he was appointed by the Madan
Company as inspector of their branches, with a monthly salary of three thousand
rupees. Before going to Europe he had already made thousands of rupees. In
Europe, too, the opera houses and theatres had welcomed him magnanimously
and on some days he had earned more than a singer back home made in years.
On his return the acharya was drawn towards Lucknow and decided to settle
there.

When Acharya Mahashay reached Lucknow he was overwhelmed with emotion.

He had spent his childhood here—he remembered how, as an orphan, he used to
rob the square kites in these very alleys, and how he had gone begging in these
bazaars. Ah! He was flogged here—he still carried the stripes of the whipping on
his body. But now he held these scars dearer than the lines of fortune. In fact, for
him the strokes of the whip had been a boon from Shiva.
There were no feelings of anger or revenge for Rai Sahib in his heart, not even
a jot. He only remembered Rai Sahib’s goodness; and he remembered Ratna as
the very image of kindness and affection. For misfortune deepens old wounds,
but fortune fills them up! The acharya alighted from the train with a palpitating
heart. The ten-year-old boy had grown into a twenty-three-year-old learned and
gracious young man. Now, not even his mother could have known him as her
own Nathua. However, his transformation was considerably less amazing than
the metamorphosis of the town. This was not Lucknow, but another city
altogether!
altogether!
As he emerged from the station his eyes fell on the people of the town, the
prominent as well as the ordinary, waiting to welcome him. One of them was a
beautiful young woman who resembled Ratna. The men shook his hand while
Ratna garlanded him. This gracious welcome was accorded to him for bringing
fame to Bharat in distant lands. The acharya’s legs began to tremble; he found it
difficult to stand still. This was the same Ratna! The innocent girl-child had
taken the form of the Goddess of beauty, modesty, pride and grace. He did not
have the courage to look straight into her eyes.
After the courtesies he was taken to the bungalow prepared for him. He was
startled when he saw that it was the same mansion where he used to play with
Ratna; the furnishings were the same, the pictures, chairs, tables and the
gleaming mirrors were all the same . . . even the floor was unchanged. Acharya
Mahashay stepped into the house with the same feelings a devout Hindu has
when he enters a temple. As soon as he reached Ratna’s bedroom his heart was
so convulsed that tears began to flow from his eyes—this was the same bed, the
same bedding and the very same floor! ‘Whose bungalow is this?’ he asked
giddily.
The manager of the company was with him. He answered, ’One Rai
Bholanath’s.’
‘Where did Rai Sahib go?’
‘God alone knows where he went. The building was attached after he went
bankrupt and was put up for auction. It was close to the theatre so I wrote to the
authorities and bought it for the company. We got the fully furnished bungalow
for forty thousand rupees.’
‘You got it for free! Have you no news of Rai Sahib?’
‘I heard that he had gone on a pilgrimage. God knows whether he has returned
or not.’
In the evening Acharya Mahashay sat warily among the people who had
called on him and asked one of those gathered, ‘Do you have any news of Ustad
Ghurey? I’ve heard a lot about him.’
The man answered sadly, ‘Don’t ask about him, master. He was returning
home drunk when he fell unconscious on the road in front of a passing lorry. The
driver didn’t see him and he was crushed to death. His body was found in the
morning. He was a rare musician, sir, and Lucknow became desolate with his
death. Now there is no one in whom Lucknow can take pride. He had taught
some of his art to a boy called Nathua and we had hoped he would keep the
name of the ustad alive. But he went away to Gwalior and after that we don’t
know what happened to him.’
Acharya Mahashay was half-dead with the fear of being discovered. He could
hardly breathe with the sword of Damocles hanging over his head. Fortunately,
the moment finally passed and the clay pitcher remained whole even after being
struck.

Acharya Mahashay lived in the house as gingerly as a new bride in her in-laws’
home. The old values would not be erased from his heart. His self would not
accept the fact that it was his house now. If he laughed out loud he would pull
himself short with a start. If his friends who visited became too boisterous he
would be engulfed by an unknown misgiving. If he were to sleep in the study, he
would stay awake the whole night, for it was marked in his mind that the room
was meant only for reading and writing. He could not change the old furnishings
as they were still in fine shape. And, he never again opened Ratna’s bedchamber.
It remained shut and untouched. His legs trembled at the idea of entering the
room, and the thought of sleeping on that bed never once crossed his mind.
The Acharya displayed the marvel of his musical genius many times at the
Lucknow University. He would not sing at the households of kings and nobility
even if they offered him lakhs of rupees. This he had vowed not to do. Those
who were fortunate enough to hear his heavenly music were said to experience
divine joy.
One morning Acharya Mahashay had just finished his puja when Rai
Bholanath came calling. Ratna was also with him. Acharya Mahashay was
overawed. His heart had not quaked like this even in the big and splendid
theatres of Europe. He bent over double to greet Rai Sahib with a salaam.
Bholanath was a little bewildered by this humility. It had been a long time since
people had bowed to him. Now, wherever he went he was only mocked and
derided. Ratna was also discomfited. Rai Sahib looked around him dejectedly
and said, ‘You must like this place.’
‘Yes, sir, I cannot imagine a better place than this.’
 ‘Yes, sir, I cannot imagine a better place than this.’
‘This is my bungalow. I had it made and I ruined it myself.’
Ratna said uncomfortably, ‘Dadaji, what is the point of talking about this
now?’
‘There is no advantage, daughter, and no loss either. The mind is calmed by
sharing one’s grief with honourable men. Mahashay, this is my bungalow or, let
me say, it was. I had an income of fifty thousand rupees a year from my estate
but in the company of some men I began to gamble. At first, I quickly won two
or three rounds. I was emboldened and began to wager and make lakhs of
rupees. But a single loss destroyed everything and the chariot of my fortune
floundered. All my property was ruined. Just think, twenty-five lakh was at
stake. If the cowrie had only landed head-side up, the splendour of this
bungalow would have been something else altogether! But it didn’t and now I
can only remember the days gone by and wring my hands in misery. My Ratna
adores your singing and always talks of you. She has done her BA.’
Ratna flushed with embarrassment. ‘Dadaji, Acharya Mahashay knows all
about me. There is no need for this introduction. Forgive us, Mahashay, the
bankruptcy has unsettled my father’s mind. He came to ask you if you would
mind his coming to see the bungalow occasionally. It would relieve his sorrow.
He would be satisfied in the knowledge that a friend owns the house. We’ve
come to you with only this request.’
The acharya replied humbly, ‘You don’t need to ask me. This house is yours,
come whenever you wish. In fact, if you want you can live here; I’ll find another
place for myself.’
Rai Sahib thanked him and left. After that day he began to come every two or
three days to the mansion and sat there for hours. Ratna always accompanied
him. Eventually, they began to visit every day.
One day Rai Sahib took Acharya Mahashay aside and asked, ‘Pardon me, but
why don’t you call your wife and children here? Living alone must be difficult
for you.’
‘I am not married; nor do I want to marry.’ His eyes were lowered while he
said this.
‘Why is that? What do you have against marriage?’
‘No special reason, just a preference.’
‘Are you a Brahmin?’
The acharya coloured. He said with some unease, ‘Caste differences do not
 The acharya coloured. He said with some unease, ‘Caste differences do not
matter after one travels to Europe. Whatever I may be by birth, my vocation
makes me a Shudra.’
‘Your humility is praiseworthy. It is truly remarkable that there are worthy
people like you in this world. I also believe that deeds determine caste. Modesty,
virtue, courtesy, good conduct, devotion, love for knowledge—these are all
qualities of a Brahmin and I take you to be one. A person who does not have
these characteristics is not a Brahmin, most certainly not. My Ratna feels great
love for you. Till today no one has appealed to her but, forgive my being
forward, you have bewitched her. Your parents—’
‘You are my mother and my father. I don’t know who gave birth to me. I was
very young when they passed away.’
‘Oh! If they were alive today their chests would have swelled immensely with
pride. Where does one find such worthy sons as you?’
Just then Ratna came into the room with a paper in her hand. She said to Rai
Sahib, ‘Dadaji, Acharya Mahashay also writes poetry; see, I brought this from
his table. Apart from Sarojini Naidu I’ve not seen such good poetry elsewhere.’
The acharya stole a glance at Ratna and then said bashfully, ‘These are just a
few lines I scribbled. What would I know about writing poetry?’

Both the acharya and Ratna were desperately in love. Ratna was enamoured of
his virtues and he was smitten with her. If Ratna had not crossed his path again,
perhaps he would have never known love! But, once met, who can be indifferent
to the alluring arms of love? Where is the heart that love cannot win?
Acharya Mahashay was drowned in uncertainty. His heart told him that the
moment Ratna discovered his true identity she would turn her face away from
him forever. No matter how generous she may be, or how painful she considered
the chains of caste, she could not possibly be free of the aversion that would
naturally arise towards him. So he did not have the courage to reveal his true self
to her. Ah! If it were only a matter of revulsion he would not have hesitated, but
the truth would cause her further grief, pain, heartbreak and there was no telling
what she might do in the situation. To strengthen the ties of love while keeping
her in the dark seemed to him the highest level of deceit. This was insincerity,
trickery, villainy, and it was entirely unacceptable by the mores of love. He did
not know what to do—he was caught in a terrible dilemma. On the one hand, Rai
Sahib’s visits became increasingly frequent and his heart’s desire was reflected
in his every word. On the other hand, Ratna began to come less often and this
made Rai Sahib’s wish still more evident. Three or four months passed like this.
Acharya Mahashay would think, He whipped me and turned me out of the house
for lying on Ratna’s bed for a few moments. When he finds out that I am the
same orphan, untouchable, homeless boy, how much more anguish, self-
mortification, humiliation, remorse and dismay it would cause him! How
overcome would he be with remorse and the agony of a vain hope!
One day Rai Sahib said, ‘We should set a date for the wedding. During this
auspicious period I want to be free of the debt of a daughter.’
‘What date?’ asked Acharya Mahashay, though he understood perfectly what
Rai Sahib was talking about.
‘Of Ratna’s wedding. I don’t care for matching horoscopes but the ceremony
should be held at an auspicious time.’
The acharya kept his eyes glued to the ground and said nothing.
‘You are familiar with my situation. I have nothing to give except my
daughter. For whom should I have saved when I have no one else besides her?’
Acharya Mahashay was lost in thought.
‘You know Ratna well. There is no need to praise her to you. Worthy or not,
you must accept her.’
Acharya Mahashay’s eyes overflowed.
‘I firmly believe that God brought you here only for her. I pray to Him to
bless you with a happy life. Nothing would make me happier. After fulfilling
this duty I intend to spend my time in devotion to God, the rewards of which will
also come to you.’
The acharya said in a choked voice, ‘Sir, you are like my father but I am not at
all worthy of this.’
Rai Sahib embraced him. ‘Son, you possess all the virtues. You shine like a
jewel in this society. It is a great honour for me to have you as my son-in-law. I
will go now and see to setting the date and other things and inform you about
them tomorrow.’
Rai Sahib stood up to go. The acharya wanted to say something but he did not
have the opportunity or, shall we say, the courage to say it. His spirit was not so
have the opportunity or, shall we say, the courage to say it. His spirit was not so
strong; nor did he have the power to bear Rai Sahib’s loathing.

It had been one month since the wedding. Ratna’s advent had lit up her
husband’s home and sanctified his heart. The lotus had blossomed in the sea.
It was night. Acharya Mahashay was lying down after his dinner—on the very
bed that had caused him to be driven out of this house. The bed that had changed
the wheel of his fortune.
For a month he had been searching for an opening to tell Ratna the truth. His
soul refused to accept that his good fortune was the reward of his own virtues.
He strove to dissolve the metal of his person in the furnace of truth to determine
its real worth. But he could never find the occasion because as the moment he set
his eyes on Ratna he became spellbound. Who goes to a garden to cry; a small,
dark room suffices for that.
Just then Ratna came smiling into the room. The light of the lamp dimmed.
The acharya smiled and asked, ‘Shall I put out the lamp?’
Ratna answered, ‘Why, are you feeling shy?’
‘Yes, actually I am.’
‘Because I won you over?’
‘No, because I deceived you.’
‘You do not have the power to deceive.’
‘You don’t know that. I’ve kept a huge secret from you.’
Ratna: ‘I know everything.’
‘Do you know who I am?’
‘Yes, I’ve known for a long time. When both of us played in this garden,
when I’d hit you and you would cry . . . I’d give you my half-eaten sweets and
you jumped on them . . . I’ve loved you since then. Of course, at that time it was
expressed as kindness.’
The acharya was astounded. ‘Ratna, you knew and still—’
‘Yes, because I knew. I probably wouldn’t have otherwise.’
‘This is that same bed.’
‘And I’ve come into the bargain with it.’
The acharya embraced her and said, ‘You are the Goddess of forgiveness!’
Ratna replied, ‘I am your handmaid.’
 Ratna replied, ‘I am your handmaid.’
‘Does Rai Sahib also know the truth?’
‘No, he doesn’t. And don’t ever tell him or he will kill himself.’
‘I still remember those whip lashes.’
‘My father has nothing left now with which to atone for that. Are you still not
satisfied?’

Translated from the Hindi by Meenakshi F. Paul

 Banishment

Parashuram: ‘Stop, stop right there at the veranda.’

Maryada: ‘Why? Have I been defiled?’
Parashuram: ‘First tell me where you have been all these days. Who were you
with and how did you get by? And who brought you here? Then, only then, the
decision . . . we will see.’
Maryada: ‘Is this the time to ask these questions? Will we not have another
opportunity?’
‘Yes, this is the right time. After your bath you came out of the river along
with me. You followed me for a while as well. I would turn from time to time to
check on you but then you disappeared all of a sudden. Where did you go?’
‘Did you not notice the large band of naga sadhus that suddenly appeared in
front of us? People ran helter-skelter. Jostled by the crowd I do not know where I
went. When the crowd thinned, I began looking for you. I kept calling out
Basu’s name, but you were not to be seen.’
‘And then?’
‘Then I sat down in a corner crying. I could not decide where to go, who to
speak with, I felt terrified of the men around. I sat in the same spot till late in the
evening, weeping.’
‘Why are you describing things in such detail? Where did you go from there?’
‘In the evening a young man walked up to me and asked, “Have you lost your
family?” I replied, “Yes.” Then he asked for your name and address. He noted it
all down in a book and said, “Come with me, I will send you home.”’
‘Who was that man?’
‘He was a volunteer from the Seva Samiti there.’
 ‘So you went off with him?’
‘What else could I have done? He took me to their committee office. There, in
a tent, sat a man with a long beard, scribbling something. He was the volunteer
supervisor. Several more volunteers were standing around. He noted down my
address again and sent me off to another tent where there were countless other
women sitting around, lost like me.’
‘Why didn’t you tell the supervisor that very minute to send you back home?’
‘I did, not once but hundreds of times. But he continued to say that till the fair
got over, and till they had gathered all the lost women, he would be unable to
arrange for me to be sent. He added that he neither had enough volunteers to
help out nor the money for it.’
‘What did you lack in wealth? You could have sold off any one of your gold
pieces and got a lot of money.’
‘But there were not enough men.’
‘Did you tell him not to worry about the expenses? That you could sell off
your jewellery to pay him?’
‘No, this I did not say.’
‘Even in such a condition you were so attached to your jewellery?’
‘All the women there started telling me, “Why are you so worried? What are
you scared of here? All of us want to return home quickly, but what can we do?”
So I also kept quiet.’
‘If all the other women had jumped into a well, would you have too?’
‘I knew that these people were taking care of me for the sake of our dharma,
not because they were my servants or hired labour. So what right did I have to
plead with them? I was also relieved at seeing so many other women there.’
‘Absolutely! What could have been a bigger source of consolation to you than
this? And tell me how many days did you spend there enjoying this sense of
solace? The fair would have wound up on the second day.’
‘I spent the entire night with the other women in the tent.’
‘All right, but why did you not get them to send me a telegram?’
‘I thought, when they had promised to send me back anyway why send a
telegram?’
‘Anyway, so you stayed the night there. The young men would have walked
in and out all the time.’
‘Only once did a volunteer come to ask about food, and when all of us
 ‘Only once did a volunteer come to ask about food, and when all of us
refused, he left. No one came after that. I stayed up all night.’
‘I am not ready to believe that there were so many young men around and no
one came inside. The youth of such committees are not gods descended from
heaven. Anyway, that bearded supervisor must surely have come to check up on
things.’
‘Yes, he would come. But he would ask about us from the entrance and go
back again. And yes, when one of the women suffered from stomach pains, he
did come twice or thrice to give her medicines.’
‘Well, the truth finally comes out! I am familiar with every bone of these
deceivers. I especially consider these painted, beaded, bearded ones supreme
frauds. So that esteemed gentleman came there several times to administer
medicines. I hope you did not have stomach pains as well?’
‘You are casting aspersions on a holy man. First, that poor man was as old as
my father, and second, he never raised his eyes or stared at any one of us.’
‘Of course, only gods were gathered at that place. Anyway, you spent the
night there. What happened on the second day?’
‘I stayed there the second day as well. A volunteer took the women around to
the most important holy spots of the city to offer salutations. We all had lunch
upon our return in the afternoon.’
‘Oh, so you went visiting and sightseeing there as well and faced no problems.
You must have played music and sung songs after lunch?’
‘No, no music or songs, but each one had a sad story to tell. When the fair
wound up in the evening two volunteers took us all to the railway station.’
‘But you returned today, after seven days, and that too all alone.’
‘An unfortunate incident took place at the station.’
‘Yes, yes, that I completely understand. What was the unfortunate accident?’
‘Just as the volunteer was going to get the tickets a man approached him and
said, “There’s a gentleman staying here at the Gopinath Dharmashala whose
wife has got lost. He has a noble name—a tall, fair and handsome man who lives
in Lucknow in Jhabai Tila.” He described you so well that I believed him. I
stepped forward and said, “Do you know this gentleman?” He laughed and
replied, “If I didn’t know him why would I wander about looking for you? Your
child is hoarse with crying.” The women started saying, “Go now, your husband
must be very worried.” The volunteer asked him a few questions and then
handed me over to him. How was I to know that I had fallen into the trap of a
handed me over to him. How was I to know that I had fallen into the trap of a
monster? My heart was overjoyed at the thought of seeing Basu again, that I
would behold you once more. Perhaps it was this excitement which made me
careless.’
‘So you went off with that man? Who was he?’
‘I can’t say, must have been a pimp.’
‘Did it not occur to you to tell him to go and fetch me?’
‘When bad days strike, the mind stops working.’
‘Someone is coming.’
‘I’ll hide in the bathroom.’
‘Come, Bhabhi, why haven’t you gone to sleep yet? It must be ten already.’
Bhabhi: ‘I really wanted to see Basudev, brother. Has he gone off to sleep?’
‘Yes, he just cried himself to sleep.’
‘Did you find out anything about Maryada? But even if you did, what use will
it be? A woman who has left her home is like a horse that has bolted from its
stable. You cannot trust either.’
‘Why did I even take her for that holy bath!’
‘Strange twists, brother, strange. I’ll take your leave now.’
Maryada: (Coming out.) ‘Nothing strange about it; this is a trick. Under the
guise of caring for Basudev, you wish to take over my household.’
‘Don’t talk rubbish! Where did the pimp take you?’
‘My lord, do not ask me this. I am too ashamed to speak about it.’
‘Well, you should have felt greater shame in coming here.’
‘With the Supreme Lord as my witness I swear that I did not let him touch
me.’
‘Can you describe him?’
‘A short, dark-skinned man. Wearing a long kurta.’
‘Did he have an amulet around his neck?’
‘Yes, he did.’
‘He was the sweeper of the dharmashala. I had told him about your
disappearance. That scoundrel used the information to lure you.’
‘He seemed like a Brahmin to me.’
‘No, he was a scavenger. Did he take you to his house?’
‘Yes, he put me on a tonga and took me to a small house in a narrow lane and
said, “Sit here, your husband will come soon.” It was then that I realized I had
said, “Sit here, your husband will come soon.” It was then that I realized I had
been duped. I started crying. The man left after a while and an old woman
arrived to try and tempt me with various offers. I spent that entire night weeping.
The next day they both tried to make me understand that I could die crying but
no one would come to help me. You have lost one home, they said. But we will
give you another, a better one where you will eat the best food and become rich.
When I realized that there was no way for me to get away from there, I decided
to use my wiles.’
‘I have heard enough. Let me accept what you are saying, that you protected
your womanhood. But my heart loathes you. You can now never be to me what
you were in the past. This house no longer has a place for you.’
‘My husband, do not do this injustice to me, I remain the same wife to you.
Just think, what will become of me?’
‘I have thought of everything and taken a decision. I have been thinking about
this for the last six days. You know very well that I do not fear what the society
thinks. I have already discarded the notions of untouchability, bid farewell to the
gods and goddesses, but it is impossible for me to accept a woman who has been
looked upon by strange eyes and who has wandered about God knows where and
in what state for seven days. If this is injustice, then God be my witness, I am not
to blame.’
‘Do you not pity my helplessness at all?’
‘Where there is disgust, how can there be pity? I am still ready to look after
your daily needs. As long as I live you will not want for food or clothing. But
you cannot be my wife.’
‘I would not look upon the face of my child had I been touched by another.’
‘Your spending even a moment alone with another man is enough to destroy
your chastity. This is a unique relationship. If it exists then it is for several
lifetimes, but if it breaks then that happens in a moment. You tell me, if a
Muslim person forced me to partake of his leftovers, would you accept me?’
‘That . . . that . . . would be a different matter.’
‘No, it is the same thing. When it is a relationship of feelings, then arguments
and logic do not work. In fact, if someone were to even tell you that the sweeper
has touched your drinking water you would feel ill while trying to drink it. Think
—am I being just with you or unjust?’
‘I would not have eaten food that was touched by you. I would have stayed in
a separate room, but I couldn’t have asked you to leave our home. You are
a separate room, but I couldn’t have asked you to leave our home. You are
taunting me because you are the lord of the house and you think that you are
providing for me.’
‘That is not it. I have not fallen so low.’
‘So, is this your final decision?’
‘Yes, final.’
‘Do you know what the result of this will be?’
‘I know and know not.’
‘Will you let me take Basudev?’
‘Basudev is my son.’
‘Will you let me caress him just once?’
‘No, I would not want that, but if you wish, you can look upon him from afar.’
‘Then forget it, I’ll not look at him. I’ll tell myself that I am a widow as well
as barren. Let’s go, my heart. Now this house can no longer care for you. Let us
go wherever fate leads us!’

Translated from the Hindi by Chandana Dutta

 Despair

Some men get annoyed with their wives because they bear only daughters and
not sons. They are aware that the woman is not at fault in producing daughters
and if at all she is, then only as much as them. Yet, every now and again, they
behave sullenly, pronounce her ill-fated and persistently wound her sensibilities.
Nirupama was one such unfortunate woman and Ghamandilal Tripathi was one
such cruel man. Nirupama had borne him three daughters one after the other, so
she had fallen in the estimation of all the members of the family. She was not
particularly worried about the disappointment of her parents-in-law, because
they had a dated outlook, and believed that girls were burdensome or that their
births were due to sins committed in previous lifetimes. But yes, she was
saddened by her husband’s dissatisfaction, who, despite being an educated man,
constantly passed acrimonious personal remarks. He seldom expressed any love
for the children. He never had a kind word for her, stayed away from home for
days together and if he did come back, it was with such a disdainful demeanour
that Nirupama shuddered at the thought of him losing his temper any moment.
There was no dearth of riches in the household but Nirupama could never
summon up the courage to express a desire to acquire even a commonplace
article. She believed that she was indeed unfortunate, otherwise why would God
cause only daughters to be formed inside her womb? She longed for her husband
to smile at her pleasantly or to say something sweet, but that was not to be. So
eager was she to please him that she also became cautious about displaying her
affection for her daughters—for fear that people would accuse her of arrogance
despite having possession of, as the saying goes, merely a brass nose ring. When
despite having possession of, as the saying goes, merely a brass nose ring. When
it was time for Tripathiji to come home, she would remove their daughters from
his sight under some pretext or the other. The biggest problem was that Tripathiji
had threatened to leave the house and go away if yet another daughter was born
—he would not reside in such a hellish house for another instant. This threat had
been very disquieting for Nirupama.
She observed the Tuesday fast, went waterless on Sunday, observed the
Ekadashi fast and who knows how many more? The bath followed by the puja
was a daily routine but the performance of neither rite nor practice seemed to
grant her heart’s desire. Owing to the constant indifference, censure, contempt
and insults heaped upon her, she had begun to lose interest in worldly matters.
How could she not tire of her life in a house within which her ears longed to hear
a sweet word, her eyes to behold a countenance full of love and her heart
yearned to be folded in a warm embrace?
One day in a state of extreme hopelessness, she wrote to her elder brother’s
wife. Every word was steeped in agonizing torment. Her sister-in-law replied:
‘Your brother will soon come and take you away. These days a truly great
mahatma is visiting; it is believed that his benediction is never given in vain.
Several childless women have been blessed with sons after receiving his
blessings. I have faith that you too will be blessed with a son after receiving his
benediction.’
Nirupama showed the letter to her husband.
Tripathiji replied gloomily, ‘It is not possible for mahatmas to decide the
gender of the child, only God can do that.’
Nirupama: ‘True, but mahatmas too are capable of some miracles.’
‘Yes, they are, but visiting such mahatmas will not yield any benefit.’
‘I will go and pay my respects to this mahatma.’
‘You may go.’
‘If barren women could be blessed with sons, am I worse off than them?’
‘I have given you permission to go. So you may see for yourself. As for me, I
feel that we are not destined to behold the countenance of a son.’

Several days later, Nirupama went to her paternal home, accompanied by her
brother. Her three daughters went with her. Her sister-in-law welcomed her with
a warm embrace and said, ‘The men in your family are very shallow. Despite
having such pretty young girls, they weep over their destiny. If you find it
difficult to look after them, you may give them to me.’
Having had their meal, Nirupama and her sister-in-law went in to rest.
Nirupama asked, ‘Where does the mahatma live?’
‘Why are you in such a hurry? I will let you know.’
‘He lives close by, doesn’t he?’
‘Very close indeed. I will send for him whenever you wish.’
‘Is he very pleased with all of you?’
‘He has both his meals here. He lives here.’
‘How can you die if the vaid lives in the house? Let me pay my respects to
him today.’
‘What will you offer him as a gift?’
‘What am I worth to offer him a gift?’
‘Give him your youngest daughter.’
‘Come on, you’re insulting me!’
‘All right, if not that then you will let him embrace you lovingly just once,
won’t you?’
‘Bhabhi, if you pull my leg like this, I will go back!’
‘This mahatma is quite a pleasure-seeker.’
‘Then he can go to blazes! He must be a wicked man!’
‘You will receive his benedictions only on this condition. He does not accept
any other offering.’
‘You’re talking as though you are his deputy.’
‘Yes, only after consulting with me does he decide upon all his strategies. I
take the offerings. I give the blessings and I have my meals by his side.’
‘Then why don’t you admit that you have played a trick in order to call me
over?’
‘No, but while we are with him, I will advise you about a few things so that
you can live comfortably at home.’
After this, the two friends began to talk softly among themselves, as though
strategizing a game plan. When her sister-in-law stopped talking, Nirupama
asked, ‘And what if a girl is born yet again?’
‘So what? At least for a few days your life will have been spent peacefully
 ‘So what? At least for a few days your life will have been spent peacefully
and contentedly. Nobody will be able to snatch away those days from you. If a
boy is born then it would be an unparalleled situation. If a girl is born, we will
have to re-strategize. We will be able to survive only if we employ such tactics
with your family, which comprises of utterly foolish people.’
‘I am not certain whether the plan will work.’
‘Write to Tripathiji after about two or three days, informing him that
mahatmaji has blessed you with an endowment. God willing, you will
immediately begin to enjoy the self-respect and esteem due to you. The
conceited people will come at once and be at pains to give you the best they can.
At least for about a year you can live peacefully. After that, we will see what we
can do.’
‘Won’t I be sinning against my husband if I pull the wool over his eyes?’
‘It is virtuous to be deceitful to such selfish people.’

Nirupama returned home after about three or four months. Tripathiji had gone
over to bring her back. His wife’s sister-in-law sang praises of the mahatma in
no mean terms. She said: ‘Nobody has known the mahatma to bless without
receiving the profit of his blessings. But yes, nothing can be done about one who
is utterly doomed.’
Actually, Tripathiji had always been contemptuous of the power of
benedictions and blessings. Besides, nowadays, it was also quite embarrassing to
believe in all this mumbo jumbo; nevertheless he felt touched by what his sister-
in-law had to say.
Nirupama’s family began to shower a lot of attention on her. When she was in
the family way, everybody began to look up to her with renewed enthusiasm.
Her mother-in-law, who never had a kind word for her and cursed her every now
and then, began to treat her with a great deal of indulgence. ‘Daughter, let it be, I
will cook the food. You will get a headache.’ When Nirupama was about to lift a
basin full of water or a charpoy, she would run across to her and exclaim, ‘Bahu,
let it be. I’m coming. You should not lift anything heavy. It is different with
daughters—they are not affected by anything, but boys are affected by the ache
even while they are inside the womb.’ Now, Nirupama was fed milk so that the
boy would be healthy and fair. Tripathiji became obsessed with purchasing
boy would be healthy and fair. Tripathiji became obsessed with purchasing
clothes and jewels for her. Every month he bought something new. Nirupama
had never had it so good in all her life. Not even when she had been a young
bride.
The months began to pass. Bodily signs indicated to Nirupama that she was
carrying a girl yet again but she remained quiet about the perception. She
thought to herself, How can one trust the monsoon sunshine? Let me make the
most of it before the clouds gather. Every now and again she became grumpy.
She had never been so self-willed. Nobody ever seemed to utter a word of
dissent because they did not want to hurt her for fear that the boy would suffer
the consequences. Sometimes, Nirupama would throw tantrums only to test the
patience of her people. She had begun to enjoy bothering them. She thought to
herself, The more I exasperate you selfish people, the better! You respect me
because I will give birth to a son who will carry forward the name of your
family. I mean nothing to you; the boy is paramount. I am of no consequence;
whatever importance I receive is because of the child. And this is my husband!
He used to love me deeply earlier; he didn’t care about worldly, materialistic
things. Now all his expressions of love are merely selfish and farcical. I am like
the cattle that is well-fed because of the milk it yields. All right, so be it! Right
now I can twist you round my little finger! I’ll have you make me as many
ornaments as I please. You will not snatch these away from me. Will you?
Ten months passed like this. Both of Nirupama’s sisters-in-law were invited to
their paternal home from their respective husbands’ homes. Gold ornaments had
been made for the child; a fine-looking milch cow was purchased; Tripathiji
bought a small pushchair to take the child out for leisurely walks. The day
Nirupama began to feel the labour pains, a panditji was called to ascertain the
auspicious moment. The chief huntsman was called to fire gunshots to herald the
birth of the boy and singing women were gathered to sing joyous songs. News
was sought at every instant about the impending birth. A lady doctor was also
sent for. A band of musicians was waiting for the good news to be announced.
Even the sarangi player sat with his instrument, ready to sing ‘The mother feels
honoured, the child is like Nandlal’. All the preparations, all the desires, all the
enthusiasm . . . in fact, the entire programme was ready to burst into an excited
celebration in anticipation of just one word. The more there was a delay in the
birth of the child, the more eagerly the people waited for the news to be broken.
In order to cover up his eagerness, Tripathiji sat composedly reading a
In order to cover up his eagerness, Tripathiji sat composedly reading a
newspaper, as though for him sons and daughters were alike. But his elderly
father was not so composed. His excitement was quite evident; he was
absolutely delighted. He laughed aloud as he spoke with everyone and kept
tossing a bagful of money playfully again and again.
The chief huntsman spoke up, ‘This time I will take cloth for a turban from
the master.’
Pitaji responded excitedly, ‘How many turbans will you take? I will give you
so many invaluable ones that you will actually lose your hair over them.’
The sarangi player said, ‘This time I should ask sarkar to provide me with
some means of sustenance.’
Pitaji responded excitedly, ‘How much will you eat? I will feed you so much
that you will burst.’ Just then, a servant woman came out of the labour room.
She looked a little worried. Before she could utter a word, the chief huntsman
fired a gunshot. Hardly had the gunshot been fired when the rest of the company
burst into song and the pamar too began to prepare himself for a dance.
‘Arré, have all of you had bhang?’ asked the servant woman.
‘What has happened?’ asked the chief huntsman.
‘What has happened? It is a girl once again,’ replied the servant woman.
‘A girl?’ asked Pitaji, and sat down heavily, as though struck by a thunderbolt.
Tripathiji came out of the room and addressed the servant woman, ‘Will you go
and ask the lady doctor? Go and ascertain once again. She has neither seen nor
heard anything but has set out making claims of her own accord.’
‘Babuji, I have seen the child with my own eyes!’
‘Is it a girl once again?’
‘Beta, it is our fate! Go away, all of you! None of you was destined to receive
anything so how can you get it? Get away. Hundreds of rupees have been lost;
all the preparations have been reduced to nought.’
‘One should question this mahatma. I will dispatch a letter today itself.’
‘Fraud, this is fraud!’
‘I’ll make sure I cleanse him of all his fraudulence. I will beat him with a rod
till I have broken his head for him. The wretched outcaste that he is! All because
of him I have lost hundreds of rupees. To whom shall I give this stroller, this
cow, this cradle and all these gold ornaments now? How many people he must
have swindled in this manner! He should be given a sound beating once and for
have swindled in this manner! He should be given a sound beating once and for
all. That will set him right.’
‘Beta, he is not at fault; our own fate is to blame.’
Tripathiji: ‘Why did he claim that this would not happen then? How much
money must this impostor have extorted out of women? He will have to confess
everything, else I will have him handed over to the police. The law provides
punishment for cases of extortion too. I had a hunch earlier that he was after all,
an extortionist, but my sister-in-law cheated us too, else I am not one to be taken
in by the tricks of such scoundrels. He is an utter swine.’
‘Beta, have patience. Whatever has happened is God’s will. Sons and
daughters are all God’s gifts; we have three, so we can have one more.’
Father and son kept talking in this manner. The sarangi player, the chief
huntsman and the rest of the company gathered their wares and went their
respective ways. The household was engulfed in a gloomy silence; the lady
doctor was sent off; nobody remained in the room of Nirupama’s lying-in except
for the midwife and Tripathiji’s mother. The aged mother-in-law was so
depressed that she took to her bed.
Twelve days after the birth of the child, Tripathiji went over to his wife and
said to her fiercely, ‘It is a girl once again!’
‘What can I do? How can I have a say in this?’
‘That sinful scoundrel has played a mean trick on us.’
‘What can I say now? Maybe it is not my destiny. Babaji is surrounded by
many women all the time. Had he taken any remuneration from anyone, I could
have called him a scoundrel; but I can swear I haven’t paid him any money.’
‘Whether or not he took anything from you, I have been looted. I know for
sure now that I am not destined to have a son. If the familial name has to be lost,
how does it matter whether it is lost today or ten years later? I will go away
somewhere now; there is no happiness in looking after a family.’
For a long time he stood there cursing his own fate but Nirupama did not so
much as lift her head.
Once again, Nirupama stood face-to-face with the same old predicament; the
same old jibes; the same abuse; the same disrespect; she was in the same mess as
before; nobody cared whether she had eaten anything at all or not; whether she
was well or ailing; happy or sad. Tripathiji did not go anywhere but he often
threatened Nirupama with this outcome. When several months passed by like
this, Nirupama put pen to paper to inform her sister-in-law that she had actually
got her into more trouble. ‘I was better off before. Now, nobody bothers to ask
whether I am dead or alive. If this state of things continues, I will surely give up
this world and pass away, whether or not Swamiji takes sanyas.’
When Bhabhi received this letter, she was able to gauge the state of things as
they stood. This time, she did not call Nirupama over, for she knew that her
family would not send her. Instead, she made a trip along with her husband. Her
name was Sukeshi. She was a very outgoing, intelligent woman who took great
delight in merriment. On seeing the baby girl in Nirupama’s lap, she
immediately remarked, ‘Arré, what’s this?’
Her mother-in-law said, ‘It is destiny, what else?’
Sukeshi remarked, ‘What kind of destiny? She must have forgotten to observe
mahatmaji’s exhortation. It is not possible that whatever he pronounces does not
come to pass. Tell me, did you observe the Tuesday fast?’
Nirupama replied, ‘All the time. I did not miss out on any fast.’
‘Did you feed five Brahmins every Tuesday?’
‘He never said that.’
‘Of course he did! I remember very clearly that he stressed on it. You must
have thought no good can come of feeding Brahmins. But it did not occur to you
that no undertaking can be realized successfully unless all the requirements are
observed in totality.’
Her mother-in-law butted in, ‘She never made any mention of this. And what
are five Brahmins anyway? I would have fed ten of them! We have the means,
by God’s grace.’
Sukeshi remarked again, ‘It is nothing. She merely forgot. That is all. Dear
woman! One is not destined to behold a son’s visage that easily.’
‘She is unfortunate. That is all,’ said her mother-in-law.
Tripathiji: ‘Were these extraordinary things that they could not be
remembered? She wants to torment us.’
Mother-in-law: ‘I kept thinking to myself about how the mahatma’s word did
not come to pass. For seven years I lit a lamp for Tulsi Mai before a son was
born.’
Tripathiji: ‘She had thought that bearing a son was as natural as the fruition of
rice or pulses in the fields.’
Sukeshi: ‘Anyway, let the past rest. Tomorrow is Tuesday; you must fast and
 Sukeshi: ‘Anyway, let the past rest. Tomorrow is Tuesday; you must fast and
this time feed seven Brahmins. Let us see how the mahatma’s blessing does not
come into being.’
Tripathiji: ‘It is a waste of time. She will not be able to accomplish anything.’
Sukeshi: ‘Babuji, you are a learned and intelligent man, yet you seem so
disgruntled. You are still young. How many sons do you want? You will have so
many that they will make your life miserable.’
Mother-in-law: ‘Daughter, has anyone ever wearied of looking after sons?’
Sukeshi: ‘God willing, your hearts will tire of them. Mine certainly has.’
Tripathiji: ‘Do you hear that, Maharani? Make no confusion this time. Ask
your sister-in-law to explain everything to you properly.’
Sukeshi: ‘Rest assured, I will ensure that she remembers to do everything she
has been advised; I will make her write down what food she has to take; how she
has to live; how she has to bathe, and Ammaji, eighteen months from now, I will
take an invaluable gift from you.’
Sukeshi lived with Nirupama for about a week and fed and instructed her well
before returning home.

Nirupama’s fortune smiled on her once again; this time Tripathiji felt so
contented that his anticipation of the future made him forget all about the past.
Once again, Nirupama began to reign like a queen instead of being treated like a
slave; once more, her mother-in-law began to encourage her to take up the
challenge of giving birth to a male heir and people began to look up to her
expectantly.
The days began to pass; sometimes, Nirupama would say, ‘Ammaji, today an
old woman came to me in my dream, called out to me and gave me a coconut,
saying that it was for me.’ Sometimes she would say, ‘Ammaji, I cannot fathom
why, but this time I feel very excited, I feel like listening to songs and bathing in
the river to my heart’s content; all the time I feel I am under the influence of
some kind of intoxication.’ Her mother-in-law would listen to her, smile and
respond, ‘Bahu, these are all positive signs.’
On the quiet, Nirupama began to send for some majun and having had it and
despite knowing the truth she would venture to ask Tripathiji, ‘Do my eyes look
red?’
Unaware of the facts, Tripathiji cheerfully replied, ‘It seems as though you are
intoxicated. This is a happy sign.’
Nirupama had never been that fond of fragrances but now she could die for
the sweet scent of flower gajras worn on the wrist.
Now, every day, before going to bed, Tripathiji would read out stories of
brave men from the Mahabharata for Nirupama, and sometimes he would relate
accounts of the valour of Guru Govind Singh. Nirupama was particularly fond of
Abhimanyu’s tale. The father wanted his son to be born with an instinctive
awareness of heroism and valour.
One day, Nirupama asked her husband, ‘What name will you give the child?’
‘How good that you have thought about that! I had forgotten all about it. He
should be given a name that distinctively strikes a chord of heroism and
brilliance. Think of such a name.’
Both of them began a discussion about suitable names for the unborn child. A
list of all possible names was prepared, right from Jorawar Lal to Harishchandra
but nothing seemed appropriate for this extraordinary child. Finally, the father
said, ‘How is Tegh Bahadur?’
‘This is it! This is the name I like.’
‘It is certainly a fine name. You have already heard about the valour of Tegh
Bahadur. A man’s name has a strong influence on his personality.’
‘There is so much in a name. Every “Damdi”, “Chakaudi”, “Dhurhoo” and
“Katwaroo” that I have met has exemplified the meanings of his names. Our son
will be called Tegh Bahadur.’

The time for the child’s birth arrived. Nirupama knew that she would deliver a
girl once again but outside the room of her lying-in, all the preparations had been
made for a grand celebration. This time nobody had even an iota of doubt. There
were arrangements for singing and dances. A shamiana had been set up and
several friends and relatives sat under it talking merrily. A halvai was frying
puris and dishing out sweetmeats from a large pan. Several gunny sacks full of
foodgrains were kept in readiness for distribution among the bhikshus when the
news of the birth of the baby boy was broken. All the gunny sacks had been
opened so as to prevent even a minute’s delay.
However, Nirupama’s heart began to sink with every passing instant. What
will happen now? Somehow, three years have been spent in crafty
manipulations, and they have slipped by rather comfortably. But now the hour of
trial is at hand. Haye! What a terrible situation! Despite my innocence, I have to
suffer such dire consequences. If God does not will that I give birth to a son, why
should I be held responsible? But who will hear me out? I am the ill-fated one, I
need to be abandoned, I am the ill-omened one because I cannot bear a son!
What will happen? In a minute all these celebrations will suddenly be drowned
in mourning; all manner of abuses will be showered upon me; I will be cursed
by one and all; I am not concerned about my parents-in-law but perhaps my
husband will never look at me again; maybe he will surrender his household
responsibilities out of sheer despair. All around me there is misfortune. Why am
I still alive to witness the ill that will befall my children and my household? A
great deal of craft has been put into practice but no advantage can be got from it
now. How hopeful I felt in my heart of hearts! I could have looked after my
pretty little daughters; watched them grow; married them and sought happiness
in watching their children grow. But ah! All these desires seem ready to mingle
with the dust! Bhagwan! You alone are their father; you alone are their sentinel!
I am about to depart now.
The lady doctor said, ‘Well, it’s a girl again.’
Inside the house, there was weeping and crying; the women beat their breasts
and wailed. Tripathiji exclaimed, ‘To hell with such a life; even death has
become elusive!’
His father joined in. ‘She is ill-fated, extremely ill-fated!’
The bhikshus remarked, ‘You can cry over your fate, we will look for another
place.’
These expressions of sorrow had hardly ceased when the lady doctor
announced, ‘The mother is not well. She cannot survive this. Her heart has
stopped beating.’

Translated from the Hindi by Fatima Rizvi

 Ghost

Pandit Sitanath Chaubey of Muradabad had been the leader of the advocates for
the past thirty years. His father had left him and departed for the other world in
his boyhood. The household had no wealth whatsoever. His mother had to
undergo great troubles to rear and educate him. At first he became a judicial
servant at the court for a salary of fifteen rupees per month. After that he took
the law exam. He passed it. He had the talent and so he shone as a lawyer in a
span of two to four years. By the time his mother left for her heavenly abode, he
was already counted amongst the distinguished people in the district of Shumar.
His salary was no less than a thousand rupees per month now. He had built a
huge mansion, become the zamindar of some lands, saved some money in the
bank and also made some investments. He had four sons, who were studying in
different grades. However, to say that all this grandeur was the fruit of
Chaubeyji’s non-stop hard work would be an injustice to his wife, Mangala
Devi. Mangala was a simple, naive woman; she was adept at household chores
and was quite tight-fisted. Till the time she did not have her own house, she
never rented one for more than three rupees a month; she did not have a maid to
look after her kitchen until now. If she had a fetish, it was only for jewellery; and
if Chaubeyji had a fetish it was to get his wife decked up with jewels. He was a
true devotee of his wife. Generally in a mehfil it is not considered profane to flirt
and joke with the prostitutes; but in his entire life Chaubeyji had never gone to
entertain himself in a gathering of song and dance. From daybreak at five till
midnight his addiction, entertainment, studies and practice was law. He had no
love for politics; neither did he believe in serving his community. He considered
all this a waste of time. According to his principles the only worthy thing was to
go to the court, debate, save money and sleep after his meal. Just as for a Vedic
scholar, the entire world is a big lie except for the universal knowledge, for
Chaubeyji the entire society made no sense except for law. Everything else was
an illusion, law was the only truth.

The moon surrounding Chaubeyji’s life was eclipsed by one thing. He did not
have a daughter. After the first-born who was a girl, they never had a daughter
again and there was no hope of having one now. Husband and wife both shed
tears in her memory. Girls throw more tantrums than boys in their childhood.
The two lives were disconcerted by the fact that they were deprived of the
pleasure of watching those tantrums. The mother thought that if she had a
daughter, she’d make jewels for her, she’d plait her hair . . . It would be such a
pleasure to watch the girl toddle in the courtyard with her anklets on! Chaubey
thought, how would it be possible to get redemption without kanyadaan?
Kanyadaan is the greatest charity. One who is unable to do this charity—his
birth is rendered useless.
At last this greed became so strong that Mangala decided to bring her little
sister from her parents’ home and raise her as her own daughter. Mangala’s
parents were poor. They agreed to it. In fact, this girl was the daughter of
Mangala’s stepmother. She was very beautiful and very naughty. Her name was
Binni. Chaubeyji’s house got a new life with her arrival. In a few days the girl
forgot about her own parents. She was only four years old, but apart from
playing she also liked to do some work. Whenever Mangala went to the kitchen
to cook food, Binni followed her there. She would insist on kneading the dough,
and she would find chopping the vegetables fun. When Chaubeyji was at home,
she would sit with him in the drawing room. Sometimes she’d flip open a book
or play with the pen and ink pot. Chaubeyji would say with a teasing smile,
‘Beti, shall I beat you?’
Binni would say, ‘You’ll get beaten, I will chop off your ear, I will summon
and get you caught by the juju.’
At this, the drawing room would be engulfed in roars of laughter. Chaubeyji
 At this, the drawing room would be engulfed in roars of laughter. Chaubeyji
had never been so childlike in his life! Whenever he came back home, he made
sure to bring some gift for Binni and the moment he stepped inside, he’d call out
for Binni, ‘Binni beti, let’s go.’
And Binni would come running along and sit on his lap.
One day Mangala was sitting with Binni when Chaubeyji arrived. As usual
Binni ran to him. Chaubeyji asked, ‘Whose daughter are you?’
Binni: ‘I won’t say.’
Mangala: ‘Tell him that you are jiji’s daughter.’
Chaubeyji: ‘Binni, are you my daughter or hers?’
Binni: ‘I won’t say.’
Chaubeyji: ‘Okay, we are sitting with our eyes closed; whoever’s daughter
Binni is, she should go and sit on his or her lap.’
Binni got up and went to sit on Chaubeyji’s lap.
Chaubeyji: ‘She is my daughter, my daughter; (to his wife) now you won’t say
that she is your daughter.’
Mangala: ‘Okay, go, Binni, I won’t give you sweets any more; I won’t even
get a doll for you.’
Binni: ‘Bhaiyaji will get those for me; I won’t give them to you.’
Chaubeyji laughed and hugged Binni to his chest and carried her along
outside. He wanted his good friends to have a taste of this childhood playfulness.
From that day onwards if anybody asked Binni whose daughter she was, she
would promptly reply, ‘Bhaiya’s.’
Once Binni’s own father came and took her along to his house. Binni cried her
eyes out. Even Chaubeyji spent his days restlessly. Not even a month had passed
when he went to his in-laws’ place and brought Binni back with him. Binni
forgot about her own mother and father completely. She had come to regard
Chaubeyji as her father and Mangala as her mother. Those who gave birth to her
were now strangers to her.

Many years went by. Chaubeyji’s sons got married. Two of his sons, along with
their families, went away to different districts to practise law. The other two
were studying in college. Binni, too, bloomed into youth like a flower. There
was not a single girl in the entire community with such beauty, talent and
was not a single girl in the entire community with such beauty, talent and
personality—she was good at studies, skilful at household chores, deft at
embroidery and stitching, adept in the art of cooking, sweet-mouthed, coy and
beautiful. A dark room was lit by the rays of her divine beauty. In the redness of
dawn, in the heart-stealing splendour of moonlight, in the dewdrops that shine
when reflected by the sun’s rays upon a rose in bloom, there isn’t the life-giving
exquisite beauty or radiance that was Binni’s; in the white snow-capped
mountains there isn’t the coolness that was there in Binni’s, which is to say,
Vindheshwari’s large eyes.
Chaubeyji started to look for a worthy groom for Binni. He had fulfilled his
heart’s wishes in the weddings of his sons. Now he wanted to satisfy his
ambition in his daughter’s wedding. He had acquired fame by splurging his
wealth, now he wanted to be known for bestowing gifts and a sizeable dowry. It
is easy to organize a son’s wedding but to maintain one’s reputation in a
daughter’s wedding is difficult. Everybody can cross the river by a boat, but the
one who swims across deserves praise.
There was no dearth of wealth. A good house and a suitable groom were
found. The horoscopes were matched, the stars were favourable. The rituals of
fruit offering and tilak had been done. But alas, the misfortune! When the
preparations for the wedding were in full swing, the tailor, the jeweller, the
sweet-maker, and everybody else was doing their work right there in the
courtyard, cruel fate played a totally different game! Just a week before the
wedding, Mangala suddenly fell ill and within a span of three days she left for
the other world taking all her hopes along with her.
It was evening. Mangala was lying on the charpoy. Everybody—sons,
daughter-in-laws, grandchildren—stood encircling the four corners of the
charpoy. Binni was massaging Mangala’s feet at the foot of the charpoy. The
terrible silence that is characteristic of the hour of death prevailed. No one
spoke; everybody knew in their hearts what was going to happen. Only
Chaubeyji was not there.
Suddenly Mangala started looking around the room frantically. Her eyes
wistful, she said, ‘Call him for a minute, where’s he?’
Chaubeyji was in his room in a mournful state. As soon as he got the message,
he wiped his tears and entered the room and with great equanimity stood in front
of Mangala. He feared that if he shed even a single tear his entire house would
break into a tumult.
break into a tumult.
Mangala said, ‘Let me ask you something—don’t take offence—who is Binni
to you?’
Chaubeyji: ‘Who is Binni? Why, she is my daughter. What else would she
be?’
‘Yes, that is what I wanted to hear. Always think of her as your own daughter.
Whatever arrangements I had made for her wedding, make sure nothing of it is
cut and chipped.’
’Don’t worry about it. God willing, the wedding will be conducted with more
pomp and show than what has been planned.’
‘Let her come here for occasional visits. Don’t forget her during Teej and
other festivals.’
‘There’s no need to remind me of these things.’
Mangala thought for a moment and then said, ‘Marry her off this very year.’
‘How is it possible this year?’
‘This is the month of Phagun. The lagan is till Jeth.’
‘If it’s possible I’ll do it this year.’
‘No, promise me you will do it this year.’
‘I’ll do it.’
They began preparations for a godaan.

The death of one’s wife in old age is equivalent to the collapse of the roof during
the rainy season. There’s no hope of repair.
With Mangala’s death Chaubeyji’s life became irregular and somewhat
disorganized. He stopped socializing or meeting with people. For days on end he
would not go to court. Even if he went, it was after much persuasion. He lost his
taste for food. Seeing his condition, Vindheshwari’s heart pined and she tried her
utmost to keep his attention diverted. She read stories from the Puranas for him
and coaxed him to eat with persistence and pleading. She herself never ate until
he did.
In the summer she would sit at the foot of his bed and fanned him till late at
night. Unless he fell asleep, she never went to bed. If at all he complained of a
headache, she promptly poured oil over his head. And if he felt thirsty at night,
she came rushing to give him water. Slowly, Mangala faded into a mere joyful
she came rushing to give him water. Slowly, Mangala faded into a mere joyful
memory for Chaubeyji.
One day Chaubeyji gave away all of Mangala’s jewels to Binni. That was
Mangala’s last request. Binni was overwhelmed. That day she groomed herself.
When Chaubeyji came back from the court that day, she stood blushing and
smiling in front of him laden with jewels.
Chaubeyji stared at her with thirsty eyes. A new kind of emotion was budding
in his mind for Vindheshwari. When Mangala was alive, she had reinforced the
father–daughter relationship. Now Mangala was not there. Therefore, with the
passing of days, that emotion faded away. In Mangala’s presence Binni had been
a girl. In Mangala’s absence she was a beautiful young lady. But the pure-
hearted Binni did not have the slightest inkling about bhaiya’s change of
emotions. For her he was the same father figure. She was inexperienced in the
ways of men. In a woman’s character, through certain circumstances the feeling
of motherhood grows stronger. Then there comes a time, when in the eyes of a
woman, a man becomes equivalent to her son. There is no trace of sensual
enjoyment in her mind. But men never have any such feelings. Their sensual
organs may become inactive but their lust for carnal pleasure possibly grows
stronger. A man is never set free from his desires; rather with the passage of time
his lust gets fiercer like the heat of the last phase of summer. To satisfy himself
he is ready to seek the aid of vulgar means. When young, a man does not stoop
so low. His character is endowed with a greater sense of propriety, which loathes
resorting to despicable means. He can barge into somebody’s house, but he
won’t give in to clandestine means.
Chaubeyji ogled at Binni with lustful eyes and then embarrassed at his own
lack of restraint he lowered his eyes. Binni did not understand its import.
Chaubeyji said, ‘Seeing you, I am reminded of the days when Mangala first
came here after our marriage. She looked exactly like you; the same fair
complexion, the same happy face, the same soft cheeks, the same coyness in
those eyes. That picture is still framed in my heart, it can never be erased. God
has granted back my Mangala to me in your incarnation.’
Binni asked, ‘Shall I bring some refreshment for you?’
‘Bring it later, sit with me now, I am very dejected. You’ve helped me forget
my sorrow. In reality you’ve infused life in me, or else I did not have the hope to
carry on after Mangala. You have given me another life. I don’t know what will
carry on after Mangala. You have given me another life. I don’t know what will
happen to me after you’re gone.’
‘After I’ve gone where? I’m not leaving you and going anywhere.’
‘Why, the day of your wedding is approaching. You’ll have to leave.’
‘What’s the hurry?’
‘Why not? The world will mock us.’
‘Let them mock. I’ll stay here to serve you.’
‘No, Binni, why should you suffer because of me! I’m unfortunate, I have to
live out my days, either smilingly or mournfully. Smiling has vanished from my
fate. You have taken care of me for so many days, is this any less a favour! I
know after you leave there will be nobody to look after me, this house will be
ruined and I’ll have to run away from here. But what is there to do, it’s a
necessity. I can’t live here a moment without you. Mangala’s empty place had
been taken by you, now who will fill your vacant space?’
‘Can’t we wait this year at least? I can’t leave you in this condition and go.’
‘Is it in our hands? Those people will insist, and we will be compelled to do as
they say.’
‘If they coax you to hurry then you should tell them that it won’t be possible.
Let them do whatever they want. Are we subject to their will?’
‘Those people have already started persisting.’
‘Why don’t you tell them off?’
‘When it has to be done why should I wait? This pain and separation has to
happen one day. Why should I dump the burden of my adversity on your head?’
‘If I don’t stand by you in this calamity, then who will?’

For many days an intense war raged on in Chaubeyji’s mind. He could no longer
see Binni through the eyes of a father. Binni was now Mangala’s sister and
hence his sister-in-law. If the world at large mocks me, let it; but my life will be
spent in joy. His thoughts had never been so lively. His body began to feel the
vigour of youth once again.
He thought, I considered Binni to be my daughter, but she is not my daughter.
But how does it make a difference anyway? Who knows, it may be God’s will.
Otherwise, why would Binni come here at all? He must have decreed this
alliance under this pretext. His leela is beyond cognition.
Chaubeyji told the bridegroom’s father that because of some unforeseen
reasons the wedding wouldn’t take place this year.
Vindheshwari also did not know about the conspiracies being hatched. She
was happy that she was taking care of bhaiya and that bhaiya was quite pleased
with her. The loss of my sister has been a great cause of grief to him. If I am not
there, he’ll leave and go somewhere—who knows, he might turn an ascetic! How
will he pass the time at home?
She always tried to divert Chaubeyji’s mind. She never allowed him to sit
depressed. Chaubeyji did not find any interest in the court any more. He would
come back home after spending only an hour or two there. The love of
youngsters is characterized by restlessness, and the love of the elderly by
devotion. They try to compensate their lack of youth with flattery, sweet talk and
their ready wit.
Chaubeyji visited his in-laws about three months after Mangala died. The
mother-in-law was earnestly waiting for his arrival. She had two sons. They did
not have any means to bring them up and educate them. Mangala was also dead.
Once her own daughter got married, she’d also be busy with her own household.
And then there would be no contact with Chaubeyji. She was convinced that
once Chaubeyji came it’d be like God descending on His own to give them
boons.
When Chaubeyji lay down after his meal the mother-in-law said, ‘Bhaiya,
have there been any proposals for marriage?’
‘Now, what proposals do you expect for my marriage?’
‘Why, bhaiya, you’re not that old!’
‘Even if I want to, I cannot do it for fear of infamy. And anyway, who is going
to consider me for marriage?’
‘There are thousands. Why search outside when you have a girl sitting right in
your own house. I heard that you gave away Mangala’s ornaments to Binni. If
she gets married elsewhere, they will be lost to you forever. Where will I get a
better house than yours? If you accept her, then I will be obliged.’
What does the blind desire but eyesight! It was as if Chaubeyji was forced to
accede to the prayers of his mother-in-law.
 6

Binni was sitting with her mother in a mud house in her parental village.
Chaubeyji had kept an errand girl at her service. Both the younger brothers of
Vindheshwari were looking at her ornaments in wonder. Many other women
from the village had also come to see her and they were amazed at her beauty
and charm. Was this the same Binni who used to play wearing a thick faria! Her
beauty and complexion had become so polished! This is what prosperity does to
you!
When the crowd dispersed, the mother asked, ‘Your bhaiyaji is keeping well,
isn’t he, beti! He had come here but he was very sad. Mangala’s grief is eating
him away. There are such men in the universe after all who give away their lives
for their wives. Otherwise, more often than not, as soon as the wife dies, the man
gets married again. It’s almost as if the man waits for his wife to die so he can
bring a new one home!’
Vindheshwari said, ‘He is still mourning her. I’ve come here but God knows
how he is doing!’
‘I am afraid that once you get married he might turn an ascetic or a monk and
renounce the world.’
‘I have the same fear. That’s why I have told him that I’m in no hurry to get
married.’
‘The more you take care of him, the more affection he will have for you; and
your departure will be a greater cause of grief to him. Beti, the truth is that he
lives because of you. The moment you leave him his house will be ruined. If I
were in your place, I would marry him.’
‘Drive away that thought, Amma, why are you cursing me? He has brought
me up like a daughter. I consider him as my father—’
‘Shut up, you mad girl! Your saying this will make no difference!’
‘Just think about it, Amma. It is so odd.’
‘I don’t see anything odd in this!’
‘What are you saying, Amma, I should get . . . I will die of shame, I won’t be
able to face him. He won’t agree to it either. The proposal sounds so strange.’
‘I take responsibility for him. I will get his consent. You just agree to it. Just
remember, this is no marriage of convenience, it is a question of the survival of
the only person in the universe who is concerned about us. And he is not even
the only person in the universe who is concerned about us. And he is not even
that old yet. He must be two years or so above fifty. He had consulted an
astrologer too. He had seen his horoscope and said that his life span is about
seventy years. A man like him will be rare to find.’
The mother’s argument was so clever that the naive girl could not set herself
free from the web of words. Her mother already knew that the magic of greed
would not work on her. She did not even mention things like wealth, ornaments,
prestige or prosperity. In the end Vindheshwari said, ‘Amma, I know that he will
not be able to bear my separation. I also know that happiness is not in my fate.
All right, for his good I am ready to sacrifice my life. If this is what God wills
then so be it.’

Chaubeyji’s house was buzzing with auspicious songs. Vindheshwari had come
today as a bride into the house. Many years ago she had come as a daughter.
Chaubeyji today was a worthy sight. A colourful tanzeb kurta, a well-trimmed
and nicely combed moustache, brightly dyed hair, a smiling face, and
intoxicating eyes—he had all the airs of youth.
The night had come to an end. Vindheshwari, laden with ornaments and
wearing a heavy bridal dress, was sitting on the floor with her head lowered. She
had no excitement, no fear; she only wondered how she would open her mouth
in front of him. I’ve played sitting on his lap; I’ve mounted his shoulders, I’ve
rode on his back, how will I show my face to him? But why should I think of the
past? May God keep him happy! May the motive for which I’ve agreed to be a
wife from a daughter be accomplished! May his life be spent in joy.
Chaubeyji arrived after a while. Vindheshwari stood up. She was so
embarrassed that she felt like running away. She wanted to jump out of the
window.
Chaubeyji grasped her hand and said, ‘Binni, are you scared of me?’
Binni didn’t utter a word. She just stood there like a statue. Chaubeyji made
her sit down. Her throat almost choked with swelling emotions. This merciless
play of fate, this cruel game was becoming unbearable to her.
Chaubeyji asked, ‘Binni, why don’t you speak? Are you angry with me?’
Vindheshwari closed her ears. She had heard this familiar voice for so many
years. Today it sounded most cruel and sarcastic.
years. Today it sounded most cruel and sarcastic.
Suddenly, Chaubeyji got up, shocked, his eyes dilated, and both his hands
shook like that of a toad’s limbs. He moved back two steps. Mangala was
peeping inside from the window! It wasn’t a shadow, it was Mangala . . . it was
Mangala . . . embodied, fully formed, alive!
Chaubeyji said in a trembling, broken voice, ‘Binni, look, what is that?’
Terrified, Binni looked towards the window. There was nothing. She said,
‘What is it? I can’t see anything.’
‘It has vanished now; but God knows that it was Mangala.’
‘Sister?’
‘Yes-yes, it was her. She was peeping inside from the window. I’m getting
goose flesh.’
Trembling, Vindheshwari said, ‘I won’t stay here.’
‘No, no, Binni, there’s nothing to fear, I must have been hallucinating. The
thing is that she lived here, slept here; so my imagination must have brought her
image in front of me. Forget it. Today is such an auspicious day . . . my Binni
has actually become mine . . .’
Chaubeyji had a rude shock again. Once more that statue was peeping inside
from the window—no, not a statue but an embodied, alive and fully-formed
Mangala! Her eyes were filled with contempt, as if she was mocking this scene,
as if there was some play-acting going on.
Trembling, Chaubeyji said, ‘Binni, it’s happened again! Look, Mangala is
standing over there.’
Vindheshwari shrieked and hugged him tight!
Chanting the name of Mahavir,1 he said, ‘Let me shut the window.’
Binni started crying. ‘I won’t stay in this house. Bhaiyaji, you didn’t obey my
sister’s final wish, that’s why her soul is restless. Something awful is going to
happen . . . I can sense it.’
Chaubeyji shut the panels of the window and said, ‘I’ll arrange for the
recitation of holy prayers from tomorrow to ward off evil. I had never expected
this! Well, forget it. These days it is very hot here. There are still two months for
the rains to begin. Should we go to Mussoorie instead?’
Vindheshwari replied, ‘I don’t feel like going anywhere. Make sure the
prayers are recited from tomorrow. I won’t be able to sleep in this room
otherwise.’
‘According to the holy books, all that remains after death is the decayed body,
 ‘According to the holy books, all that remains after death is the decayed body,
so it is difficult to comprehend how I could see such a true replica of Mangala!
I’m telling the truth, Binni, if you wouldn’t have shown me this mercy, I would
have landed God knows where. At this time I might have been roaming the hills
of Badrinath, or who can say, I might have even taken poison and been dead by
now.’
‘We’ll have to go to Mussoorie and stay in a hotel.’
‘No, we can easily find a house. Let me write to one of my friends, he’ll find
an accommodation there for us.’
In the middle of this conversation, a voice from nowhere came, like a divine
proclamation, ‘Binni is your daughter.’
Chaubeyji closed both his ears. Trembling with fear he said, ‘Binni, let’s go
from here. God knows where these voices are coming from.’
‘Binni is your daughter!’ This sound could be heard amplified a thousand
times by Chaubeyji, as if each and every object in that room had shouted out the
same thing.
Binni asked, sobbing, ‘What kind of a noise was it?’
‘How can I . . . I’m ashamed of saying it!’
‘For sure it was my sister’s soul. Sister, have mercy on me, I am innocent!’
‘I can hear the voice again. Oh God! Where can I go? My entire being is
echoing with those words. Binni, I have done a great wrong. Mangala was a
pious woman, by disobeying her orders I have brought my own ruin. Where
shall I go, what shall I do?’
Chaubeyji opened the doors of the room and rushed outside. He fell down as
soon as he reached the men’s quarters and fainted. Vindheshwari also ran but the
moment she crossed the threshold, she too fell down!

Translated from the Hindi by Ranjeeta Dutta

 By a Whisker!

Sir Yashodanand was the talk of the town. In fact the entire province was
singing his praises— newspapers ran commentaries, and letters of praise were
pouring in from friends. This is called social service. This is how progressive
people conduct themselves. Yashodanand had brought glory to the educated
class. Now who could dare say that our leaders were men of mere words and not
action? If Yashodanand desired, he could have received a dowry of at least
twenty thousand rupees for his son with a free topping of flattery. But
Yashodanand didn’t care a damn for money and chose to marry his son off
without taking a single penny in dowry. Wah! Wah! Kudos! This is real courage,
love for principles and idealism. Bravo, the truly brave! A true son of your
mother, you have done what no one else ever could. We bow down before you
with pride.
Yashodanand had two sons. The elder son, who had completed his education,
was getting married and, as we have already seen, without taking any dowry.
It was the tilak ceremony of the groom today. Sir Swamidayal of
Shahjahanpur was coming for it. All the high and mighty people of the city were
invited. They had all gathered at the venue and the party was on. A skilled sitar
player mesmerized the audience with the mastery of his craft. The banquet was
also ready. Friends were congratulating Yashodanand.
One gentleman: ‘You really did a wonderful thing, yaar!’
Second gentleman: ‘Wonderful? You should rather say that he has hoisted the
flags of his success. So far we had only seen people sermonizing from the pulpit.
But when it came to action, they turned tails.’
Third gentleman: ‘. . . Such excuses are cooked up . . . Sahib, I hate dowry.
It’s against my principles. But what can I do, the mother of my son doesn’t
relent and so on. Some blame it on their fathers while others on some elderly
relative.’
Fourth gentleman: ‘Aji, there are many shameless people who openly say that
they want back what they spent on their son’s education and upbringing—as if
they had deposited that money in some bank to withdraw later.’
Fifth gentleman: ‘I can see very well that you are trying to sling mud on me.
Is only the groom’s side to be blamed for this or does the bride’s side also have a
role?’
First gentleman: ‘What is the fault of the one on the bride’s side except for the
fact that he is the father of a girl child?’
Second gentleman: ‘God is entirely to be blamed because he created girls.
Correct?’
Fifth gentleman: ‘That is not what I said. The fault lies neither with the bride’s
side alone nor with the groom’s. Both are at fault. If the folks on the bride’s side
don’t offer anything, they have no right to complain why the other side didn’t
bring dal, and beautiful dresses or why they weren’t accompanied by an
orchestra band and fanfare? Don’t you think so?’
Fourth gentleman: ‘Indeed, your question is worth pondering over. As far as I
think, there should be no complaint to the boy’s father in such a situation.’
Fifth gentleman: ‘Then we should rather say that, along with dowry system,
the practice of gifts of dal jewellery and dresses should also be dropped. It will
be futile to try and abolish the dowry system alone.’
Yashodanand: ‘This is a poor excuse! I have not accepted any dowry but shall
I not carry gifts of dal and jewellery?’
First gentleman: ‘Sir, you are matchless. Why do you compare yourself with
us commoners? Your place is among gods.’
Second gentleman: ‘. . . turned down a sum of twenty thousand rupees. What a
gesture!’
Yashodanand: ‘I firmly believe we should always abide by our principles.
Money has no value before principles. I have never delivered any lecture on the
vices of the dowry system; I have not even written any play on the subject. But I
have seconded the proposal in the conference and find myself committed to it.
My conscience will not allow me even if I wished to break free from it. To tell
the truth, if I take this money it will be so hard on my heart that I may not
the truth, if I take this money it will be so hard on my heart that I may not
perhaps survive this shock!’
Fifth gentleman: ‘It will be a great injustice if the conference doesn’t elect you
as chairman this time.’
Yashodanand: ‘I did my duty. I don’t care whether I get recognition for this or
not.’
In the meantime, the arrival of Swamidayal was announced. People geared up
to welcome him. He was seated on the masnad and the tilak ceremony began.
Swamidayal put before the groom a coconut, betel nut, rice grains, a betel leaf
and other things on a dhak leaf plate. Brahmins chanted hymns; a havan was
lighted and tilak was put on the groom’s forehead. The ladies of the house
immediately began to sing mangalacharan. Yashodanand mounted a small
wooden stool and began delivering a lecture on the ills of the dowry system. He
was reading from an already prepared (written) speech. He explained the history
of the dowry system. ‘Dowry was not known in the ancient period. Gentlemen,
no one even knew of this bird called dowry or thahrauni. Believe me, no one
knew what this thing called thahrauni was, an animal or a bird, of sky or earth, a
food item or a drink. It was founded during the imperialist rule. Our youth
started joining the army. These people were brave and took pride in joining the
army. Mothers sent their loved ones to the battleground, adorning them with
weapons with their own hands. This led to a decrease in the number of young
men and hence began the buying and selling of boys. Today, we have come to a
point where a small and most ordinary service like mine is being commented
upon in the newspapers, as though I have done something extraordinary. Let me
tell you that if you wish to survive in the world, you must immediately end this
system.’
One gentleman expressed a doubt: ‘Shall we live to see the end of this
practice?’
Yashodanand: ‘I wish we do. The guilty would be punished and that’s how it
ought to be.. What a tyranny that such greedy, sacrilegious money-seekers,
slave-dealers and sellers of their sons are alive and thriving. The society does not
desert them. But all of them are slave-dealers and so on.’
The lecture was long and full of scorn. People were all praise. After his
lecture, he brought his younger son, Parmanand, who was around seven years of
age, on the stage. He had handed the boy a short written speech. He wanted to
show how intelligent even the small children of his family were. No one
show how intelligent even the small children of his family were. No one
complained as making children deliver speeches in social gatherings was a
familiar practice. The child was very beautiful, bright and cheerful. He came on
the stage smiling and started reading with pride from a note he took out of his
pocket:

Dear brother,
Namaskar,
Your letter indicates that you don’t trust me. With God as my witness I swear that the agreed upon
money will reach you so secretly that no one will suspect anything. But I do take this liberty of
asking you for a favour. What will be my discount in lieu of the good image and prestige that you
will earn in the society and the condemnation that I will receive from my folks in keeping this
transaction a secret? I humbly request you to bring the twenty-five down by five and do justice to me.

Yashodanand had gone to give instructions for dinner to be served. When he

came back, this sentence fell into his ears—‘bring the twenty-five down by five
and do justice to me’. His face went pale. He rushed towards the boy, snatched
the paper from him and said, ‘Fool, what is this you are reading? This is a letter
by a client about a case. Where did you fetch this from, you naughty boy? Go,
get the paper that was written for you!’
First gentleman: ‘Let him read. The pleasure this note provides will not be
there in any other speech.’
Second gentleman: ‘This is truly impressive.’
Third gentleman: ‘Let this party be over now. I am off.’
Fourth gentleman: ‘I will also make a move!’
Yashodanand: ‘Please take your seats. The plates are being laid out.’
First gentleman: ‘Beta Parmanand, come here for a while. Where did you get
that note?’
Parmanand: ‘Babuji had written this and kept it in his drawer. He had asked
me to read it out. Now he is needlessly angry with me.’
Yashodanand: ‘Was it THAT paper, you pig! I had kept that one on the table.
Why did you bring this out from the drawer?’
Parmanand: ‘But I did not find it on the table.’
Yashodanand: ‘Then why didn’t you ask me? Why did you open the drawer?
You see what I am going to do to you today. You will remember it forever.’
First gentleman: ‘This is the voice from heaven.’
Second gentleman: ‘This is called leadership. Get what you want and earn the
name as well.’
name as well.’
Third gentleman: ‘It’s a matter of shame. Leadership comes from sacrifice and
not fraud.’
Fourth gentleman: ‘It did come but was lost by a whisker.’
Fifth gentleman: ‘This is how God punishes the fraudsters.’
People stood up uttering these words. Yashodanand knew that his game was
up. Nothing was going to work now. He gave Parmanand dirty looks and
gestured menacingly at him. This devil made me lose a winning game today, my
face has been blackened. My head has been hung low. He deserves to be shot.
Meanwhile, his friends were leaving with these comments:
First: ‘How God has blackened his face. He will not show his face if he has
any grace left.’
Second: ‘I am surprised that such rich, renowned and intelligent people can be
so sinful. Take it openly if you want. Who is stopping you? How can you
secretly pilfer money and then earn a name for not doing it?’
Third: ‘Shame on the impostor.’
Fourth: ‘I pity Yashodanand. Poor fellow acted so wickedly but was finally
exposed. He lost by a whisker.’

Translated from the Hindi by Nishat Zaidi

 Initiation

In my school days when I played football and suffered the rebukes of my

teachers, that is to say, during my adolescence, when knowledge hadn’t dawned
on me, and my faculties weren’t fully developed, I was an enthusiastic member
of the Temperance Society (Association for Prohibition). Every day, I would
participate in their demonstrations and collect funds for them. Not only that, I
had also taken vows and was determined to stand by them for life. While
initiating me into it, the headmaster had asked me, ‘Do you have enough faith in
the cause to keep you going for life?’ and I had answered firmly, ‘Yes, I am fully
confident!’ The headmaster had smiled and placed the letter of the pledge in
front of me. I had felt so ecstatic that day. I had roamed around with my head
bursting to the full, swollen with pride. I strutted around proudly. Many a time, I
would even misbehave with my father because he used to have a drink every
evening in order to overcome the day’s weariness. I found this unbearable. To be
honest, my father drank, but in style. The moment he felt a little intoxicated, he
would nibble something. He was always a very small eater—and then for the
entire night he would be released from the shackles of worldly attachments. I
would lecture him and argue with him, all fired up. Once, I crossed all limits. I
smashed his glass and bottle on the stone slab with such demonic force that even
Krishna wouldn’t have battered Kansa like that. The house was scattered with
splinters of glass everywhere and the barefoot women bled for days. But just
look at my enthusiasm! I hadn’t anticipated my father’s foresight. When he
returned home and heard the grievous news about the loss of his life-giving
medicine, he went straight to the market and in no time the empty shelf was
medicine, he went straight to the market and in no time the empty shelf was
refurbished. Meanwhile, I braced myself for the confrontation, but there wasn’t
even a flicker of a frown on my father’s face. He looked at me and smiled with
encouragement. It seems to me now that it was a look full of happiness, pure
goodwill and divine love. He smiled in the same way the headmaster had smiled
at me a few months ago. It is only now that I understand the meaning of his
smile, at that time I was completely clueless. As far as I can see, this has been
the only addition to my knowledge. That smile had been full of sarcasm and
ridicule for my childish enthusiasm and pity for my naivety. Only now do I
understand its pathos!
All through my college years, I remained steadfast in my vow. Many of my
friends gave in. I was considered to be an ideal person. In college there was no
getting away with this kind of abstinence. I was made fun of, some would call
me a mullah, and others laughed and called me a preacher. My friends sighed
contemptuously, ‘What a pity, you haven’t tasted a drop!’ The upshot of this was
that I took to being very generous. I would see my friends drinking in the room
and I would just sit and watch them. When they ground bhang, I would sit and
watch them. People would insist, ‘Come on, have a little,’ and I would politely
refuse saying, ‘Forgive me, but this does not suit my system.’ Instead of
invoking principles, now I was hiding under the pretext of physical incapacity.
That mad rush of satyagraha, which had found its climax in smashing my
father’s bottle had vanished completely. So much so that in the fourth year of
college, when I heard the news of my son’s birth, I crossed all bounds of
generosity. Forced by my friends’ pleas, I threw a feast for them and served
them drinks with my own hands. That day I experienced great joy in being a
cupbearer. In fact, generosity is just another name for falling short of one’s
ideals or forgetting one’s principles. One is never short of finding the means to
justify one’s conduct. The easiest thing on earth is to fool oneself —I haven’t
had any drinks, I merely served, how would this harm me? At least I did not
disappoint my friends. True fun lies in offering drink to others while one
abstains from it.
In any case, I emerged unscathed from college. I started practising law in my
town. From morning till midnight, I would be grinding it out. All those laidback
days of college, the walks, wanderings and pleasures, everything had turned into
a dream. My friends’ visits had also stopped. Even in the holidays, there was
a dream. My friends’ visits had also stopped. Even in the holidays, there was
hardly time to breathe. I realized exactly what a life in battle could be. It is an
error to even call it a battle. Where is the enthusiasm, the excitement, the
courage and the applause of victory in all this? No, sir, this is no battle, it is just
jostling and shuffling along. It is more like wanting to see the sideshows in a fair
despite being pushed around from all sides. There is no tryst with the beloved
here, just kissing the threshold of her house, suffering the foul-mouthed guard
and returning home with a sorry face.
Sitting all through the day in the courts was getting monotonous. After
returning home, I would barely eat two rotis and ask myself —is it for this that I
work my brains and eyes off? Languish and waste yourself, and all for nothing!
Along with this there was the desire to own a motorcar, a big bungalow, a little
land and have substantial savings in the bank. But even if I were to get all this,
what would I gain? My children might be the ones to gain and I would have died
in vain. I would merely be like the snake who guarded the treasure, no . . . no, I
couldn’t allow this. I will not sacrifice my life for others. I too will enjoy the
fruits of my toil—what should I do? Shall I go sightseeing? But then my clients
would get dispersed. In any case I was not such a famed lawyer that things
wouldn’t work without me, and what’s more, unlike our great leaders of the
Non-Cooperation Movement, I did not have the ability to pounce on a big prey
when I saw one. Here one could only target tiny birds. Then should I go to the
theatre every day? It’s quite useless. I would have to go to sleep at two every
night, which would mean a premature death. After all, I have other colleagues.
How were they always happy and relaxed? It seemed as if they had no worries.
Self-serving is the essence of English education. The East dies for the sake of
children, fame and religion, while the West cares only for itself. In the East, the
master of the house is the servant of all, he works the hardest, eats only after
feeding the rest, dresses after clothing them, but in the West, he considers it his
right to eat and wear the best. Here the family is supreme, whereas there it is the
individual. We are Eastern in our public selves and Western privately. All our
true ideals are fast vanishing. I started wondering what I had gained from all the
years of deprivation. I worked like an ass every day and slept with my head
under the covers. Was this a life? No happiness, no entertainment; after slogging
away at work the whole day, how could I be expected to play tennis? Even to get
fresh air, one needed a good pair of shoes. There was only one way to make this
kind of life pleasurable—sweet oblivion that would release me momentarily
kind of life pleasurable—sweet oblivion that would release me momentarily
from the tensions of this world. I would forget my sorry plight, forget myself,
laugh a little, break out in a guffaw, let my heart be filled with gladness. There
was only one herb that had a cure for this and I knew it. Forget the pledge and
the vows, those were things of one’s childhood. How was I to know that such a
thing would come to pass? There was a lot of zest then, I had strong limbs and
there had been no need to ride a horse! It was youthful passion that had spurred
me on. Now it was no more!
This thought began to shake off all my accumulated resolves. Every day, it
would emerge armed with new devices—why? Are you the cleverest?
Everybody drinks. Look at the judges, they leave the courts and go drinking. In
the olden days, it had been easy to stick by such vows when living had not been
so difficult. Of course people would laugh, ‘O you who were such a steadfast
one, now you too have succumbed!’ Let them laugh, I took my vows without
giving them a thought. It is because of the vow that I have had to endure this
ordeal for such a long time. I haven’t achieved any greatness or won any
honours because I haven’t been drinking. Have I? Earlier, I would read in books,
this is bad, that is bad, but I see no ill effects of it anywhere. Yes, it is another
thing to become completely drunk and lose control. But by that logic, even the
best things taken in excess or misused can be very harmful. Even knowledge
when it crosses all boundaries verges on heresy. One ought to drink in
moderation in order to awaken one’s senses, not put them to sleep. The first day
might prove a little uncomfortable. After that, who cares? I ought to plan things
in such a way that others will force me to drink and my reputation will remain
unsullied. Once my vow is broken, I won’t need to justify myself, and I wouldn’t
have to feel ashamed in front of my family.

I decided that this act would be put up on the day of Holi. There couldn’t be a
better day for this initiation. Holi is a day of drinking and getting people drunk.
It is permissible to get drunk on that day. If Holi can be a holy day then so can
there be holy thieving and holy bribing.
Holi finally arrived, after what seemed like a very long wait. I started
preparing for my initiation. I invited several friends over. I ordered whiskey and
champagne from Kelner’s shop and packed the whole place with lemonade,
soda, ice, gajak, scented tobacco, and so on. The room wasn’t very large. I had
to remove some cupboards full of law books and spread out a mat on the floor.
Having done all that, I started waiting for my guests, just like birds spread their
wings and call out to the bird catchers.
My friends started trickling in one by one. By nine o’clock all of them had
arrived. Among them, there were those who were very easily overwhelmed by
spirits while others could be said to be the followers of Sage Kumbhaj,
absorbing the entire ocean of alcohol and polishing off one bottle after another
without the slightest reddening of the eyes. I brought the bottles, glasses and
plates decorated with gajak and placed these in front of them.
One gentleman said, ‘Yaar, there is no fun without ice and soda.’
I replied, ‘Oh I forgot to bring them here. I’ll just get them.’
‘So, then let’s say Bismilla!’
‘Who will be the cupbearer?’ asked a second gentleman.
I offered, ‘Let this privilege be mine.’
I started pouring the drinks and my friends started drinking. The marketplace
of chatter started warming up; the banter of bawdy jokes started blowing like a
storm; but no one asked me to drink. I felt like an utter fool! Maybe they were
diffident about asking me. But no one asked me even in jest, as if I were a
Vaishnav. How do I give them a hint? After much deliberation, I told them, ‘I
have never had a drink.’
One friend: ‘Why not? You will have to answer for this in heaven.’
Second: ‘Tell us, tell us, what will you say? Let me ask you on His behalf—
why have you never drunk?’
I: ‘Well, my disposition . . . never felt the need.’
Second: ‘This is no answer; did you bribe your way through your law exams?’
Third: ‘Please answer. Give an answer, quick, what do you take God for, a
nobody?’
Second: ‘Do you have any objection, on religious grounds, to drinking?’
I: ‘Maybe!’
Third: ‘Wah the Great one! You are indeed a great soul! Let me see your tail.’
I: ‘Why, do great men have tails?’
Fourth: ‘Of course, some have one as long as a hand, others as long as two
hands. Where are you, man? It is very hard to come across a saintly person. We
hands. Where are you, man? It is very hard to come across a saintly person. We
are all sinners.’
Third: ‘Saint lawyer, saint prostitute, oh-ho!’
Second: ‘You can’t have objections on religious grounds. Being a lawyer
means being devoid of religious thinking.’
I: ‘Bhai, it does not suit me.’
Third: ‘Yes, we have got him, we have got the miser. I shall make sure it suits
you.’
Second: ‘Why, has a doctor prescribed against it?’
I: ‘No!’
Third: ‘Wah! Wah! You have become your own doctor, the nectar does not
suit you? At least try it once, O great one!’
Second: ‘I am amazed to hear this from you. Bhaiji, this is medicine, the
ultimate drug, the elixir of life. I hope you aren’t one of those who took the vows
of temperance in their youth.’
I: ‘What if I have?’
Third: ‘Then you are a fool, an utter fool.’
Fourth: ‘The drinks are about to flow, we sit before your eyes/
Do not steal your glances from us, dear saqi, we are here too.’
Second: ‘We all swore by the Temperance Movement, but when that “we” no
longer exists, how can that vow remain? Those vows have gone away with the
days of our youth.’
I: ‘After all, what is to be gained from this?’
Second: ‘One can only know that after drinking. Drink a glass. If you don’t
gain anything, then don’t drink any more.’
Third: ‘We have got him, now we will make the miser drink.’
Fourth: ‘With my injured heart, I drink night and day/
And even while asleep, endlessly I take your name.’
First: ‘You fellows won’t succeed, only I know how to make him drink.’
This gentleman was well-built and healthy. He pressed my throat tightly and
forced the drink into my mouth. My vow was broken, I was initiated at last. My
heart’s desire was met, yet with feigned anger I said, ‘You want to drag me
down along with you.’
Second: ‘Congratulations! Congratulations!’
Third: ‘Congratulations a hundred times!’
 3

A newly initiated person is very righteous. Relieved from the day’s debates and
arguments when I sat by myself or with a couple of friends in the evening and
guzzled the pegs, I felt ecstatic. I slept very well at night but in the morning,
every inch of my body ached. I yawned, my mind weakened, and I wanted to
keep on lying and lazing away in bed. My friends suggested that a good way to
get rid of a hangover was to consume a peg or two in the morning as well. I took
this to heart. Earlier, at dusk, I would pray first thing after washing up. But now,
I would quietly retire with a bottle of drink. I knew as much that addiction was
bad and a person gradually became a slave to his addictions so much so that after
some time he couldn’t live without them. But despite knowing this, I became
completely dependent on alcohol. Things came to such a pass that without
drinking, I couldn’t finish my work. What I had embraced for amusement had
within a year become as indispensable to me as air and water. If I ever got
dragged into arguing a case for very long, I felt as weary as if I had walked for
miles. Whenever I returned home in this condition, I felt peeved about
everything. Sometimes I would scold the servant, sometimes I would beat the
children, and at times I would yell at my wife. All this was there, but unlike
other drunkards, I never lost my senses completely, never blabbered, never
created a scene, nor did my health show any signs of deterioration.
It was the rainy season. The rivers and drains were in spate. The officers went
on their rounds even in the midst of rains. They were only concerned with their
allowances. How much it afflicted the poor was none of their business. I had to
go on a tour regarding a case. I had assumed that I would return home by the
evening, but as the rivers were swollen, instead of reaching by ten, I reached in
the evening. The judge was waiting for me. The case was presented before us,
but by the time the arguments were over, it was nine o’clock. What can I say
about my condition? In my heart, I wanted to tear into the judge. Sometimes, I
felt like tugging at the beard of the opponent lawyer who had contrived to drag
the debate for such a long time; at other times, I wanted to break my head. I
should have made plans for such a contingency. After all, the judge was no slave
of mine to do things according to my wishes. I could neither sit nor stand. Small-
time drinkers can’t even imagine my plight.
However, the case got over by nine. But where would I go now? It was a rainy
 However, the case got over by nine. But where would I go now? It was a rainy
night and there was no sign of human beings for miles around. To reach home
was not only difficult, but impossible. There was no village in the
neighbourhood where one could procure the elixir. Even if there was a village,
who would go there? A lawyer was no constable that he could order people
about to run late-night errands. I was in great torment. The clients had left, so
had the spectators and the workmen. The opponent lawyer had not only dined
with the Muslim peon, but had also found a place for himself in the veranda of
the Dak Bungalow. What was I to do? My life was slowly ebbing away. Sitting
on the verandah on a sack cloth, I cursed my fate. Sleep eluded me. I could
neither forget this pain nor lose myself in the arms of sleep. There was rage, too,
at the sight of the other lawyer sleeping soundly as if he were sleeping in the
comfort of his in-laws’ house.
Here I was in such a plight, and there I could see the Sahib Bahadur finishing
one peg after the other. The sweet melody of the pouring of wine reached my
ears and made my heart restless. I could sit no more. I inched furtively towards
the chik and peeped inside. Ah! What a life-giving sight that was! The sun-
scorched beauty looked resplendent in all her glory—decked with ice and soda
water in a white crystal glass. My mouth watered automatically. If someone had
taken my photograph at that moment, he would have won hands down in his bid
to compete for the perfect image of greed. The sahib’s face reflected a ruddy
glow, his eyes were red too. He was sipping away alone and humming an
English tune. While he was luxuriating in this heaven, I was rotting in hell.
Many a time, I felt a keen desire to walk up to the sahib and ask for a glassful.
But I was afraid that there would be no one to listen to my wails if instead of
alcohol, I got kicked out.
I kept standing there till his meal got over. After having a sumptuous meal and
drinks, he summoned the butler to clear his table. The butler was dozing off
under the table. When he came out with the plates, he was startled to see me. I
quickly tried to reassure him—‘Do not worry, it’s just me.’
The butler said in surprise, ‘Is that you, Vakil Sahib? Have you been standing
here all this while?’
‘I was just curious to see how these people eat and drink. He drinks a lot.’
‘Oh! Don’t even ask about it. He polishes off two bottles in a day. He drinks
twenty rupees’ worth of liquor every day. When he is on a tour, he keeps a
minimum of four dozen bottles with him.’
minimum of four dozen bottles with him.’
‘I too have this habit but I couldn’t get any today.’
‘Then you must be in great distress.’
‘What to do, there are no shops around here either. I thought the case would
get over early and I would return home. That is why I came without any
provisions.’
‘I am addicted to opium. If I don’t get it for a day, I go mad. It’s like this—
people who have an addiction wouldn’t care if they got nothing else, as long as
they can indulge their addiction. They have no worries even if they don’t get
food for three days.’
‘I am in the same boat and I am suffering. I feel as if there is no life in me.’
‘Huzoor should have carried at least one bottle with him. You could have put
it in your pocket.’
‘Yes, that was my mistake, otherwise why would I cry?’
‘Sleep wouldn’t come to you—’
‘What of sleep? My life hangs in my mouth . . . I don’t know how I am going
to spend the night.’
I wanted the butler to suggest some plan to quench the raging fire within me
so that I didn’t have to feel embarrassed. But he was a shrewd fellow. He just
said, ‘Take Allah’s name and shut your eyes, sleep is bound to come.’
‘No, sleep will not come. Yes, I might die. Does the sahib count his bottles?
Does he actually keep a count?’
‘Arré! Huzoor, he is very shrewd. If he does not finish a bottle, then he puts a
mark on it. Dare a single drop be lost!’
‘That is a big problem. I just need a glassful, just enough to make me fall
asleep. I will give you any reward you ask.’
‘You will of course give me a reward but I am afraid that if he so much as gets
a whiff of this, he won’t leave me alive.’
‘Come on, yaar, don’t test my patience any more.’
‘My life is at your disposal, but let me tell you, one bottle costs ten rupees.
Tomorrow I’ll have to get a servant to replace the missing bottle.’
‘I am not going to drink a full bottle, no way.’
‘Take it along with you, sir. If he finds half a bottle lying with me, he will get
suspicious immediately. He is very suspicious. He sniffs my mouth to see if I
have had a gulp or not.’
 I had received twenty rupees as my fee for the day’s work. It hurt me no end
to part with half my day’s earnings, but there was no other way out. I quietly
took out ten rupees and handed it to the butler. He got me a bottle of English
liquor, some ice and soda. I opened the bottle right there in the darkness and
proceeded to quench my parched soul with this nectar.
How was I to know that fate had other designs for me, that it was planning to
serve me poison instead?

What can one say about the sleep induced by alcohol? I had finished almost half
the bottle of whisky. I kept sleeping till late in the morning. Only when the
sweeper came at eight o’clock did my eyes open. I had hidden the bottle and the
glass next to my head with my umbrella. I had placed my gown on top of it to
cover it up. As soon as I woke up, my eyes turned towards the pillow. There was
no sign of either the bottle or the glass. My heart skipped a beat. I looked out for
the butler thinking he might have taken it away. I got up with this thought and
walked towards the back of the Dak Bungalow, to the servant quarters. But I
couldn’t dare move further when I viewed the heart-chilling scene there.
The sahib had seized the butler by his ears. The bottles of alcohol were lined
up. The sahib would count the bottles one by one and ask the butler where the
missing bottle was. The butler answered, ‘Your Majesty, let god strike me dead
if I have done any bungling.’
‘Am I lying then? Weren’t there twenty-nine bottles?’
‘Master, I swear by God, I have no idea how many bottles there were.’
The sahib slapped the butler several times. Then he shouted in Hindustani,
‘Tum gine, tum na batayega, to hum tumko jaan se maar dalega (You did count
them. Tell me, otherwise I’ll kill you). Nobody can touch me. I am an officer
and all officers are my friends. I shall kill you right now unless you tell me
where the missing bottle is.’
I was half-dead with fear. After a long time, I seemed to remember God. I
remembered Govardhandhari and said, ‘Now, my honour is in your hands. God,
only you can save me otherwise my boat is going to drown midway. He is an
Englishman after all. God knows what problems he can create. Please seal the
butler’s lips, take away his voice, you have come to the rescue of the worst of
butler’s lips, take away his voice, you have come to the rescue of the worst of
sinners and criminals. You were the one who saved Ajamil. I am a sinner, the
sinner of sinners. Please tide me over. If I can save my skin this time, I will
never even lift my eyes to look at alcohol.’
Even ghosts are frightened by the rod of punishment. I was conscious at every
moment and feared this proverb would prove to be true. What if the butler
opened his mouth? I would be a dead man! I was not as scared of losing my post,
or being framed in a false case or even of being humiliated by the judge as much
as I was of being the target of the judge’s kicks. What if he were to chase me
with a whip? It is not that I am a weak person. In fact, physically, I am quite well
built and can stand my ground. I have won several prizes for games in college.
Even now in the two rainy months, I do dumbbells. However, at that moment, I
was trembling with fear. My moral strength had already abandoned me. A thief
does not have any power—my honour, my future, and my life hung on just one
word from the butler’s mouth, just one word. Whose life could be so weak, so
precarious and so outworn?
I was making promises to myself, not the fake promises made by drunkards,
but a real, truthful and firm promise, that if I were saved this time, I would never
drink again. I doubled this up with a very intense vow in order to shield my heart
from all sides, in order to close the gates to any evil arguments. But all in vain! It
was no help at all. Neither Govardhan nor Nrisingh took any heed. They came
only in the satyug. The pledge did not help nor did the vow improve matters. All
that was fated for me, good or bad, had to happen. Destiny did not consider my
promise adequate enough to fortify my resolve.
The butler stood by his word. He got slapped, pushed around, had his beard
tugged, but he didn’t utter a word. He was indeed a truthful and courageous man.
Even I, perhaps, wouldn’t have been able to stand my ground under similar
circumstances. Perhaps I would have blurted out everything with the first slap.
The deep fear I was nursing of him proved to be completely unfounded. Till the
day I live, I am going to sing praises of that brave soul.
But I got struck by lightning from an altogether different quarter.

When the beating and slapping did not produce any results, the sahib took him
by the ears and dragged him towards the Dak Bungalow. When I saw them
by the ears and dragged him towards the Dak Bungalow. When I saw them
approaching, I rushed towards the veranda and sat down trying to pretend that I
knew nothing. The sahib presented the butler to me. I also stood up. If someone
had cut my heart open at that moment, he wouldn’t have found a drop of blood.
The sahib asked me, ‘Well, Vakil Sahib, do you drink?’
I couldn’t deny that.
‘Did you drink last night?’
I couldn’t deny that.
‘Did you take alcohol from my butler?’
I couldn’t deny that.
‘Did you hide the bottle and glass under your pillow after drinking?’
I couldn’t deny that. I had been afraid of the butler spilling it all out, while
doing just the same myself.
‘You know that this amounts to stealing?’
I couldn’t deny that.
‘I can get you suspended, your licence could be seized, and you’d be sent to
jail.’
It was true, indeed!
‘I can kick you and nobody can touch me.’
This too was true.
‘You black man, you think you are a lawyer! And you sent my servant to steal
alcohol for you. But your punishment shall be of your choosing. What is it that
you want?’
I said to him trembling, ‘Your Majesty, I beg your pardon.’
‘No, name the punishment.’
‘Whatever you think I deserve!’
‘Okay, then that will be done.’
After saying this, that cruel demon summoned two guards and had both my
hands tied. I kept standing there in dumb silence with my head bowed in the
manner of a guilty student waiting to be caned by the teacher. What punishment
had he decided to give me? I hoped he wouldn’t pinion me or make me do sit-
ups. There was no hope of any help from the gods, but I had no other option than
to invoke the invisible powers.
Leaving me with the guards, the magistrate went to the office and from there
he emerged with stamp ink and a brush. Tears had started flowing from my eyes.
I felt deeply humiliated and all for a little liquor! That too after paying double
I felt deeply humiliated and all for a little liquor! That too after paying double
the price!
The sahib painted my face black. The colour was so dark that I would need to
use up several bars of soap to scrub it off. I kept standing there, tail between my
legs. Those two angels of hell also felt no pity for me. They were my
countrymen, but I was suffering this sorry plight at their hands. Surely we will
gain independence at this rate!
The sahib kept laughing as he painted my face black. He didn’t leave a spot of
clear space except for the eyes. I was being turned into an ape for a few drops of
wine. In my heart, I was thinking that as soon as I leave this place, I am going to
sue the rascal for my loss of honour, or else I would get some hooligans to beat
him up with shoes in the court precincts itself.
After turning me into an ape, the sahib released my hands and clapping his
hands, he ran after me. It was nine o’clock. All the people—the staff, lawyers
and clerks—had gathered around. There were hundreds of people there. I don’t
know what struck me all of a sudden, but I ran from there. It was the most
pathetic sight in the entire scene of my ridicule. I was running ahead and behind
me the Englishman and hundreds of onlookers were chasing me, clapping in glee
and shouting, ‘Catch him, let him not get away.’ It was as if they were chasing a
monkey.
This running went on for a mile at least. Thanks to the fact that I was an
athletic person, I made good my escape, otherwise God alone knows what would
have happened to me. Maybe they wanted to make me ride a donkey. When I
had left them behind at a distance, I sat near a stream. I was out of breath. If
someone had come there, I would have pelted stones at them. But I did not try to
wash my face in the drain. I knew that the ink would not go with water alone. I
kept on thinking about how I was going to file a suit against the judge. Of
course, I would have to suppress the fact that I had stolen alcohol from his
butler. If this came to light, I would fall into a trap instead. What harm could
there be in hiding this? I would furnish some other reason for the enmity, but sue
I must.
Where to go? Who should I show this blackened face to? O horror! If the
rascal had to put black paint, couldn’t he have used ash or the black in the lamp?
At least it would have rubbed off. Whatever insult I had to suffer would have
remained confined to the particular episode. Now it appears as if I myself am
trumpeting the news of my misdeeds. Anyone else in my place would have
drowned himself in humiliation.
The only relief was that I had not met anyone on the road as yet. What would I
have told him if was asked how I had got my face blackened? When my
weariness diminished somewhat, I got thinking about how long I would sit there.
Come on; let me make an effort and see if the ink will wash off. I started
scrubbing my face with sand. I found that the ink was rubbing off. Nobody can
imagine the exhilaration I felt at that moment. My morale picked up from there. I
scrubbed my face so hard that in many places, the skin came off. But however
intense the pain it seemed nothing in front of the urgent need to get rid of the
black paint. Even though my head was uncovered, and I was wearing just a kurta
and dhoti, it was nothing compared to the humiliation I had undergone. My
gown, achkan and turban had got left behind in the Dak Bungalow. I was not
worried about them. At least the black had come off.
But even though the paint had left me, it inflicted deep scars on my psyche.
Many days have passed since this incident. For five years, I haven’t touched a
drop of drink let alone made a mention of alcohol. Perhaps Providence had
devised this trick to bring me back to the right path. No argument, reason or
method would have had such a radical influence on me. Looking at the good
turn, I can only say that whatever happened happened for the best. That is how
things should have happened, but every time I remember what I went through, I
lose sleep.
Why should I now spin out my tale of woe? The readers can guess this on
their own. The news spread far and wide, but instead of feeling embarrassed and
ashamed, I thought it wiser to act shamelessly. I would laugh at my folly and
relish recounting unhesitatingly the tale of my misery. Of course, I was cunning
enough to add bits from my side. For example, I would say that on that night,
when I became intoxicated, I walked into the sahib’s room with my glass and
pounded him thoroughly with a chair. This addition would bring some relief to
my oppressed, humiliated and deadened spirit. What transpired in my heart, the
heart alone knew.
My greatest fear was that this news would reach the ears of my dear wife. She
would have felt very hurt. I don’t know if she ever heard about it or not, but she
never mentioned it to me.
Translated from the Hindi by Nandini Chandra
 Rescue

The system of marriage in Hindu society has become so distorted, worrisome

and fearful that no one knows how to reform it. Indeed, parents who would
happily welcome the birth of a girl child even after the birth of seven male
progeny are rare. From the moment a girl child is born her parents begin to
worry about her marriage and the peace of the family is lost. The situation has
become so desperate that there is no dearth of parents who heave a sigh of relief
at the death of a daughter. The only reason for this is that the amount of dowry
one is expected to pay is increasing by leaps and bounds, much like the current
of a water stream during the rainy season. Earlier, one spent in the range of a few
hundred rupees, now it has reached the range of thousands. Not so long ago only
rich families spent one or two thousand on dowry. Marriages in ordinary
families could be managed between five hundred to one thousand rupees. But
nowadays, even very ordinary marriages cannot be organized for less than three
or four thousand rupees. While expenses have increased, the educated classes are
getting impoverished. Only God knows where it will all end.
If parents have even a dozen male children, they do not worry. They do not
think that their marriages will put a burden on them. It is not a ‘compulsory’
subject for them but an ‘optional’ one. If possible, they’ll get them married, or
they’ll say—go, fend for yourself, and get married if you can afford to. It is not
considered a blot on the family if a boy’s character is not good. But a daughter
has to be married, there’s no running away from it. If there’s a delay in the
marriage and the girl takes a misstep, then the whole family is disgraced. It is
made an outcast in the society. If the girl can hide her transgression skilfully,
then nothing will happen. No one will dare sully her name. But if, unfortunately,
she cannot hide it and it comes out into the open, then her parents and her
relatives cannot show their faces to others. No humiliation is more unbearable
than this, no calamity more terrifying.
The irony is—those who have already faced difficulties at the time of their
daughter’s marriage forget them at the time of the marriage of their sons, and do
not show the slightest sympathy for the girl’s family. In fact, they are determined
to extract more from the girl’s family than they had spent. Countless parents die
a premature death worrying about their daughters’ marriages, many others
renounce the world by taking sanyas, some marry their daughters to old men and
thus get rid of them. They cannot afford to judge whether the groom is good or
bad.
Munshi Gulzarilal was one such hapless father. His economic condition was
not too bad. He was a lawyer and earned about two hundred and fifty rupees a
month. He was from the genteel class and had a generous disposition. So he
couldn’t save much from his income. He was a generous host to his relatives and
friends. God had given him several sons, so he had to spend money on their
upkeep and education. He spent liberally on the marriage of his first daughter.
But the marriage of his second daughter became a messy affair. It was necessary
that the marriage be negotiated with a good family, or people would make fun of
them. But marrying into a good family meant an expense of at least five
thousand rupees. The girl was growing taller by the day. She ate the same food
as the boys, but while the boys looked sickly, she grew bigger and bigger like
the waxing moon. After much running around, Munshiji heard about a well-
educated boy. His father worked in the excise department at a monthly salary of
four hundred rupees. Gulzarilal said to his wife, ‘We’ve got a boy from a good
family. But the problem is—the boy doesn’t want to marry. His father and others
have tried to persuade him; I also did my bit. But he’s not budging an inch. Says
he’ll never marry. I can’t figure out why he hates marriage so much. He doesn’t
give any reasons. Simply says it’s his wish. He is the only son of his parents. It is
their greatest desire that he should get married, but what can they do? Well, they
have accepted our gift of fruits, but made it clear to me that the boy is obstinate.
If he doesn’t agree they’ll return the gift.’
‘Didn’t you ask the boy in private?’ his wife asked.
 ‘Didn’t you ask the boy in private?’ his wife asked.
‘I did. He just kept sitting before me and crying. Then he got up. What can I
say? I fell at his feet. But he just left the place without saying anything.’
‘Wait and see. How much we’ll have to suffer for this girl!’ his wife lamented.
‘Nowadays, boys are not serious. One reads in English books that many
people in Europe like to stay unmarried. They are obsessed with the idea that
peace and happiness in life is ensured if one remains unattached. Marriage
brings with it all kinds of problems. When I was in college I too believed that I’d
stay alone and enjoy myself.’
‘It’s true, actually. Marriage is the root of all problems. If you hadn’t married
you wouldn’t have faced these problems. I’d have lived in peace too if I had
stayed unmarried.’

After a month the bridegroom wrote the following letter to Gulzarilal.

Esteemed Sir
Sincere greetings!
I’m writing this letter to you today in the midst of a mental dilemma. Please forgive my audacity.
Since you left our house, both my parents have been pressurizing me to get married. My father is
annoyed with me while my mother keeps crying. They feel that I’m running away from marriage out
of sheer obstinacy. They have also started thinking that I may have lost my character. I’m scared of
telling them the actual reason because it will be a shock to them which might prove fatal. That is why
I want to reveal to you the secret I’ve been harbouring in my mind for so long. I request you
earnestly to keep it a secret and not to reveal it to them under any circumstances. What is bound to
happen will happen. But I don’t want to drown them in sorrow as long as I can help it. For the last
five or six months I have suspected that I have tuberculosis. All its symptoms are becoming apparent.
Doctors too have the same opinion. I have shown myself to the two most experienced doctors here.
Both of them are of the opinion that I have tuberculosis. If I tell this to my parents they will die
crying. When I know that I am going to be in this world for a short while only, it is sin for me to even
think of marriage. It is possible that if I take all the precautions I may live for one or two more years.
But that’ll be very risky in my situation because if there are children then they too will be infected
and die a premature death. My wife may also catch the infection from me. If I stay a bachelor, my
decision will affect only me. If I marry, the lives of several people will be ruined. That is why my
request to you is not to bind me in this bond. If you do, you’ll only regret it later.
Yours obediently,
Hazarilal

Gulzarilal read out the letter to his wife and asked, ‘What do you think of this
letter?’
‘It looks as though he’s making it all up,’ his wife said.
 ‘It looks as though he’s making it all up,’ his wife said.
‘Of course. I’m of the same opinion. He thinks people will leave him alone if
he makes up such an excuse. He can’t be sick. I saw him, his face was glowing.
It is pretty obvious when one is actually sick.’
‘Take God’s name and just fix the marriage. No one can read anyone’s fate
anyway.’
‘I’m also thinking along these lines.’
‘Or show the boy to a doctor. If he really is afflicted with the disease then
poor Amba will be left high and dry.’
‘Are you crazy? This is merely an excuse. I know very well how these lads
think—he’s enjoying his life now and that once he gets married, it will all come
to an end.’
‘Then prepare to send the lagan at an auspicious hour.’

Hazarilal was in a dilemma. He was being forced to wear the shackles of

marriage and he couldn’t do a thing about it. He had shared his secret with his
prospective father-in-law, but no one believed what he said. He couldn’t muster
enough courage to let his parents know about his ailment, thinking of the impact
it would have on their minds and what they might do as a consequence. He toyed
with the idea of sending testimonies from some doctor to his father-in-law, but
what if his father-in-law didn’t believe that either? It was not at all difficult to
get fake testimonies from doctors. ‘He must have paid some doctor to write the
testimonies for him,’ he’d think. He wanted to marry, but the doctors had opined
that if he married, his lifeline might be weakened. Instead of months, he might
die in a matter of days.
The lagan had arrived. Preparations for the wedding were afoot. Guests were
visiting. But Hazarilal stayed away from the house most of the time. Should I
run away from home? His heart came to his mouth at the thought of marriage.
What’ll happen to the poor girl? he wondered. What will she think of me when
she gets to know about my ailment? Who will atone for this sin? No, I shouldn’t
inflict this pain on the helpless girl. I won’t push her to widowhood. What’s the
worth of my life? I’m going to die—if not tomorrow then the day after. Then why
don’t I die today? Why shouldn’t I put an end to my life and all the worries and
consequences today itself? Father will cry, mother might die, but a girl’s life will
be saved. My death will not leave any helpless orphan behind.
Let me go and tell my father. He’ll be sad for a few days, Ammaji will give up
food for one or two days out of shock, but let that be. It’s no small matter if a
woman’s life is saved at the cost of my parents’ afflictions for a short while.
It was ten in the night. Babu Darbarilal was lying on the cot, smoking his
hookah. Today, he had spent his entire day running from one place to another.
He had reserved the tents, paid an advance to the bandwalas and arranged for the
fireworks. He had also negotiated with the Brahmins for hours. Right now, he
had just stretched himself out to rest when he got startled seeing Hazarilal before
him. He looked at his son’s fallen face, his tearful eyes and his pale expression
and said, somewhat worried, ‘Why Lalu, are you all right? You look a bit sad.’
‘I want to say something to you; but I’m afraid lest you get displeased.’
‘Oh, now I understand. It’s that same old thing, isn’t it? If you have something
else to say, then go ahead.’
‘I’m afraid that’s the only matter I want to talk about.’
‘So it is the old rant—don’t bind me in this bond, I’m unworthy of it. I can’t
bear this burden. The fetters will snap my neck and so on and so forth? Is there
anything new?’
‘Oh yes. It’s something new. I’m willing to carry out your order by all means.
But there is something that I have concealed from you until now. I want to make
a clean breast of it. After that, whatever you decide, I’ll carry it out with utmost
obedience.’
Hazarilal revealed the facts with utmost humility. He also gave an account of
the doctor’s opinion and said at last, ‘I’m sure you won’t compel me to marry in
such a situation.’
Darbarilal looked intently at his son’s face. There was no yellowish tinge on
it. He couldn’t believe his son’s account. But he pretended to remain absorbed in
deep thought so that he could conceal his distrust and express his heartfelt
sorrow. He said in a pained voice, ‘Son, it’s all the more necessary to marry
then. God forbid that we should live to see that unfortunate day. But if you
marry, at least there will be someone to continue your family line. If God blesses
you with a child, he’ll be the sole support of our old age. We’ll console our
hearts by repeatedly looking at his face. At least there’ll be some purpose to our
lives. Then who can say what may happen next? It isn’t as if the doctors know
lives. Then who can say what may happen next? It isn’t as if the doctors know
about anyone’s destiny. God’s powers are infinite. Doctors can’t comprehend it.
You just relax and let us do what we are doing. If God wills, everything will turn
out to be all right.’
Hazarilal didn’t reply. His eyes became moist and his voice choked. He
returned to his room and lay down quietly.
Three more days passed by. But Hazarilal couldn’t take a decision. All the
arrangements for the wedding had been made. The mandap had been erected in
the courtyard. The gift baskets and the jewels had been kept in the chests. The
matri puja ceremony had been concluded and the musical instruments created an
uproar at the doorstep. The neighbourhood gathered around, listening to the
instruments and running helter-skelter in joy.
Evening had fallen. The marriage party was to leave by the night train. The
baraatis started putting on their clothes and jewels. Someone would get his hair
trimmed by the barber and wish that his beard were shaved in such a way that
there were no bristles anywhere. The old men would get their grey hairs plucked
out in an attempt to look young. Soaps, oils and cosmetics were used profusely.
Hazarilal was standing forlornly under a tree in the orchard and wondering what
to do.
He had to take a decision now. He couldn’t delay even a moment. There was
no one with whom he could share his pains.
He thought of how short-sighted parents could be. They were swept away by
their own desires. They didn’t even think about what would happen to the
daughter-in-law. Her parents too were blinded by their own compulsions and
they failed to see what was inevitable, pretended that it didn’t matter.
Is it a marriage? By no means. It’s like pushing the daughter into a well,
throwing her into a bonfire or stabbing her with a blunt knife. No suffering could
be as unbearable and heartrending as that of widowhood, and these people are
throwing their daughter into this fire knowingly. Is this behaviour worthy of
one’s parents? By no means. They are the enemies of their daughter. They are
butchers and murderers. Is there no punishment for them? Is there no
punishment for those who stain their hands with the blood of their dear
children? The society doesn’t give them any punishment, no one tells them
anything. Alas!
Hazarilal got up and left the place quietly. A peculiar pallor had overcast his
face. He decided to put an end to this dilemma by sacrificing his life. He had no
face. He decided to put an end to this dilemma by sacrificing his life. He had no
fear of death. He had reached the stage where all longings find their fruition in
death.
No one saw Hazarilal after that. No one knew if it was the earth that
swallowed him or the sky. Nets were cast in the rivers, wells were poked with
long bamboo poles, his physical description was sent to the police,
advertisements were brought out in newspapers, but all in vain.
After several weeks, some bones were found on the road about a mile away
from the Cantonment railway station. People surmised that Hazarilal committed
suicide by throwing himself before the train, but no one could be sure.

It was the occasion of Teej in the month of Bhadon. A cleaning operation was
going on in the houses. Housewives, nicely decked up, were going to take the
ritual bath in the Ganga. Amba had returned after her bath and was invoking
God by standing before the tulsi tree. This was her first Teej in her husband’s
house; she’d kept the vow devotedly. Suddenly her husband came in, looked at
her with smiling eyes and said, ‘What is this fellow Munshi Darbarilal to you? A
gift has arrived for you for Teej. The postman delivered it a little while ago.’
Saying this he placed a parcel on the bed. Amba’s eyes became moist the
moment she heard Darbarilal’s name. She bent to pick up the parcel and stared at
it for some time, but she didn’t have the courage to open it. Her past memories
rekindled and her regard for Hazarilal welled up in her heart. It was because of
the sacrifice of that godlike man that she was now enjoying good days. May God
grant him salvation. He was not an ordinary man but a deity who had sacrificed
his life for her welfare.
Her husband asked, ‘Is Darbarilal your uncle?’
‘Yes,’ Amba answered.
‘This letter mentions Hazarilal, who is he?’
‘He’s Darbarilal’s son.’
‘Your cousin?’
‘No, he rescued me. He gave me a new life. He saved me from drowning in
deep waters. He’s the one who blessed me with the good fortune that I’m
enjoying now.’
Her husband felt as though he had remembered a long forgotten fact. ‘Now I
 Her husband felt as though he had remembered a long forgotten fact. ‘Now I
understand. Really, he wasn’t a man but a God.’

Translated from the Hindi by M. Asaduddin

 The Game of Chess

It was the reign of Wajid Ali Shah. Lucknow was steeped in a state of
indulgence. Everybody—young and old, rich and poor—was immersed in
luxury. If there were soirees of music and dance in some places, there were
opium parties in others. In every sphere of life, enjoyment and revelry ruled. In
politics and poetry, arts and crafts, trade and industry—everywhere—indulgence
was becoming pervasive. The courtiers were obsessed with drinking, poets with
the descriptions of love and longing, craftsmen with making gold and silver
embroidery, artisans with earning a livelihood from kohl, itr perfume, cosmetic
paste and oils. In short, the entire realm seemed to be in the thrall of sensual
pleasures. No one knew what was happening in the world. They had no idea
about the new discoveries in the world of knowledge and wisdom and how the
Western powers were establishing their dominance. People wagered on partridge
fights. If somewhere the game of checkers was set up and people raised an
uproar at every move, at some other place a terrible combat of chess was on with
contending armies ranged on both sides. The nawab’s condition was even worse.
Every day new tricks and prescriptions for sensual pleasures were being
devised. So much so that when beggars were given money, instead of buying
food they bought intoxicating stuff like opium and tobacco. The youth from the
nobility visited courtesans to train themselves in wit and repartee.
Chess was regarded as an elixir that sharpened the mind and augmented the
analytical prowess of the players. Even now, there are people who put forward
this argument most forcefully. Therefore, if Mirza Sajjad Ali and Mir Roshan
Ali spent most of their time sharpening their minds then what objection could a
Ali spent most of their time sharpening their minds then what objection could a
discerning man possibly have, even if fools thought otherwise! Both of them had
inherited ancestral estates and did not have to worry about their livelihood. After
all, what else could they do? Having had their breakfast early in the morning
both the gentlemen would set up a chess board, arrange the chessmen and start
sharpening their minds. They would get so lost in the game that they wouldn’t
realize when morning turned to noon and noon to evening. From inside the
house attendants would come to say that the meal was ready. And they would
respond, ‘Sure, we’re coming. Spread the mat out.’ But what were dishes of
korma and pulao against the delicious game of chess! In fact, the cook was
eventually forced to bring the food right there, and then both the friends
manifested their skill by doing both activities simultaneously. Sometimes the
food lay there, uneaten, as they played on, oblivious of its existence.
Mirza Sajjad Ali did not have any elderly people at his home, so the game was
played in his drawing room. This, however, didn’t mean that the other people in
Mirza’s household were happy with this habit of his. Definitely not. Not only the
members of his family, but neighbours and even servants often made caustic
comments. ‘What an inauspicious game! It ruins households. God forbid, when
someone gets addicted to it, he becomes entirely useless to his family and
friends. Totally worthless! It’s a fatal addiction.’ In fact, Mirza’s wife despised
the game so much that she lay in wait for opportunities to reproach him. But she
rarely found such opportunities. Even before she woke up the chess board was
laid out and when Mirza finally entered the bedroom at night she was fast asleep.
Sure enough, she would vent her anger on the servants, ‘What has mian asked
for, paan? Tell him to come and take it. Does he have fetters on his feet? What?
Did he say he had no time to eat food? Okay, then take the food and dump it on
his head. They can eat if they want or feed the dogs. Who’d keep waiting here
for him?’ But the fact was—she did not complain as much about her husband as
she did about Mir Sahib. She had given him nicknames like ‘Mir, the spoiler’,
‘Mir, the wrecker’ and so on. To save his skin Mirzaji often passed off all the
blame to Mir.
One day, when Begum Sahiba had a headache, she told the maid, ‘Go and call
Mirza Sahib. He must fetch medicine from the hakim for me. Run, hurry up.’
When the maid went to convey the message to Mirza he said, ‘Go, I’m coming.’
Begum Sahiba was not in the mood to wait. She simply couldn’t take it that
Begum Sahiba was not in the mood to wait. She simply couldn’t take it that
while she had a headache her husband continued to play chess. Her face blazed
in anger. She ordered the maid, ‘Go and tell him to come this moment, otherwise
I’ll go to the hakim alone.’ The game had taken a critical turn. Just two steps and
he was going to checkmate Mir. He got annoyed and said, ‘Is she on the verge of
death that she can’t wait a moment? Does the hakim have a magic wand to make
the headache disappear?’
Mir said, ‘Why don’t you go and listen to what she has to say? Women are
delicate creatures.’
‘Of course, you’d surely like me to go. Just two manoeuvres and you’re
checkmated!’
‘Sir, don’t be so confident. I’ve thought of a move that’ll checkmate you even
while your pieces stay where they are. But go, hear her out. Why do you want to
hurt her feelings needlessly?’
‘Then I’ll go only after defeating you.’
‘I won’t play. Just go and hear her out.’
‘Come on, I’ll have to go the hakim. She doesn’t have a headache. It’s just a
trick to trouble me.’
‘Whatever it is, you must do it for her sake.’
‘All right. Let me play one more move.’
‘Certainly not! As long as you don’t go and listen to her I won’t even touch
the pawns.’
Left with no choice, Mirza went in to face Begum Sahiba. She groaned as she
said, ‘You love this cursed chess so much that you don’t care even when
somebody is dying. Is it a game or my rival? God forbid there’s anyone like
you!’
‘What can I do? Mir Sahib wouldn’t let me go. I had to try hard to get rid of
him.’
‘Does he think everyone else is as worthless as him? He also has a family and
children, does he not? Or has he got rid of them?’
‘The fellow is an addict. When he comes over I cannot but play with him.’
‘Why don’t you shoo him away like a dog?’
‘Subhanallah! He’s my equal in society. In fact, he’s two steps ahead of me in
age and status. I have to show respect.’
 ‘Then I’ll shoo him away. If he feels bad, let him. As if he provides us with
our daily bread. I have to protect my husband. Hariya1, go bring the chess board
from outside. Tell Mir Sahib that master won’t play any more. He may leave.’
‘Come on, don’t be so rude. Do you want to defame me? Stop, Hariya, don’t
run like a stupid woman.’
‘Why don’t you let her go? You’ll see me dead if you stop her. Fine, you’ve
stopped her. Stop me if you can.’
She stormed out of the room in a rage. Mirza turned pale. Mist gathered
before his eyes. He began to plead with his wife, ‘In the name of the martyr of
Karbala2, you’ll see my dead face if you go there.’ The begum didn’t pay any
heed to him. She went up to the door of the drawing room but all of a sudden she
stopped in her tracks, feeling embarrassed to go in front of a stranger, a na-
mehram. She peered into the room, which was empty now.
Mir had shifted the positions of one or two pawns, as he was wont to do, and
had gone out and was pacing the courtyard. Begum Sahiba had her wish
fulfilled. She went inside and upturned the chessboard, threw some of the pieces
under the settee and some outside. Then she bolted the door from inside. Mir
was at the door. He saw the pieces being flung out and also heard the jingle of
bangles. When the door was banged shut he realized that Begum Sahiba was in a
temper. He slunk away from the scene and made for his home.
Mirza said, ‘What a disgrace!’
Begum Sahiba was unfazed. ‘Now if the fellow comes here again, I’ll have
him turned out. Does he think it’s a guesthouse? If he had shown such devotion
to God he’d have become a saint by now. You go on playing chess and expect
me to wear myself out grinding and cooking? You think I’m a slave? Are you
going to the hakim right now or not?’
Mirza left the house. However, instead of going to the hakim he went to Mir’s
home and told him the whole story.
Mir said, ‘I could guess when I saw the chess pieces being flung out. I fled!
She seems to fly off the handle. You have really given her a long rope, this is not
proper. How does it concern her what you do outside? It’s her duty to keep the
house in order.’
‘Anyway, where shall we meet now?’ Mirza asked.
‘That’s no problem!’ Mir reassured his friend. ‘My house is big enough. We
can have our sessions here.’
can have our sessions here.’
‘But how shall I convince Begum Sahiba? She flew into a rage when I played
at home; if I start coming here she’ll surely kill me.’
‘Let her babble. She’ll come around in a couple of days. But you should show
some backbone.’

For some unknown reason Mir’s begum had always preferred him to stay away
from home. Therefore, she never showed any displeasure towards his means of
entertainment. On the contrary, if he ever got late for chess or was in two minds,
she made sure to remind him about it and would in fact encourage him to go.
Because of this Mir was under the delusion that his wife was gentle, forbearing
and faithful. But when the sessions started happening in the drawing room of
their house and Mir spent the entire day at home, she felt that her freedom had
been severely curtailed and so was deeply worried. She yearned all day long to
have a look outside, and began thinking about how to overcome the hindrance.
Meanwhile, even the servants began to spin yarns. So far, they had been
accustomed to idling around and doing nothing. They were not bothered about
who came into the house or who left it. They were simply required to go to the
market a couple of times. Now they had to constantly be on their toes. They
were ordered to serve paan, water or ice at frequent intervals. And the hookah
burned at all hours like a lover’s heart. They went to their Begum Sahiba and
voiced their complaints: ‘The master’s love for chess has become a great
problem for us. Our feet have developed blisters from running errands. What
kind of a game goes on from morning till evening? A diversion for an hour or
two—that’s enough for any game. Of course, we aren’t complaining. We are the
master’s slaves. We will carry out whatever orders are given to us, but this is an
inauspicious game. Whoever plays this game never prospers. Some disaster will
befall this household. Neighbourhood after neighbourhood has gone to ruin
because of this game. The people of the mohalla taunt us about it and we feel
embarrassed.’
Begum Sahiba replied, ‘I detest the wretched game myself. But what can I do?
What power do I have?’
There were a few old and wise people in the locality who began to have all
kinds of misgivings. ‘Now, we’re done for! When our nobles are like this then
kinds of misgivings. ‘Now, we’re done for! When our nobles are like this then
God help the land! This kingdom will be ruined by this addiction of chess. The
signs are bad.’
The entire kingdom was in disarray. People were getting robbed in broad
daylight. There was no one to hear their grievances. All the wealth of the
countryside was drawn into Lucknow to be squandered on prostitutes, clowns
and pimps. Courtesans were reigning supreme. Gold coins rained down in wine
shops. The princes would fling around gold coins with abandon. While the
nobility went about spending recklessly, the debts owed to the East India
Company were mounting with every passing day. No one was bothered about
paying it back. It came to such a pass that even the annual taxes were no longer
collected. The resident sent repeated reminders and warnings, but nobody paid
these any heed because people were lost in their indulgences.
Nevertheless, the chess game continued in Mir’s drawing room for several
months. New plans were thought out, defences erected and demolished.
Sometimes they had squabbles which were aggravated for a time but were then
brought under control. Sometimes Mirza was so incensed that he left the game in
a huff and returned home, while Mir folded the chess cloth, retired to his own
chamber and resolved on oath not to go near the game again. But come morning
the friends were seen together again. A good night’s sleep removed all
bitterness.
One day both the friends were in the thick of a chess battle when an officer of
the king’s army came riding on a horse, asking for Mir. Mir lost his wits. What
calamity was this? He shut the doors of the house, and instructed the servants,
‘Tell them I’m not home.’
The rider demanded, ‘Where is he if not at home?’
The servant replied, ‘I don’t know. What do you want?’
‘Why should I tell you? He has been summoned by the king. Perhaps soldiers
are being conscripted for the army. It’s not a joke being a master of a rent-free
estate.’
‘Very well, you may go. We’ll convey the message.’
‘Simply conveying the message isn’t enough. I’ll come tomorrow and take
him along.’
When the rider left, Mir was still in a panic. He was shaking with terror. He
said to Mirza, ‘What’s going to happen now?’
‘What a bolt from the blue! What if I’m summoned too?’ Mirza panicked.
 ‘What a bolt from the blue! What if I’m summoned too?’ Mirza panicked.
‘The bastard said he’d come again tomorrow.’
‘It’s such a misfortune! If we have to join the army we’ll die before our time. I
get a temperature at the very name of battle.’
‘I won’t be able to eat or drink from today.’
‘Listen, there’s just one way out. Let’s disappear, he won’t find us even if he
combs the entire city. Starting tomorrow, let’s have our session at some deserted
place on the banks of the Gomti. Who can find us there? When that fellow
comes for me, he’ll have to go back empty-handed.’
‘That’s right, what a splendid idea! From tomorrow, we’ll meet on the banks
of the Gomti.’
In the meantime, Mir’s begum was saying to the horseman, ‘You disguised
yourself perfectly!’
He answered, ‘I’m accustomed to making such jackasses dance to my tune.
Chess has robbed them of all their common sense and courage. Now you’ll see
they won’t stay at home even by mistake. They’ll leave early morning and return
by midnight.’

From the next day both friends would leave home at the crack of dawn. They
carried with them a small mat and a paan box. Crossing the Gomti they reached
an old, deserted mosque which was perhaps a relic of the Mughal period. On the
way they picked up tobacco, pipe and wine. After reaching the mosque they
spread the mat, filled their pipe and sat down to play their game. Then they were
without a care in the world. Apart from a few words like ‘move’, ‘check’ and
‘checkmate’ no other word came out of their mouth. No mystic could have been
more deeply rapt in his meditation. In the afternoon when they felt hungry they
went through narrow streets to a baker’s shop, ate something, smoked tobacco
and then got absorbed in the game again. At times, they forgot about eating
altogether.
Meanwhile, the political condition of the country was getting more
complicated. The forces of the East India Company were moving rapidly
towards Lucknow. There was commotion in the city and people were fleeing to
the countryside with their families. But our two chess players carried on
unperturbed. They would step out of their homes through the bylanes, escaping
the gaze of bystanders. Even their neighbours couldn’t get a glimpse of them. By
then, the British army had reached close to Lucknow.
One day both friends were playing chess. Mirza had the upper hand and Mir
was being checked again and again. Suddenly, the soldiers of the East India
Company were seen approaching. The Company had decided to mount a raid on
Lucknow. It wanted to gobble up the kingdom on the pretext of the unpaid loan.
It was the same capitalist ploy that had put fetters on all weak nations.
Mir said, ‘Here comes the British army!’
Mirza retorted, ‘Let them come! Save your pawns. Checkmate.’
‘We must take a peek, hiding behind a wall. Just see how youthful and mighty
they look! The mere sight makes one tremble in fear.’
‘You can see them later. What’s the rush! Check again!’
‘They have artillery too. There must be around five thousand soldiers! Red
faces just like monkeys!’
‘Don’t make excuses, sir. Here’s check!’
‘We’ll think about it when the time comes. Here, you’re checkmated.’
The army went past them. The friends got ready for a second round of the
game. Mirza said, ‘What’re we going to do about our meal today?’
Mir replied, ‘Today is a day of fasting. Are you feeling hungrier than usual?’
‘I wonder what’s happening in the city!’
‘People must be taking a nap after having their meals. His Highness the
Nawab Sahib also must be taking rest. Or there might be a round of drinking
going on.’
By the time the two friends set down to play, it was three. This time Mirza
was losing. At that moment the army of returning soldiers was heard. Nawab
Wajid Ali had been dethroned and the army was taking him away as a prisoner.
There was no turmoil in the city. No brave soldier of his spilled even a single
drop of blood. The nawab bade a tearful goodbye to his people, just like a bride
does at the moment of parting from her parents. The begums wept, the nawab
wept, the maids wept, and that was all! A kingdom came to an end. In human
history, no independent ruler of a country could have been overthrown so
peacefully and quietly. It was not the kind of non-violence which delights
angels. It was the kind of cowardice and impotence at which gods shed tears.
The nawab of the vast state of Awadh had been imprisoned and Lucknow was
The nawab of the vast state of Awadh had been imprisoned and Lucknow was
lost in a sensual slumber. This was the last stage of political decadence.
Mirza said, ‘Those tyrants have captured His Excellency the Nawab Sahib!’
Mir parried, ‘Quite right. You aren’t a judge! Look here, check!’
‘Just a moment, sir. I can’t concentrate on the game right now. His Highness
must be shedding tears of blood! The lamp that had lit up Lucknow has gone out.
The nawab must be crying his heart out.’
‘Cry he must! Where will he find this luxury in the white man’s prison? Again
check!’
‘Time doesn’t stay the same for anyone. What a great catastrophe!’ Mirza
sounded philosophical.
‘Yes, that’s true. Here again, check! That’s it, you’ll be checkmated in the
second move. No one can save you!’
‘Wallah! You’re so heartless! Don’t you feel any grief at such a catastrophe!
The chief patron of arts, His Excellency, is no more. Lucknow has become
desolate!’
‘First save your king and then you can mourn for Nawab Sahib. Here’s check
and mate! Now, play your move!’
The army went by taking the nawab with them. Mirza set up the chess pieces
again. The sting of defeat is bitter. Mir said, ‘Come now, let’s write an elegy for
Nawab Sahib’s tragic destiny.’ But Mirza’s loyalty and etiquette had vanished
with his defeat. He was baying for vengeance.

Evening took over. Bats began to screech in the ruins. Swallows returned to their
nests and were taking rest. But both players continued their game like two
bloodthirsty warriors locked in a combat. Mirza had lost three games in a row
and the fourth one, too, didn’t look promising. He played each move with great
caution with the firm resolve to win, but one move turned out to be so ill-advised
that it spoiled the entire game for him. On the other side, Mir was singing
ghazals and thumris in ecstasy, occasionally teasing his friend and cracking
jokes. He seemed very pleased with himself, as if he had come upon some
hidden treasure. This annoyed Mirza no end. He frowned again and again and
said in exasperation, ‘Sir, don’t change your moves. What is this— you make a
move and then immediately alter it! Think carefully before you make a move.
move and then immediately alter it! Think carefully before you make a move.
Why is your hand on that piece? Leave it alone! Until you’ve decided the next
move in your mind, don’t touch your piece. Sir, you take half an hour for every
manoeuvre. This is against the rules! Whoever takes more than five minutes for
a move will be declared checkmated. You’ve changed your move again! Why
don’t you quietly place it back!’
Mir’s queen was about to be taken. He said, ‘When did I even make my
move?’
Mirza replied, ‘You’ve already made the move. Just put the piece right there
in the same square.’
‘Why should I put it back in that square? When did I take my hand off the
piece?’
‘If you wait till doomsday to make your move, will the game stop? The
moment you saw your queen in danger, you started cheating.’
‘You’re the one who cheats! Victory and defeat is decided by fate. Nobody
wins by cheating.’
‘Then it’s settled. You’ve lost the game,’ Mirza said in a tone of finality.
‘How have I lost it?’
‘Then you keep the piece back where it was.’
‘Why should I keep it there? I won’t!’
‘You’ll have to!’
‘Never!’
‘I’ll make you do it. What’s your worth, after all?’
The argument worsened. Each stuck to his position, neither one gave an inch.
When an argument heats up, irrelevant issues are inevitably brought in to
disgrace and humiliate the other party.
Mirza said, ‘If anybody in your family had ever played chess then you’d have
been familiar with the rules. But they were just grass cutters. So how can you be
expected to play? Real aristocracy is something else! Nobody can become a
noble just by having a jagir.’
Mir was aghast, and said, ‘Your father must have been a grass cutter! My
people have been playing chess for generations!’
‘Oh, come off it! Your ancestors served as cooks in Nawab Ghaziuddin
Haider’s house, and in return got a jagir. And you call yourself a noble! It’s no
joke to be a noble.’
‘Why are you defaming your own ancestors? They must’ve worked as cooks.
 ‘Why are you defaming your own ancestors? They must’ve worked as cooks.
My forebears always dined and wined at the nawab’s own table!’
‘Some people are just shameless!’
‘Hold your tongue or you’ll regret it. I’m not accustomed to hearing such
words. I pull out the eyes of those who dare frown at me.’
‘Do you want to see how brave I am? Come on, let’s slug it out then.’
‘Come, if you dare! You think I’ll cower before you?’
Out came the swords from their sheaths. In those times, everyone, high or
low, went around carrying daggers, swords, poniards and the like. Both were
lovers of pleasures but not cowards. The sentiments of patriotism had died in
them but they did not lack valour. Political sentiments had died in them—why
should they die for the emperor, the kingdom and the nation? Why should they
lose sleep over them? But when it came to defending their own honour, they
were fearless. Both took their positions. Sword clashed with sword, making a
loud clang. Both fell to the ground wounded, writhing in pain and gave their
lives. They didn’t shed a tear for the emperor but gave up their lives protecting
the queen of the chessboard.
Darkness was setting in. The game of chess was still set. Both the kings, each
on his throne, sat wistfully as if lamenting the death of these heroes.
It was desolate all around. The crumbling walls of the ruin, dilapidated
archways and dusty minarets looked down upon the corpses and lamented the
impermanence of human life, which was more fragile than stone and mortar.

Translated from the Urdu by M. Asaduddin

 One and a Quarter Ser of Wheat

There was a village where a peasant named Shankar lived. He was simple,
honest and poor. He was a straightforward person and did not interfere in
anyone’s affairs. He did not know how to manipulate, and never took recourse to
duplicity of any kind. He also did not care about being cheated. He had no
education. He would eat if there was something to eat, if not he was content to
chew cud. If there was nothing to chew he would simply drink water and go to
sleep. But when guests arrived he had to leave this path of contentment.
Especially if they were sadhus—then he had to worry about worldly affairs. He
could have gone to sleep with an empty stomach but could not leave the sadhu
hungry. He was truly a devoted soul.
One day a mahatma came and parked himself on his doorstep. His face was
majestic; he was wearing a pitambar, a yellow scarf, around his neck, had
matted hair on his head, a brass kamandal in hand, wooden slippers on his feet
and a pair of spectacles on his face. His whole demeanour was like that of the
mahatmas who frequent the houses of nobles, make rounds of temples on
aircrafts, and eat delicious food to achieve excellence in yoga. In these times
such mahatmas find it difficult to digest coarse wheat. Shankar was anxious
about how to feed the mahatma. Finally, he decided to borrow wheat from
someone. He couldn’t find wheat flour in the whole village. There were only
ordinary people in the village, and no deities, so how would one find divine feed
there? Fortunately, he found some wheat in the house of the village priest, a
Brahmin. He borrowed one and a quarter ser of wheat grains and asked his wife
to grind them. The mahatma ate that and slept soundly. When he got up in the
morning he gave them his blessings and was on his way.
The Brahmin collected alms twice a year. Shankar thought, ‘What’s the point
in returning one and a quarter ser of wheat? Instead, I will increase his alms.
He’ll understand, and I’ll understand.’ In the month of Chait, when the Brahmin
arrived to collect his alms Shankar gave him nearly one and a quarter ser of
wheat and thought himself free of his debt, and did not mention the matter. The
Brahmin also did not ask for it a second time. How did the simple-minded
Shankar know that he would have to take birth again to pay off the debt of one
and a quarter ser of wheat?

Seven years passed. From a priest, the Brahmin became a moneylender, and
from a peasant Shankar became a day labourer. Mangal, his younger brother,
separated from him to live independently. When they lived together as a joint
family, they were peasants. Separated, each one of them became a day labourer.
Shankar hoped they would part without bitterness, but he was helpless in the
face of the circumstances. The day food was cooked separately, he cried. The
two brothers turned into enemies from that day. If one cried, the other would
laugh; if there was mourning in one house, the other house would celebrate. The
bond of love, of blood, and of milk was snapped. Shankar had built the family
honour through hard work and maintained it through his life blood. But his heart
now broke to pieces to see it besmirched. He refused to eat food for seven days.
He worked right through the day in the scorching sun of Jaishta, and at night he
covered his face and went to sleep. The hard work and unbearable pain ate into
his vitals. He fell sick and remained bedridden for months. How would he run
his family? He now had only half the portion of the five bighas of family land
and one ox. How could he maintain himself as a peasant? Eventually, cultivation
remained only a means of family honour. For livelihood he had to become a day
labourer.
One day, when Shankar was returning from his day’s work the Brahmin
stopped him on the way and said, ‘Shankar, come tomorrow to settle the
accounts of your loan and interest. You have owed me five and a half maund of
wheat for ages, and you show no sign of paying up! What are your intentions?’
wheat for ages, and you show no sign of paying up! What are your intentions?’
Shankar was surprised. ‘When did I borrow five and a half maund of wheat
from you ? You forget I don’t owe anyone even a fistful of grains or a single
paisa!’
‘It’s because of this nature of yours that you don’t have enough to eat.’ The
Brahmin then reminded Shankar of the one and a quarter ser of wheat that he
had lent him seven years ago. Shankar was stunned. Oh God, how many times
have I given him alms; what work of mine did he ever do? Whenever he came to
my house to consult the almanac or tell the auspicious hour for some event, he
always took some ‘rewards’. What selfishness is this? One and a quarter ser of
grains has now taken on this monstrous proportion—it will gobble me up! If he
had given me an inkling I would’ve given him the appropriate measure of wheat
as repayment. Was he silent all this while so he could make more out of me? He
said, ‘Maharaj, it is true I haven’t given you grains of the exact measure saying
that it was to pay off your debt, but several times I have given you alms to the
measure of one ser or even two ser. Today you’re asking for five and a half
maund! Where can I get that from?’
The Brahmin asserted, ‘Whatever is written in the ledger stands as it is,
though the rewards may be hundred fold. Five and a half maund is written
against your name in the ledger, you can send anyone to examine the accounts.
You pay up and I’ll strike off your name; if you don’t, it will go on increasing.’
Shankar pleaded, ‘Why are you tormenting a poor man like me? I cannot
manage two square meals a day, where can I get so much wheat?’
‘You can bring it from wherever you want. I’ll not leave even a fistful of
grains. If you don’t pay now, you will have to pay in the hereafter.’
Shankar trembled in fear. If the statement was made to an educated person
like us, he would have said, ‘It’s all right, I’ll pay in the hereafter. The measure
there would not be greater than here. At least, why should I worry when there’s
no proof of the debt?’ But Shankar was neither clever nor argumentative. A debt
from a Brahmin . . . if the name remained in the ledger, it meant he would
directly go to hell. The mere thought made his hair stand on end. He said,
‘Maharaj, I’ll pay your debt here, why are you bringing God into it? I am being
pushed around in this birth, why should I sow a thorn for the next one? But this
is no justice. You have made a mountain out of a molehill. Being a Brahmin you
should not have done that. If you had asked for it earlier I would have paid up,
and this huge burden would not have fallen on me. I will pay up for sure, but you
and this huge burden would not have fallen on me. I will pay up for sure, but you
will have to answer before God.’
‘You might be afraid of the hereafter, why should I be? I will have my
brothers and friends there. The sages and seers are all Brahmin; God is also
Brahmin, whatever the situation is, they will manage it. Now tell me, when are
you paying up?’
‘I do not have any in my house. I can pay you only if I borrow from
someone.’
‘That does not make me very happy. It has been seven years, now I cannot
spare you even a day. If you cannot return the wheat, you have to sign a bond.’
‘I know I have to pay up. You can take the wheat or you can make me sign a
bond. What price will you put on the wheat?’
‘The market rate is five sers; I’ll draw the bond at the rate of five and a quarter
ser.’
‘If I have to pay, I’ll do it at the market rate. Why should I be blamed for
leaving the quarter?’
Sixty rupees was calculated to be the price of the wheat. A bond was drawn
out for sixty rupees at a three per cent interest. If not paid within a year the rate
of interest would be charged at three and a half per cent. Over and above that,
Shankar had to pay eight annas for the stamp paper and one rupee for drawing
the document.
The people of the entire village spoke ill of the Brahmin, but not to his face.
Everyone needed the moneylender, so no one wanted to rub him the wrong way.

Shankar worked hard for one year. He had vowed to pay off the debt before the
date was over. No cooking was done before afternoon. They used to live on
gram, now they stopped that too. Rotis were made only for their son and that too
at night. Shankar used to smoke tobacco worth one rupee earlier—it was his only
addiction, which he could not do without. Now he had to sacrifice even that for
the vow. He threw away the chillum, broke the hookah and smashed the tobacco
bowl. He had already given up clothes to a great extent; now he only wore the
barest minimum, to simply cover his nakedness. He spent the bone-chilling
winter sitting near the fire. His firm resolve bore fruit beyond his expectation. At
the end of the year he managed to collect sixty rupees. He had thought he would
the end of the year he managed to collect sixty rupees. He had thought he would
hand over the money to the Brahmin and say, ‘Maharaj, I shall pay the balance
as soon as possible.’ It was just a matter of fifteen rupees. Panditji would surely
agree to it. He took the money and gave it to the Brahmin who asked, surprised,
‘Have you borrowed it from somebody?’
‘No, Maharaj. With your blessings I got good wages.’
‘But there are only sixty rupees!’
‘Yes, Maharaj, take this now. The rest I’ll pay in the next two or three months.
Please release me.’
‘You’ll be released when you pay every paisa of mine. Go and bring me
fifteen rupees.’
‘Maharaj, show me some mercy. I do not have anything to eat in the evening.
I live in this village; I’ll pay you sometime in the future.’
‘I do not appreciate these excuses, nor do I care for such glib talk. If you do
not pay the entire amount, you will have to pay interest at the rate of three per
cent from today. You can keep your money with you or leave it here.’
‘All right. Please keep the amount I’ve brought you. I’ll go and try to manage
fifteen rupees from somewhere.’
Shankar tried everyone in the village but no one gave him money. This was
not because they did not trust Shankar or they did not have money to lend. It was
because no one had the courage to interfere with the Brahmin’s prey.

Reaction after an action is a principle of nature. When Shankar could not free
himself after the hard work of an entire year his hope turned into despair. He
realized that even after undergoing so much hardship if he could not collect
more than sixty rupees, he had no other means through which he could earn
double the amount. If he had to carry the burden of debt on his head how did it
matter whether the burden was big or small? His enthusiasm waned and he
began to despise hard work. Hope begets enthusiasm, hope is strength, hope is
life. It is hope that moves the world. Devoid of hope, Shankar became listless.
The necessities of life that he had ignored the entire year could not be ignored
any more. There was a limit to the patches he could stitch on his rags. Now if he
got some money, he bought clothes or some foodstuff. He’d smoked tobacco
earlier, now he added hemp and weeds to it. He was no longer worried about
earlier, now he added hemp and weeds to it. He was no longer worried about
paying off the loan. He behaved as though he had no debt at all! Earlier, he’d go
to work without fail even if he was sick. Now he looked for excuses to shirk
work.
Three years passed in this way. The Brahmin did not ask him to pay up even
once. Like an expert hunter he wanted to target his prey unawares. To forewarn
the prey was against his principle.
One day Panditji called Shankar and showed him the accounts. After
deducting the sixty rupees that Shankar had paid earlier, the balance now stood
at one hundred and twenty.
‘I can’t pay this much money in this birth, I’ll pay you in my next birth.’
‘I’ll take it right in this birth. If not the principal, you must pay the interest.’
‘I have just one ox, take it. I have a hut, take it. What else do I have?’
‘What shall I do with your ox or hut? You have a lot to give me.’
‘What do I have, Maharaj?’
‘If nothing, you at least have your own self. After all, you go to work for
others for wages. I also have to employ labourers for my fields. You can work
for me to pay the interest. Whenever it is convenient, you can pay the principal.
Honestly, you cannot go to work to other places as long as you haven’t paid my
money. You have no property of your own. How can I leave such a huge debt
without any security? Who can guarantee that you’ll pay me interest every
month? When you couldn’t pay me the interest by working elsewhere, how can
you pay the principal?’
‘Maharaj, I’ll work to pay the interest, but what shall I eat?’
‘You have your wife and sons. Will they sit idle? As for me, I’ll give you half
a ser of maize every day, and you’ll get one blanket per year. A mirzai, too.
What else do you need? It’s true that others give you six annas a day. But I do
not require your full services. I am keeping you so that you can pay back the
loan.’
Shankar thought deeply for some time. Then he said, ‘That means bonded
labour for life!’
‘Call it slavery or labour, I’m not going to leave you as long as you haven’t
paid back the loan. If you run away, your son shall pay. Of course, it’s a
different matter when you are no more.’
There was no appeal against this decision. Who was there to bail him out?
 There was no appeal against this decision. Who was there to bail him out?
There was no refuge. Where would he run? He started working at the Brahmin’s
household from the next day. Just for one and a quarter ser of wheat he had to
wear the fetters of slavery on his feet for life. If the poor fellow could derive
some consolation it was from the thought that it was the consequence of his
deeds in his previous birth. His wife had to do the kind of jobs she had not done
earlier. The children had to beg for every morsel. Shankar could do nothing
except watch all this helplessly. Like a curse from a God he couldn’t shake off
the burden of the wheat grains from his head for the rest of his life.

Shankar worked as a bonded labourer for the Brahmin for twenty years before he
died. He still had a debt of one hundred and twenty rupees against his name.
Panditji did not consider it proper to blame him in the court of God. He was not
that unjust or cruel. He grabbed Shankar’s young son. He still works in his
house. No one knows when he will be released, or whether he will be released at
all. Only God knows.
Dear reader, do not think that this narrative is an imaginary one. It is true. The
world is not devoid of such Shankars and such Brahmins.

Translated from the Hindi by M. Asaduddin

 Pleasures of College Life

If all the entertaining activities that take place on campus are listed, an
exceedingly amusing catalogue would come into being. Most college-going
students are free from the anxiety of earning a livelihood. Some are also free
from the anxiety of having to perform well in the examinations. They have
nothing to occupy themselves and so they fritter away their time merrily or
indulge in cheerful chitchat without a care in the world. No meaningful activity
engages their mind. This kind of enthusiasm is sometimes visible in the activities
of the Dramatics Club and every now and then on special occasions or during
festive events. The rest of their time is used up in planning their own as well as
their friends’ amusement. The moment any gentleman in the college exhibits a
predilection for some particular thing, apart from cricket, hockey or football, he
soon becomes a subject of their gags. If any gentleman is a staunch follower of
the Hindu faith and remains engrossed in reading the scriptures or if anyone
offers namaz regularly, then it is not long before he is pawned to their travesty.
If anyone is a lover of books and spends much time reading, then you may safely
presume that a plot is being hatched in some corner to have fun at his expense.
The long and short of it is that nobody is inclined to meddle with the happy-go-
lucky and nobody bothers with the inconspicuous or reticent scholars of the
college. Nonetheless, maulvis and pandits are in for a rough time.
The gentleman Chakradhar was a scholar from a well-known college in
Allahabad, pursuing an MA in philosophy. However, like all meticulous
religious luminaries, he kept himself at a double arms’ length from all things
prohibited and forbidden by his faith. He remained engrossed in the spirit of
patriotism and could lay down his life for the simplicity and the purity of the
Hindu faith. From the bottom of his heart he loathed the necktie, the collar, the
waistcoat. He wore a simple kurta of coarse fabric, and went about in plain,
inexpensive shoes. Every day, he did sandhya and havan the first thing in the
morning and applied a tika of sandalwood paste across his forehead. He had
shaved his head but grown a long lock of hair on his crown, which was as
prominent as a gnarled tree on a patch of arid land. He claimed that by growing
that hair, ancient Hindu ascetics had given proof of their superior vision and
their intellect. By means of the lock, bodily ailments and toxins were expelled; a
magnetic field developed around the body. He always cooked his own food,
which was exceedingly plain and easy to digest; he believed that victuals reflect
a man’s disposition. He avoided everything that was of foreign origin; he played
neither cricket nor hockey; assumed that English culture was for all intents and
purposes flawed—to the extent that he believed that speaking or writing English
was not without its weaknesses. The outcome was that his English was very
poor; he could not write a simple letter in the English language. If there was
anything that he enjoyed, it was chewing paan. He had immense faith in the
goodness of its consumption and quoted Sanskrit slokas to prove his point.
The carefree young men of the college did not have the staying power to
overlook a person of such comportment. He was the perfect quarry. Game plans
began to be hatched to straighten out this scoundrel. How he went about feigning
ascetic-like purity! How he considered himself above par, condescending to
believe that nobody else was fired with the spirit of patriotism and that everyone
was devoid of humanism! He needed to be taught a lesson that would make him
lose touch with all notions of superciliousness, once and for all.
It so happened that an opportune occasion arose. Soon after the college
reopened a gorgeous-looking Anglo-Indian girl joined the philosophy class. She
had a rose-coloured complexion, an hourglass figure and an audacious manner in
fixing her gaze and beauty that would make one throw caution to the winds!
Over and above that, she dressed in bright-coloured clothes. The boys of the
department held onto their hearts. Others from the History and Language
departments took French leave from their own classes to attend the Philosophy
class. All had their eyes fixed on this dazzling beauty. All of them longed for her
to throw just one look in their direction; all of them longed to hear her
to throw just one look in their direction; all of them longed to hear her
mellifluous voice. Nevertheless, as the rule goes, when cautious hearts are
smitten with beautiful love interests, some upshot undoubtedly comes about.
Most people were engrossed in feasting their eyes on her but Pandit Chakradhar,
smitten with uncontrollable desire, his heart brimming over with sincerity, was
quite powerless even to raise his eyes to so much as look at his lady love. He
feared that if someone caught him in the act of stealing a look at her, his single
lock of hair and the sandalwood paste on his forehead would become the butt of
people’s jokes. He would cast hungry sidelong glances at her, his head bowed
low in the fear that his secret would be discovered and that his clandestine
affection would become the talk of the town.
However, the truth cannot remain concealed for long! His associates were
quick to discern his lovelorn glances. Their wish had been granted. They were
unable to contain their joy. Two young men extended hands of friendship
towards him and consciously laboured to develop an intimacy with him. When
they judged that his trust in them was unshakable, that their prey was within
shooting range, they put their heads together and addressed the following letter
to Chakradhar, in the manner adopted by ladies:

My dear Panditji,
I have wanted to write to you for several days. However, for fear that deep in your heart you will
misconstrue me as a brazen woman, I held back. I cannot contain myself any longer. You seem to
have cast a spell on me, so much so that I am unable to put you out of my mind for even a second.
Your devout countenance, radiant expression and your threadbare clothing are always uppermost in
my mind. I detest ceremony and formality but around me everyone seems immersed in observing
fake ceremonies and practices. It seems as though everyone has fallen in love with me, but I am quite
familiar with such Romeos. All of them are merely debauched oglers and rakes. You are the only
person in whom I perceive genuine feeling and truthfulness. Are my perceptions ill-founded?
Time and again, I have felt the urge to speak with you, but you sit so far away from me that it is
impossible to engage in a conversation with you. I entreat you to sit close to me from tomorrow, so
that if nothing else, proximity to you will soothe my heart brimming with emotion.
Please tear up this letter after you have read it. Write me a reply and place it under the thirteenth
cupboard in the library.
Yours,
Lucy

This letter was posted and people began to observe its effects stealthily. They
were not put through too much trouble waiting. The very next day in college,
Chakradhar wanted to sit beside Lucy. The two young men who had made
friends with him were the ones who mostly sat beside Lucy. One of them was
called Girdhar Sahai and the other was Mirza Naim-ullah. Chakradhar went up
to Girdhar and said, ‘Friend, you can go and sit in my place while I sit here.’
Naim responded, ‘Why? Are you jealous?’
‘Oh no! I am not jealous. I cannot listen to the professor from there.’
Girdhar was piqued. ‘Since when has your auditory perception suffered a
change? You did not have such complaints earlier!’
Naim continued, ‘Besides, the professor will be farther away from here.’
Chakradhar remarked, ‘So what if he is farther away from here? I will be
better placed over here because sometimes I tend to doze off. I do not wish to sit
in front for fear that he may catch me napping.’
Naim said, ‘All right, you may sit but I must tell you that I am exercising
severe restraint. I would not have left this seat for a gift of even a hundred
thousand rupees for anyone else.’
Girdhar added, ‘Janaab, it is heavenly to be here, just heavenly! Nevertheless,
for your sake I’m willing to move away.’
Chakradhar expressed deep gratitude and sat down. In a short while Lucy
came in and sat in her usual seat. Chakradhar cast expectant looks at her every
now and then so that he could strike up a conversation with her, but she seemed
completely engrossed in listening to the professor delivering the lecture. He
thought that perhaps she was shy. He began turning his head in her direction
again and again. She appeared to be disgusted by his paan-chewing habit. Again
and again, she turned her head away. Chakradhar did not understand this. He
was feeling quite thrilled! He looked around conceitedly; his eyes seemed to
speak his mind, Can any of you be so fortunate? Who can hope to enjoy such a
privilege?
The day passed. That evening, against his usual practice, Chakradhar visited
Naim in his room and said, ‘Friend, I need a letter writer. Who has the best letter
writer?’
Naim responded compellingly, ‘What will you do with a letter writer?’
Girdhar joined in saying, ‘It would be quite useless. Naim is as good as any
letter writer.’
Chakradhar said shyly, ‘What form of address should one use to begin a love
letter?’
‘One can begin with “Darling” and if the person is very dear, then one can
begin with “Dear darling”.’
begin with “Dear darling”.’
‘And how should one conclude the letter?’
‘If one is deeply in love with the beloved, one should write “Your dying
lover” but if one loves only a little then one can conclude with “Yours forever”.’
‘Some complimentary expressions should also be employed. Isn’t it?’
‘Most certainly! Has ever a letter been written without complimentary
expressions, that too, a billet-doux? One employs the most evocative language to
address the beloved. You can write “God give you everlasting beauty. May you
remain happy and lovely”.’
That night Chakradhar bolted the doors of his room and carefully drafted a
reply. He dipped it in fragrant perfume and on the following day placed it under
the cupboard in the library. His friends were on the watch. They picked up the
letter and had a whale of a time reading it.

Three days after this incident, Chakradhar received yet another letter. It read:

My dear Chakradhar,
I received your letter of deep adoration. Again and again I held it to my eyes and kissed it. Ah! It was
so sweetly scented. I consecrate our love to such everlasting purity and fragrance. You complain that
I do not speak with you. Sweetheart, one loves with one’s heart, not with the words one exchanges.
When I turn away from you, no one can guess how my heart aches. You do not know how many
pairs of eyes are fixed on us at all times. At the slightest suspicion, we will be forced to suffer
permanent alienation. Therefore, we need to be extremely careful. I have a request. Please forgive
me. I am very keen to see you in English attire. Nevertheless, you will always be dear to me,
irrespective of your clothing. I am especially fond of your simple kurta but I would like to see you in
the clothes with which I have been familiar with since my childhood. I feel certain you will not
disappoint me. I have sewn a waistcoat for you with my own hands. Do accept it as a humble gift
expressive of my feelings for you.
Yours,
Lucy

Along with the letter was a small packet containing the waistcoat. His friends
had got together and contributed generously to collect thirty-five rupees. It was
not possible to judge how thrilled Chakradhar was to receive the letter and the
gift along with it. When college got over, he showed the waistcoat to his friends.
Then it was exhibited all over the boarding house. Everyone scrutinized it and
praised its perfect style. In reality, it was so gaudy that a sombre person would
never consent to put it on. His friends got Chakradhar to face eastward and made
never consent to put it on. His friends got Chakradhar to face eastward and made
him put on the waistcoat in a propitious moment. He was absolutely thrilled;
anyone who saw him sang abundant praises—‘Brother, it is impossible to
recognize you. You look so handsome! Your visage is as radiant as bullion
baked over a fire; the waistcoat makes you look so youthful! What a
transformation the complete English attire has made! Young ladies would lose
restraint.’ It was decided among the friends that they would get him a trouser
suit. A group of college students accompanied him to purchase it. Chakradhar
was a wealthy man. An expensive suit was purchased from a showroom dealing
in English garments. That night there was singing and merrymaking in the
hostel. The following day Chakradhar’s friends made him put on the suit at ten
o’clock. He protested in favour of his old, conventional clothing, ‘I don’t
appreciate this at all. I wonder why you people are fond of Western clothing.’
Naim said, ‘If you look into the mirror you will know—you look like a prince.
I am jealous of your handsome appearance. God has given you such good looks
and you have been concealing them all along.’ Chakradhar did not know the art
of putting on a necktie. He said to Girdhar, ‘You must put this on as well.’
Girdhar made him wear the necktie so tightly that it became difficult for
Chakradhar to breathe. He protested, ‘Buddy, this is too tight.’
‘What can I do? This is the style. A necktie worn loosely is supposed to be an
imperfection.’
Naim put in, ‘You have already loosened it. We wear ours far more tightly.’
‘It is difficult to breathe!’
‘What else do you imagine is the purpose of wearing a tie? It is to prevent one
from breathing too hard.’
Chakradhar was in a dilemma. His eyes had turned red. His visage too looked
rather flushed but he could not summon up the courage to loosen his tie. When
he arrived at the college dressed up in this fashion, a throng of students began to
follow him in a mock solemn manner—as though a marriage procession were
towing behind a groom. They exchanged knowing glances, placed their
handkerchiefs over the mouths and chuckled. But Chakradhar had no idea about
all this. He was in the grip of another train of thought; he walked along with
inflexible superciliousness. With as much affectation, he walked into the
classroom and sat down. In a short while, Lucy too came in. She was quite
amused to see him in the Western outfit; a hint of a smile was visible on her lips.
Chakradhar misunderstood this as an expression of delight. Every now and
Chakradhar misunderstood this as an expression of delight. Every now and
again, he would smile and throw meaningful glances at her. But she did not so
much as take note of his behaviour.
From that day, Chakradhar’s lifestyle, his associations, his religious zeal and
his patriotic fervour suffered a radical change. First and foremost, his lock of
hair disappeared. Then he got himself an English-style haircut. People began to
question him: ‘Sir, you once claimed that a magnetic field penetrates the body by
way of the lock of hair—what route shall it take now?’
Chakradhar smirked and said, ‘I made a fool of you. Did I not know that all
this talk is merely a delusion? Deep down in my heart I believed none of this. I
was merely trying to delude all of you.’
Naim was incensed. ‘My word! You have turned out to be quite a scoundrel! I
mistook you for a simpleton. You are an out and out villain.’
‘I wanted to see what people have to say.’
Along with the disappearance of the hair the performance of the evening fire
sacrifice also came to an end. The redundant fire-pit was tossed under the bed.
Then it began to serve as an ashtray for discarded cigarette butts. The seat on
which he sat to perform the fire sacrifice served as a foot stool. He began using
soap, oiling his hair, combing it stylishly and smoking. His friends constantly
pumped up his ego. It was decided that the money spent on the waistcoat ought
to be recovered from him and that too with interest! Yet another letter
undersigned by Lucy was drafted—

I cannot express in words the joy I feel at your altered appearance. You have lived up to my
expectations. By the grace of God you are now every bit the kind of person any European lady would
feel proud to be associated with. I beg you to present me a souvenir of your kindness and everlasting
love which I may cherish all my life. I do not want any expensive gift, merely something which will
enable me to commit you evermore, to my memory.

Chakradhar consulted his friends. He mentioned that he wanted to send his wife
a present. Could they advise him on the purchase of an appropriate gift?
Naim said, ‘Janaab! This would be contingent upon her cultural refinement
and her educational qualification. If she is accomplished and erudite, you must
send her an expensive gift, behoving her sophistication; alternately, you can send
several things, such as handkerchiefs, a wrist watch, a bottle of Lavender
perfume, fancy combs, a mirror, a locket, brooch, and if, God forbid, she is gross
or crass—then you must ask someone else—because I do not have any idea
or crass—then you must ask someone else—because I do not have any idea
about the preferences of clumsy women.
‘Janaab! She is well versed with the English language.’
‘Then you must pay heed to my advice.’
That evening, Chakradhar went to the market, accompanied by his friends,
and purchased a number of gifts. Each one of them was quite exquisite. About
seventy-five rupees were spent but Chakradhar did not express even the slightest
displeasure. On the contrary, he was quite willing to make the expense. On the
way back, Naim observed, ‘What a pity I do not have such a sophisticated wife.
Our friendship demands that you permit us to meet her sometime. Do you agree,
Panditji?’
‘In the absence of my parents, I would not mind at all. At present I am bound
to conform to their wishes. I do not have the liberty to do as I choose.’
‘In that case, may God liberate them from the temporal world!’
A package was prepared that very night; in the early hours of the following
morning, Chakradhar deposited it in the library. He did not encounter any
problem because the library opened quite early. Soon after he had deposited his
packet, his friends collected it and took off with the wares. These were
distributed in Naim’s room as bequests among the friends. One individual got
the watch and another the handkerchief and so on and so forth. In lieu of the
single rupee that they had contributed, they received goods worth about five
rupees each.

Men in love can be very, very patient. Despite all the effort he had put in, poor
Chakradhar had not had any one-to-one conversation with his enchanting but
cold-hearted beloved. What an amazing person she was, to write such charming
letters and yet not suffer a moment’s trouble to look at him in person! Poor
Chakradhar thought about taking the initiative to speak to her, but he could not
gather sufficient courage. He found himself in a halfway house. Nevertheless,
despite all the setbacks, he had not lost hope. After all, he had given up ritualistic
practices; he had had his hair cut after the latest fashion; he capered about in
English attire, looking like a phony Englishman! He also began to speak English,
which was, in fact, flawed. At night, he would pick up a book of English
proverbs and study them by rote, like a lesson. The poor fellow had never taken
proverbs and study them by rote, like a lesson. The poor fellow had never taken
such pains in his reading, even in the lower classes. Every now and again, he
would employ the idioms he had learnt in his discourse, without discernment of
their proper usage. On a couple of occasions he spoke English in the presence of
Lucy. As a result, the curtains were raised on his competence and felicity of
language.
Notwithstanding, the crooks did not have mercy on him. One day Chakradhar
received yet another letter from Lucy in which, after many protests and
implorations, she petitioned:

I have not had a chance to see you play either football or cricket. It is crucial for an Englishman to be
adept at exercise and playing outdoor games. I am confident that you will consider this insignificant
plea. No one in the college can match up to your English clothing and appearance, and your
proficiency in the English language. I would like to see you outshine everyone else on the
playground as well. You must play tennis for you may have to play mixed-doubles matches with me
against other ladies. Then, you and to a greater extent I, will suffer dishonour.

Chakradhar received this letter at ten o’clock. As soon as they broke for
afternoon games, he went up to Naim and requested, ‘Can you get the football
out for me?’ Naim was the captain of the football team. He smirked and replied,
‘Is everything all right? What will you do with the football at this time of the
afternoon? You have never so much as glanced at the playground. What makes
you want to play today, in the scorching heat of the afternoon sun?’
‘How does that concern you? Take out the ball. I will defeat you in playing
ball too.’
‘If you hurt yourself, you will run into trouble unnecessarily and I will be held
responsible for providing first aid. For God’s sake, forget it for the moment.’
‘After all, if anybody gets hurt, it will be me. You do not stand to lose
anything in all this. Why are you so reluctant to take out the ball?’
Naim took out the ball and Chakradhar began to play under the hot afternoon
sun. Every time he fell to the ground, the audience would clap but he was so
engrossed in his game that he hardly noticed this. Just then, he saw Lucy coming
outside. Delighted, he smiled broadly and played with greater enthusiasm.
Nevertheless, every time he aimed a kick at the ball, he would miss. Even when
he managed a kick it turned out fruitless. Someone or the other would
effortlessly kick the ball high up in the air and he would claim, ‘Were I to hit
forcefully, the ball would go higher up in the air.’ But what was the point of all
this? For a couple of minutes, Lucy stood laughing at his foolish behaviour, and
this? For a couple of minutes, Lucy stood laughing at his foolish behaviour, and
then addressed Naim, ‘Well, Naim! What has come over this pandit? Every day
he seems to put on a display of some sort. Has he gone off the handle?’
‘That is exactly as it seems.’
That evening, when everyone returned to the boarding house, Chakradhar’s
friends got together and complimented him, ‘Yaar, you are very fortunate! We
kicked the football with so much gusto, yet nobody appreciated our effort.
Everybody praised you—especially Lucy—she said that she has seen very few
Indians play as elegantly as you. She said you play like the accomplished players
of Oxford. She was very happy to see you on the field.’
‘Did she say anything else? Tell me the truth. What did she have to say?’
Naim spoke up, ‘Oh come on! Now don’t compel me to speak my mind. It
seems as though you have been playing stealthy games. You are an incredibly
crafty chap! We people merely stood by gazing while you walked away with the
trophy. No wonder you showed up in new colours every day. Now matters seem
to have cleared themselves. You are certainly a very fortunate man.’
‘I kicked the ball exactly as it was mentioned in the handbook.’
‘No wonder you won the game then! Are we in any way below par? But how
can we match our looks with yours?’
‘Stop making a fool of me. I am not that handsome!’
‘But that is quite evident from the end result. We take such pains to fuss over
our appearance but nothing favourable comes about—but you look radiant and
have received great benefits without having had to spend a dime.’
‘Did she say anything else?’
‘No, she did not say anything else. But I did notice that she stood watching
you quite intently.’
Chakradhar’s joy knew no bounds; his heart swelled with pride—those who
saw his radiant countenance committed it to memory. Nevertheless, he had as
yet to pay a dearer price for the immense ecstasy he experienced. The session
was about to come to an end and his friends harboured a desire to have a treat at
his expense. It was a matter of minimal deliberation. On the third day he
received yet another billet-doux.

The time for separation is fast approaching. I can only wonder at the distances that will keep us apart.
I would have liked to have a celebration in honour of our everlasting love for one another. If the
expense is a burden on you, I am willing to take on the responsibility entirely myself. My friends will
 accompany me for the celebrations. The students and the professors of the college will also be
invited. If only your religion and your lifestyle and my parents would acquiesce to one another, there
would be no need for us to be so disheartened. Goodbye!
Yours,
Lucy

Chakradhar was thrilled to receive the letter. He said to his friends, ‘Let us get
together over dinner before we part ways. Let us invite Miss Lucy also.’
However, he was short of funds. His family was quite perplexed over his
unreasonable demands for money. But Chakradhar’s sense of decorum could not
permit him to face the embarrassment of making Lucy bear the expenses of the
party. He would rather die than suffer such ignominy. He made all sorts of
pretentious excuses and got his wife’s people to send him the cash. Grand
preparations were under way for the party. Invitation cards were printed; new
liveries were purchased for the waiters; orders were placed for English as well as
Indian cuisine. The English fare was ordered from the Cankas Hotel. This saved
much trouble. The cost was rather high, nevertheless, things became quite
convenient for Naim and his friend Girdhar who would otherwise be put through
much trouble. Girdhar was responsible for the preparation of the Indian cuisine.
The preparations went on for two entire weeks. Naim and Girdhar went to
college only to enjoy themselves. They were not concerned about their academic
performance. All they did was while away their precious little time. It was
suggested that a poetic symposium be conducted after the party. Invitation cards
were distributed among the poets. To cut a long story short, all the arrangements
were made to host a grand party. All his friends had a great time at the party to
which they dragged a couple of ladies. Naim also managed to convince Lucy to
accompany him.
However, it is sad to say the outcome of the party was in no way
advantageous for Chakradhar. The wretched fellow was destined to suffer even
more embarrassment and humiliation at the end of the term. His friends were
merely interested in having a good time but poor Chakradhar nearly died with
shame. He thought to himself, The time for parting is close at hand. Perhaps we
may never meet again. What better occasion might I have to declare my
feelings? Why shouldn’t I pour my heart out to her? Chakradhar’s restive
sensibilities, overwhelmed with the desire to confess, were raring to discharge
themselves. Around him, people were having dinner but he sat quietly in a
corner, craving to fulfil his desire. Why stand on ceremony now? Why hold back
now? Why not give voice to grievance? Why weep silently? As he sat by himself,
Chakradhar fortified himself with such thoughts and waited for an opportune
moment. When the party was over, paan and cardamom had been distributed and
farewell speeches had been delivered; Lucy too addressed the gathering in her
melodious voice. Then as the poetry symposium gathered momentum,
Chakradhar moved behind Lucy quietly and accosted her on the way. Seeing
him approach her, looking quite bewildered and stupefied, Lucy thought
something dreadful had happened. She said: ‘Well, Panditji, what is the matter?
Why do you look so perturbed? Is everything all right?’
Chakradhar’s throat welled over with passionate feeling. He said plainly,
‘Now we will part ways for good. How can I endure separation from you? I fear
that I might lose my emotional equanimity.’
A shocked Lucy responded, ‘What do you mean? Are you under the weather?’
‘Ah! Dear, darling! You ask whether I am under the weather. I am dying! I am
dying! My life is at its lowest ebb.’ Having said this, he tried to grab hold of
Lucy’s hand. At first she felt quite disconcerted by his frenzied reactions; then,
beside herself with anger, she said sternly, ‘You have spoken to me insultingly.
You will be sorry for this!’
‘Lucy! You are so indifferent and so unsympathetic at the end of the term!
You have no idea how agonizing it has been for me to pass these days. My heart
aches for you! Your letters gave me reason to live; without them, I would have
died long ago!’
‘My letters? Letters I wrote? I did not write any letters!’
‘You forget so easily, dear, darling! Do not be so cruel. Your letters, so full of
tender, loving feelings, will remain always in my memory. At your request I
altered my appearance, gave up sandhya and havan and embraced the facets of
your lifestyle. Do not play such cruel tricks on me. Place your hand on my heart
and feel how it throbs.’
‘Have you had a peg too many? Or has somebody cracked a joke on you? I
have not written you any letter. Get out of my way!’
But Chakradhar was still labouring under the delusion that his beloved was
role-playing. He tried to hold her hand. By now she had lost her composure. She
gave him a tight slap across his face and said sharply, ‘Idiot! Get out of my way
or else I will send for the police constable!’
or else I will send for the police constable!’
Poor Chakradhar was still smarting under the shock of Lucy’s slap but she had
already disappeared. He sat down right there and began recalling all the
incidents sanctified to memory. Gradually it dawned upon him that his college
buddies had probably pawned him to their travesties. In fact, he was sure they
had! Else there was no reason for her to be so livid. Uff! The nasty fellows have
heaped such dishonour on me! They have certainly deceived me! No wonder they
look at me and smirk.
Seething with anger, he walked up to Naim and said, ‘You are a dreadfully
callous, exceptionally mischievous, deceitful, ill-begotten and fraudulent man.
You will suffer for this. You will die a dog’s death.’
‘Will you say something or merely curse me?’
Girdhar put in, ‘What is the matter? I hope you haven’t said anything to
Lucy?’
‘I spoke to her. She slapped me. I feel utterly humiliated and disgraced. The
two of you put your heads together to pull the wool over my eyes! I will have
my revenge!’
‘What did you say to her?’
‘What did I say? I confessed my love! She turned around and slapped me so
hard that I am still smarting up to the ears with pain. The ruthless lady has hands
of steel!’
‘How disastrous!’ said Girdhar. ‘You are such a fool! Now we will have to
suffer the consequences along with you. If she lodges a complaint with the
principal, we will be left high and dry and if she informs an Englishman, we may
find ourselves in dire straits. You are so stupid! Couldn’t you judge for yourself
that all these were mere light-hearted gags?’
‘They must have been mere light-hearted gags for you. For me it is akin to
dying. You people have cheated me to the tune of five hundred rupees! I will not
pass the examination this year either. Even my reputation has been vilified.
These were light-hearted gags! Indeed, these were mere light-hearted gags! I will
get even with the two of you—and if I don’t, to be sure, God will punish both of
you!’
Naim said, ‘Indeed, you have much time at hand to be angry with us. You can
vent your anger at leisure. Now tell us what will happen if Miss Lucy informs
the principal? All three of us will get suspension orders. We will also lose our
jobs.’
jobs.’
‘I will confess the whole account, without holding back anything.’
‘Why, buddy, is this what friendship means to you?’ mocked Girdhar.
The poetic symposium continued all night. Naim and Girdhar pondered over a
way out of their quandary. They would be in deep trouble if the principal was
apprised about their prank. After all, the involvement of an Anglo-Indian could
elicit the execution of tough measures against them. After much deliberation, it
was decided that early the next morning, Naim and Girdhar would present
themselves before Miss Lucy, apologize for their misdemeanour and admit
whatever compensation she demanded.
Girdhar said, ‘I will not pay a penny.’
Naim remarked, ‘I do not have a penny to pay for my shroud.’
‘Then there is no point in going up to her. She will not accept our apology
without compensation.’
Naim sounded apologetic. ‘Brother Chakradhar, for God’s sake, do not be
obstinate at this point of time, or the three of us will have to pay dearly. Excuse
all that has happened. The past cannot be altered. Think about the future.’
‘At the most we will be expelled, isn’t it? I will set up a shop. The two of you
are doomed. You will suffer the consequences of your mischief. Uff! How you
have cheated me!’
After a great deal of pleading and a lot of cajoling, Chakradhar finally agreed.
Early in the morning, Naim went to Miss Lucy’s residence. On requesting an
audience with her, he was informed that she was at the principal’s residence.
Naim was in a mess. If the principal got to know of their pranks, he would no
doubt, penalize them. All because of the wretched Chakradhar, they had got into
such serious trouble. What did the coarse and uncouth fellow have in mind when
he poured his heart out to Miss Lucy? Despite his hideous appearance, he
harbours an aspiration to court the most gorgeous-looking person! The injustice
of it all is that he has brought trouble upon us too. If I manage to meet Lucy on
the way, perhaps she may not complain if I plead our case with her. If she is
already at the principal’s house we have no hope. He got on to his bicycle and
rode speedily towards the principal’s house. He rode at such a high speed that
had he met with an accident, his chances of survival would have been negligible.
Alas! He did not come across Lucy on the way. Having covered approximately
half the distance, he began to feel disheartened. Nevertheless, he rode on. All of
a sudden, he saw her as she was about to enter the portico of the principal’s
residence. His heart skipped a beat. Loudly, he called out, ‘Miss Turner! Please
wait.’
Lucy turned around and looked. Recognizing Naim, she stopped and asked
him suspiciously, ‘I hope you have not come to plead on the pandit’s behalf! I
am going to complain to the principal about his misconduct.’
‘In that case, you must first take a shot at me and Girdhar! Then you can do as
you please.’
‘What have you done to injure me? That pandit has insulted me in a most
despicable manner!’
‘Lucy, it is we who are responsible for all that happened. The poor pandit was
set up by us. It is we who played the joke.’
‘You naughty boy.’
‘I speak the truth. We merely pawned him to our travesties. But we did not
realize that he would take it so seriously and accost you. I entreat you, please
forgive him—else the three of us will suffer gravely.’
‘Since you speak earnestly, I shall not complain to the principal. However, in
the bargain, the pandit should make amends by holding his ears in front of me
and pleading for forgiveness twenty times, and besides, he should pay me a
hundred rupees as damages for his misbehaviour.’
‘Lucy, don’t be so harsh. Only think about his feelings. How I wish that you
were not so beautiful.’
Lucy smiled. ‘One could learn the art of flattery from you.’
‘Then let us go back. I will have the damages paid to you but the first part of
your bargain is harsh. Very harsh indeed! The poor fellow will commit suicide!
But yes, in lieu of him, I can plead for forgiveness fifty times.’
‘You are like a hard-boiled egg. You have no sense of shame. I would like to
see him humbled. The villain tried to take hold of my hand!’
‘Won’t you show any mercy?’
‘Not even a bit!’
There was no alternative. Naim took Lucy to the boarding house. When the
suggestion was put to Chakradhar, the wretched fellow was totally distraught.
He fell at Lucy’s feet and began to cry uncontrollably. Naim and Girdhar too
were shamefaced about their pranks. Lucy felt sorry for them. She forfeited the
were shamefaced about their pranks. Lucy felt sorry for them. She forfeited the
first part of her bargain. In regard to the penalty, Chakradhar sent home a
telegram feigning ill health and requesting a sum of money. He paid off Lucy to
bring an end to the whole matter.
After this incident, college was on for another week. But nobody saw
Chakradhar smile even once! Most of the time the wretched man’s brow seemed
clouded over with a cheerless and fretful expression. The mere mention of
Lucy’s name was sufficient to unleash a wave of feral rage.
Filled with contrition, Naim and Girdhar swore never to crack practical jokes
again.
That year, Chakradhar could not clear the examination. Nevertheless, he did
not return to college. Apparently, he went to Aligarh.

Translated from the Urdu by Fatima Rizvi

 The Malevolent Baby

At long last, precisely that which had caused much apprehension came about—
the very thing which had been bothering most members of the household,
especially the woman who had just given birth. After three boys, a baby girl was
born. The infant’s mother froze in the room of her lying-in, as did the father in
the courtyard outside, and his ageing mother in the doorway. How unfortunate—
how very unfortunate! Only God could tend to their well-being now! The infant
was not a daughter, she was a demon. Was it necessary for the ill-fated wretch to
be born in this household? If it had to be so, why wasn’t she born earlier? God
forbid the birth of a malevolent baby, even in the household of the worst enemy!
The name of the infant’s father was Pandit Damodar Dutt; he was an educated
man. He was employed in the education department. Nevertheless, how could he
ignore the traditional belief, ingrained deep in his heart, that a girl child born
subsequent to the third son is ill-fated, bringing about the death of either her
father or her mother, or perhaps even herself. His aged mother began to drink
water to rejuvenate herself and curse the newborn: ‘She is an ill-omened, black-
faced child! I wonder what misfortune she will bring upon us. Had she been born
to a barren woman, the mother would have felt blessed!’
Deep down in his heart, Damodar was also very concerned, but he explained
to his mother, ‘Amma, there is no such thing as a malevolent baby. It is God’s
will, which will be done. If He wills it, all will be well. Send for the professional
women singers to sing joyous songs and celebrate or people will say that you
were beside yourself with joy when the three sons were born but there is
weeping and lamentation in the household because of the birth of a daughter.’
weeping and lamentation in the household because of the birth of a daughter.’
His mother responded, ‘Oh son! You don’t understand these things but I have
suffered them first-hand; my own life is at its ebb. It was after the birth of a
malevolent baby that your grandfather died. From then on, my heart has always
sunk at the mere mention of the word.’
‘Is there anything one can do to avert this predicament?’
‘There are several ways, so to say, to resolve this quandary. If you ask the
panditji, he will tell you about some solution or the other, but nothing will work.
I had tried every remedy—the panditji became very rich but that which was
destined did befall us. Now even the pandits are quite worthless; it no longer
matters to them whether the person who pays for the performance of the
sacrifice lives or not. All that matters is that they should be paid the fee for their
services. (Softly.) The baby is not weak either. She is healthier than the three
boys. She has big eyes, thin red lips, like the petals of a rose. She has a fair
complexion, and a long tapered nose. The ill-omened child did not even cry
when she was bathed; instead, she looked intently at everything around her. All
these signs are not good.’
Damodar’s sons had sun-tanned complexions, and they were not very pleasant
to look at. His heart filled with pleasure when he heard about the newborn
child’s pretty looks. He said to his mother, ‘Ammaji, you should send for the
women to sing and rejoice and leave the rest to God. Whatever is destined shall
come to pass.’
‘My heart does not permit me to rejoice. What shall I do?’
‘Our troubles will not be warded off if we do not have the singing, or will
they? If by not having the celebrations our lives can be ensured, then avoid
them.’
‘I will send for them, son. Whatever was destined has happened.’
Just then, the midwife called out from the maternity room, ‘Bahuji says this is
not the time to celebrate.’
Damodar’s mother retorted, ‘Will you tell her to be quiet? She can do as she
pleases once she is out of the maternity room—it will be only twelve days of
post-natal lying-in—not too many, are they? She’d been strutting about so
conceitedly. “I won’t do this, I won’t do that . . . what are gods? What are
goddesses?” After listening to all that the menfolk had to say, she had begun to
talk like them too. Why doesn’t she keep quiet now? The white women do not
talk like them too. Why doesn’t she keep quiet now? The white women do not
believe that a girl born after three boys is ill-omened and malevolent. Since she
endeavours to be at par with them in everything, she should also think like
them.’
She then ordered the naain to fetch the singers and inform the neighbourhood
on the way.
Early in the morning, when Damodar’s elder son awoke, he rubbed his eyes
and asked his dadi, ‘Badi Amma, what happened to Amma yesterday?’
‘She delivered a baby girl.’
The boy jumped up and down with joy and said, ‘Oh ho ho! She will wear
little anklets with bells on them and walk about making music. Show her to me
please, Dadiji!’
‘Arré, will you go into the delivery room? Have you gone mad?’
The boy was too excited to listen. He walked up to the doorway of the
delivery room and called out to his mother, ‘Amma, please show me the baby
girl.’
‘The baby is asleep,’ replied the midwife.
‘Hold her in your arms and show her to me.’
After the midwife had shown him the baby, he ran across to his younger
brothers and woke them up, excitedly breaking the good news.
One of them said, ‘She must be very small!’
‘Quite small indeed! Just like a big doll! She is fairer than the daughter of a
white man. This girl belongs to me.’
The youngest boy trilled, ‘Show her to me.’
All three of them went to see the baby girl and returned, jumping with joy and
prancing about.
The eldest boy asked, ‘Did you see her?’
The second said, ‘How she lay with her eyes closed!’
The youngest cheeped, ‘Give her to me.’
The eldest mused, ‘A groom will come to our house with a train of elephants,
horses, a band of musicians and firecrackers, and take her away.’
The two younger boys became very excited about the prospect of that glorious
spectacle; their innocent eyes shone with unadulterated joy.
The second boy added, ‘There will be lots of flowers too.’
The youngest joined in, ‘I too will take some flowers.’
 2

The sixth day of the infant’s birth was celebrated and so was the twelfth; there
was singing and festivity; elaborate dinners were arranged and gifts were
distributed. But all this was simply obligatory—the celebrations were not
wholehearted; no one was happy. The child was not well; she grew weaker by
the day. The mother would administer opium twice a day to the baby girl, who
remained in a listless stupor through the day and night. At the slightest easing of
the narcotic intoxication, she would cry with hunger. The mother would
bottlefeed her and administer yet another dose of opium. It was rather surprising
that she was quite dry this time. Even earlier, she had been rather slow to lactate,
but after the birth of each son she consumed various types of drugs that induced
lactation; besides, each baby was forced to breastfeed, consequently stimulating
lactation. This time, however, none of these pains were taken. The flowerlike
baby girl began to shrivel up. The mother did not so much as cast a look upon
her. Sometimes, when the naain snapped her fingers, and made kissing sounds or
spoke lovingly to the child, her tender face showed such heart-rending signs of
anguish and distress that she would wipe her tears and move away. She could
not gather up the courage to say anything to the mother. The eldest son, Siddhu,
would suggest repeatedly, ‘Amma, should I take the baby out to play?’ But his
mother merely scolded him.
Three or four months passed. One night, when Damodar woke up to drink
water, he noticed that the baby girl was awake. The little girl had fixed her gaze
on an oil lamp on the shelf while she sucked her thumb, making soft gurgling
sounds. Her countenance had withered and she neither cried nor threw her limbs
about; she merely sucked on her thumb as though it were the storehouse of sweet
nectar. She did not so much as turn towards her mother’s breasts—perhaps she
did not have any right over them, no hope lay in them for her. Babu Sahib felt
sorry for her. How can this miserable child be blamed for being born in my
house? How can she be held responsible for whatever adversity befalls me or
her mother? How heartless are we that merely on the conjecture of some
imagined adversity we are causing her such severe injury? Should we make her
pay with her life for fear that something inauspicious may befall us? Only my
destiny can be accountable for whatever misfortune befalls us. Would God be
pleased with our ruthlessness towards this little child? He lifted the baby in his
arms and began to kiss her face. This was perhaps the first time ever that the
little girl felt truly loved. She began to throw her arms and legs about and gurgle,
reaching out for the light of the lamp with her hands. It seemed that she now had
found reason to live.
Early in the morning, Damodar lifted the girl in his arms and took her out. All
the while his wife kept saying, ‘Let her be, she is not all that beautiful, is she?
Day and night the ill-fated one feeds on my very existence; she does not even die
so that I may be relieved.’ But Damodar did not listen to anything she had to say.
He took the baby outside, sat down and began to play with his children. Across
his house lay a small vacant plot. A neighbour’s goat grazed on the grass that
grew on this plot. At that time too, the goat was grazing. Damodar told his eldest
son, ‘Siddhu, can you catch hold of the goat so that we may feed the little one—
perhaps the poor child is hungry. She is your little sister, isn’t she? You should
bring her out to play in the fresh air every day.’
Siddhu had been instructed to do exactly as he had wanted. His younger
brother, too, ran out with him. Together, they caught hold of the goat and
holding her by the ear, they brought her to their father, who positioned the
baby’s mouth under the goat’s udders. In a minute, spouts of milk flowed into
her mouth, giving her a new lease of life, as a fading lamp bursts into flame
when it is replenished with oil. The girl’s face lit up. Perhaps, for the first time,
today, her hunger had been sated. She began to play energetically in her father’s
lap. Even the boys played enthusiastically with her.
From that day, Siddhu began to derive pleasure from a new form of
entertainment. Boys are very fond of little children. If they chance upon a
fledgling in its nest, they go up to look at it again and again. They will observe
how the mother feeds its young ones—how the fledglings flap their wings and
receive the grain in their beaks, chirping all the while. They will talk about it
among themselves with a great deal of seriousness and take their friends over to
the site. Siddhu was always on the watch now. No sooner would his mother go
to cook food, or to bathe, than he would carry the girl out, get hold of the goat
and position her mouth under its udders. Sometimes, he would manage to do this
several times a day. He had tamed the goat by feeding it fodder and hay, so that
it would come looking for food of its own accord, permit the baby to nurse on it
and then go away. About a month passed like this; the girl grew healthy; her
and then go away. About a month passed like this; the girl grew healthy; her
countenance blossomed like that of a boy; her eyes shone brightly. The innocent
glow of her infancy attracted everybody’s attention.
Her mother was quite astonished to see the child’s health blossom. She didn’t
say anything to anyone, but ruminated over the fact that the child no longer
appeared as though she would die soon—in all likelihood, one of them would.
Perhaps God tended the child Himself; that is why she grew healthier by the day;
else she should have made her residence in his abode by now.

However, the baby’s grandmother was far more concerned than her mother. She
began to think that her daughter-in-law was feeding the baby well—that, in fact,
she was nourishing a serpent. She would not even raise her eyes to look at the
child. One day, she exclaimed, ‘You are very fond of the child—and why not?
After all, you are the mother, aren’t you? If you don’t love her, who will?’
‘Ammaji, God knows that I do not feed her!’
‘But I do not forbid you from doing so. Why should I sin needlessly by
preventing you from feeding her? After all, I will not be affected!’
‘Now, if you are not willing to believe me, what can I do?’
‘Do you think I am silly to believe that she is growing healthier by drinking
air?’
‘God knows best, Amma, I too am quite surprised.’
Her daughter-in-law continued to express her innocence, but the aged mother-
in-law’s fears were not assuaged. Instead, she imagined that her daughter-in-law
believed that her worries were unjustified, that perhaps, she was holding a
grudge against the baby. She began to wish to be afflicted by some malady in
order to prove to these people that her fears were not fabricated. Or that some
unforeseen evil would befall the people she loved more dearly than her own
existence, only so that her misgivings would not be perceived as ill founded.
Although she did not want anybody to die, she began to wish for someone to fall
prey to some untoward incident, so as to make them conscious of the fact that
what had happened was because they had not heeded her warning. The more the
mother-in-law’s attitude of hostility became apparent, the more her daughter-in-
law’s affection for the girl increased. She prayed fervently for that one year to
pass without any unpleasant incident, so she could question her mother-in-law
pass without any unpleasant incident, so she could question her mother-in-law
about the mythic belief. To some extent the girl’s innocent-looking face and to
some extent her husband’s fatherly affection towards the child encouraged her to
change her earlier negligence of the baby. It was quite a peculiar situation; she
could neither express her love for her daughter wholeheartedly nor debunk the
fallacy of the malevolent child in totality. She could neither laugh nor cry.
Two months passed this way, and no unseemly incident took place. By now,
the aged mother-in-law had begun to suffer pangs of extreme anxiety. My
daughter-in-law is not falling ill with fever even for a couple of days so that my
suspicions are vindicated; neither does any older child fall off his toy car and
nor is there any news of a death in my daughter-in-law’s family, she thought.
One day Damodar spoke to his mother without mincing his words, ‘Amma,
this notion of the malevolent girl child is merely a delusion; aren’t there
daughters born after three sons all over the world? Do all parents expire after
their birth?’
Finally, his mother devised a strategy to justify the validity of her misgivings.
One day when Damodar returned from school he found Amma lying
unconscious on the bed; his wife had lit a coal fire in the brazier and was
applying a warm fomentation on her chest. The doors and windows of the little
room were barred. Shocked, he asked, ‘Ammaji, what happened?’
His wife answered, ‘She has been suffering from an awful pain in her chest
since the afternoon; she is in great agony.’
‘I should go and fetch the doctor immediately. Any delay may cause the
malady to worsen. Ammaji, Ammaji, how are you feeling?’
His mother opened her eyes and spoke in an anguished tone, ‘Son, have you
arrived? Now I will not live. Haye Bhagwan, I will not live now! It seems that
somebody is piercing a knife through my heart. I have never suffered such awful
pain. I have grown old but I have never been ill with anything like this all my
life.’
‘I wonder in what inopportune moment this ill-omened child was born!’ said
Damodar’s wife.
‘Son, whatever happens is divinely ordained; the miserable child knows
nothing about it! Look, if I die, do not give her any trouble. It is better that I am
afflicted with the consequence of her birth. Someone had to endure the
consequence, so I am suffering. Haye Bhagwan, I will not live now.’
‘Let me go and fetch the doctor. I will be back soon.’
 ‘Let me go and fetch the doctor. I will be back soon.’
Damodar’s mother wanted only to have her word honoured; she did not want
money to be spent, so she countered: ‘No, son, why should you go and fetch the
doctor? After all, he is not God that he will administer the nectar of immortality.
He will charge money too! No doctor or vaid can do anything now. Go and
change your clothes, son; sit beside me and read the Bhagavata Purana. I will not
be able to survive this. Haye Ram!’
Damodar said, ‘A girl child born after three sons is undoubtedly malevolent. I
thought it was a delusion, merely a delusion.’
His wife joined in, ‘That is why I’ve never spoilt her with kindness.’
‘Son, you should take good care of the child; may God bless all of you. It is
good that the evil has befallen me. If I die before you, my soul will ascend to the
heavens. How terrible to have the harm befall someone else. God has paid heed
to my submissions. Haye! Haye!’
Damodar felt quite certain that Amma would not be able to survive the
affliction. He was deeply saddened. Deep in the recesses of his heart he felt that
he should not have exchanged the malevolent girl child for his mother. How did
a babe in arms, who could not even offer him a glass of water, compare with his
mother, who had given birth to him, who had suffered all kinds of hardship to
bring him up and, who, despite having been widowed young, had educated him?
In a state of profound grief, he changed his clothes and sat by his mother’s
bedside, reading aloud the story of Vishnu from the Bhagavata Purana.
That night when his wife got up to prepare dinner, she asked her mother-in-
law, ‘Ammaji, shall I make some sago?’
The mother-in-law replied rather mockingly, ‘Daughter, do not take my life
by depriving me of grain. Do you imagine I will be able to eat sago? Go and fry
some puris. I will eat whatever I feel like eating while I lie in bed; make some
kachoris too. Why should I starve while I am dying? Send for some cream as
well—make sure it is from the chowk. I will not come back to eat, child! Get
some bananas also. They are known to ease chest aches.’
The affliction eased when she had eaten but returned in about half an hour.
Only after midnight did she get some sleep. For about a week her condition
remained unchanged. All day long she would lie in bed and groan; at mealtimes
her pain would ease slightly. Damodar sat by her bedside and fanned her gently
with a hand fan, crying over the thought of separation from her. The servant
with a hand fan, crying over the thought of separation from her. The servant
woman of the house spread the word in the neighbourhood. When the women
came over to see her, they laid the blame squarely on the little girl.
One of them observed, ‘I must confess, it is a blessing that only the old
woman is afflicted; else a malevolent child finds peace only after she has taken
the life of either the father or the mother. God forbid the birth of a malevolent
baby in anybody’s house!’
Another woman said, ‘My hair stands on end at the mere mention of a
malevolent child. It is better by far that God keeps a woman barren rather than
give her a malevolent child.’
After a week, the old woman recovered. She had nearly died; in fact, it was
the good deeds of her ancestors that came to her rescue. Brahmins were given
the gift of a cow. Only after recitals were made from sacred texts to propitiate
the Goddess Durga did the situation recover.

Translated from the Hindi by Fatima Rizvi

 Money for the Decree

Naeem and Kailas were as different as chalk and cheese. Naeem was a huge, big
tree; Kailas, a delicate, tender sapling. Naeem was fond of cricket, football,
travelling, and hunting; Kailas loved reading. Naeem was a glib, fun-loving,
uncomplicated youth who enjoyed the good things in life and never let worries
of the future burden him. He thought of school as his playground and as a place
where he was occasionally made to stand on the bench. Kailas, on the other
hand, was a reserved, indolent, thoughtful idealist who loathed exercise and
shunned extravagance. He was perpetually tormented by anxiety about the
future. Naeem was the only son of an affluent, high-ranking official, while
Kailas was one of the many children of an ordinary merchant. Kailas never had
enough money for his books. He had to make do by borrowing them from others.
Life for one was a happy dream; for the other, a burden of sorrows. In spite of
these differences, they shared a deep friendship and felt a selfless, pure affection
for each other. Kailas would die rather than accept a favour from Naeem, and
Naeem would die rather than misbehave with Kailas. For Naeem’s sake, Kailas
would at times step out to enjoy the fresh outdoors, while Naeem, for the sake of
his friend, would occasionally consider what the future held in store. The doors
of a government job were open for Naeem. The future was no boundless sea of
doubt. Kailas knew he had to dig his own well. His future was destined to be a
battle for survival, the very thought of which agitated him.

2
After graduation, Naeem got a senior position as an officer in the administrative
services, though he had secured a third division. Kailas had a first division, yet
he couldn’t find a job despite years of toil and struggle. In desperation, he took
up his pen and started a newspaper. One took the privileged route, which aims
only at amassing riches; the other went the way of social service, which initially
brings fame, but ends in troubles and prison. No one knew Naeem outside the
office, but he lived in a spacious bungalow, travelled in an open car, went to the
theatre, and holidayed in Nainital. Kailas was known everywhere, yet he lived in
a ramshackle cottage and had only his two feet for conveyance. It was difficult
for him to even procure milk for his children, and vegetables were hard to come
by with the money he brought home. Naeem was fortunate enough to be blessed
with only one son. Kailas’s misfortune was to be encumbered with progeny of
such a large number that prosperity was out of the question. Both friends
corresponded regularly with each other and met occasionally. During these
meetings, Naeem would say to Kailas, ‘You’re doing so great! You’re at least
doing some service to the nation and the community. I haven’t done a thing
except fill my stomach.’
Kailas understood that these words were merely an expression of Naeem’s
courtesy. He knew that Naeem wanted to offer him some consolation for his
sorry condition, hence he would make an effort to conceal it from Naeem.
There was pandemonium in the estate of Vishnupur. The manager of the
estate had been murdered in his bungalow in broad daylight, and in full view of
hundreds of people. Although the assassin had escaped, suspicion pointed
towards the crown prince. As he had not yet come of age, the estate was
managed by the Court of Wards. The manager was also responsible for the care
of the crown prince, but the luxury-loving prince found his attentions
cumbersome. Both had been at loggerheads for years, and had even exchanged
harsh words on numerous occasions. It was natural therefore for the crown
prince to be regarded as the prime suspect in this case. The district collector
appointed Naeem to look into the case, as having a police officer investigate it
would have been humiliating for the prince.
For Naeem, this was the golden opportunity that he had been waiting for. He
was neither wise, nor of a sacrificing nature. Everyone was aware of the
weaknesses of his character, everyone, that is, except the officers who had
handed him this case. The crown prince found in Naeem the answer to his
handed him this case. The crown prince found in Naeem the answer to his
prayers. When Naeem reached Vishnupur, he was given a spectacular welcome.
Gifts began pouring in. The lower officials in his retinue found themselves
deluged with presents. They were treated like sons-in-law of the estate.
One morning, the prince’s mother arrived and stood with folded hands before
Naeem. He had been reclining comfortably, smoking a hookah. When he saw
this veritable glowing image of restraint and penance, he sat up immediately.
The queen looked at him with eyes filled with motherly love, and spoke, ‘Sir,
my son’s life and fate are in your hands. In the name of the mother whose
illustrious son you are, I beg of you to protect my son. I leave everything in your
hands.’ Pity and self-interest collectively possessed Naeem.

It was during this period that Kailas came to meet Naeem. Both hugged each
other with great affection. During the course of the conversation, Naeem
narrated the whole story to Kailas, and tried to justify his act.
Kailas said, ‘In my opinion, whatever garb you may clothe it in, it’s still a
sin.’ Naeem retorted, ‘I feel that if it can save a life, it’s not a sin but a good deed
of the highest order. The prince is a young man, talented, intelligent, generous,
and magnanimous. You’ll be happy to meet him. He’s extremely polite and
courteous. That manager was an evil man who harangued the prince on the
slightest pretext. So much so that he neither requested a car nor accepted the
money for it. I don’t condone what the prince has done. But the debate now is,
should he be declared a criminal and sentenced to prison, or should his life be
saved through an acquittal. Nothing is hidden from you,’ he continued, ‘it’s a
packet worth twenty thousand rupees. All I have to do is state in my report that
this incident happened because of personal enmity, and that the prince has
nothing to do with it. I’ve destroyed whatever evidence I could find.’ He went
on, ‘There was another reason why I was appointed to look into this matter. The
prince being a Hindu, the collector deliberately chose me and not a Hindu
official. This communal difference is enough to prove me innocent. On one or
two occasions I have been partial towards Muslims, and now the opinion is that I
am against Hindus. In fact, Hindus think of me as the very epitome of partiality.
This misconception is enough to save me from any accusations. Now tell me, am
I fortunate or not?’
I fortunate or not?’
Kailas was hesitant. ‘What if all this comes to light?’ Naeem was quick to
reply, ‘Then this will be the greatest failure of my intelligence, the fault of my
research and a perfect example of the eternal law of human nature. I’m not
omniscient. No one will suspect my motives or accuse me of having been bribed.
So I request you to not go into the practical angle of this matter, but to stick to
the moral one. Is this deed in keeping with the correct code of conduct?’
Kailas answered, ‘One of the inevitable outcomes of this act will be that other
rich people will also be encouraged to indulge in such heinous crimes. Wealth
may conceal the greatest of crimes, but the spread of an idea like this will wreak
such havoc in ways you can’t imagine.’ Naeem was cut to the quick. ‘No, I can’t
imagine. Bribery may conceal ninety per cent of crimes, but people are still
afraid to break the law.’ This discussion continued for a long time, but Kailas’s
sense of justice could not overcome Naeem’s frivolous views on the matter.

The murder case of Vishnupur began to make headlines. The newspapers were
unanimous in stating that that government had been partial towards the prince.
At the same time, they refrained from any definitive comments, saying that the
case was still sub judice.
Naeem took a whole month to convert his ‘findings’ to the ‘truth’. When his
report was published, it created a furore in the political world. The suspicions of
the public were confirmed.
Kailas was now faced with a complex problem. He was the only editor who
had maintained a studied silence on this issue. He had been unable to decide
what to write. To be on the side of the government would have meant demeaning
his conscience, to sacrifice his personal freedom. But to remain silent was even
more humiliating. Eventually, when a few of his colleagues began to imply that
his silence was not without cause, it became impossible for him to stay neutral
on the issue. There began an agonizing conflict between his personal and social
duties. To throw out from his heart a friendship whose seed had been nurtured
for twenty-five years and was now a huge shady tree was equivalent to tearing
out his heart from his body. Would he have to implicate the friend who had been
by his side through thick and thin, who was always ready to help him, in whose
company he would forget all his worries, and the very sight of whom inspired
company he would forget all his worries, and the very sight of whom inspired
self-confidence and strength in him? He rued the day he had decided to enter the
newspaper business. He would now have to betray his friend and break his trust.
Naeem had trusted him, hidden nothing from him. It would be a gross injustice
to his friend to reveal the confidences he had placed in him. ‘No,’ Kailas
decided, ‘I will not put a blemish on this friendship. May God never bring the
day when Naeem should suffer because of me. I’m sure he would willingly give
his life for me. How can I then humiliate him in public?’
Kailas’s social duties weren’t lacking in argument either. He realized that a
newspaper editor is primarily a servant of the people, whose perspective
encompasses the society as a whole. He was so accustomed to moving in the
vast philosophical arena of the society that the individual became insignificant
for him. To sacrifice the individual to society was the first dictum of his creed,
so much so that he frequently gave up his own interests for the sake of the
society. The goal of his life was to follow in the footsteps of those great men
who built nations, emancipated the downtrodden, and achieved immortality. He
could not consciously perform an act that cast a slur on the glorious lineage of
his ancestors. Kailas was a well-known and much-respected figure in the
political world. His opinion was valued, his approval sought. His fearless and
impartial espousal of his views had made him the leader of the newspaper
community. Maintaining his friendship in this instance was therefore not only
against his principles, but against his intrinsic nature as well. It would be
indicative of his self-degradation, his timidity. It would mean shying away from
responsibility and being ostracized for all time by the political community.
What’s a mere individual, however great he may be, before the nation? Naeem’s
prosperity or destruction would not affect the nation, but a deliberate
concealment of the autocratic excesses of the administration could have
disastrous consequences. Kailas was not bothered about the impact of his
criticism of the government. For every editor, his own voice is like the roar of a
lion. He believes it will rattle the administration and shake the world. He is sure
that his opinions will change the epoch. Naeem was his friend, the nation was his
God. Should he inflict a fatal wound on his God in order to protect his friend?
For days on end, this conflict went on in Kailas’s mind. Finally, the
community triumphed over the individual. He decided he would expose the
irresponsibility of the administration before the people. He would reveal to them
the selfish and time-serving attitude of the officials. He would make known as
those who served as the eyes and ears of the government. What better way
would there be to prove its incapability and its weakness? ‘Naeem may be my
friend,’ he thought, ‘but he is nothing before the nation. Why should I turn away
from my duty towards the nation, destroy my conscience and blemish my
freedom because of fear that it may harm him?’
He cried, ‘Oh my dearest friend! Forgive me for sacrificing you at the altar of
duty. Had my own son been in your place, I would have done the same.’
The next day, Kailas began his commentary on the incident. He began to
publish serially all that he had heard from Naeem. He became a veritable snake
in the grass. Other editors, having nothing but conjecture to go by, would write
all kinds of false, contradictory things. On the other hand, Kailas’s comments
were backed by solid proof. His columns were fearless and seemed divinely
inspired. They were known more for their substance than their length. He didn’t
spare Naeem either. He mocked his selfishness and greed, going so far as to
reveal the exact amount that Naeem had been paid to close the case. The best
part was that he even mentioned meeting with a national espionage agent who
had actually seen Naeem receiving the bribe. He finally challenged the
government itself to prove his allegations wrong if it could. Not only this, he
even published verbatim the conversation that had taken place between him and
Naeem—how the queen went to Naeem, fell at his feet, how Naeem received
gifts and visits from the prince in person—all these juicy details were gradually
let out in the manner of a detective novel.
These columns created pandemonium in the political world. Opportunities to
settle scores with government officers present themselves to only a few fortunate
editors. Meetings condemning the actions of the administration began to be held
at various places. Many members requested the management to question the
government on this issue. The administration had never been in such a quandary
before. Finally, it found no other way to retain its prestige except by suing Kailas
for defamation.

A case was filed against Kailas. The government was defending Naeem. Kailas
was his own attorney. For reasons unknown, prominent barristers and lawyers
was his own attorney. For reasons unknown, prominent barristers and lawyers
refused to fight his case. Finally, the judge had no other option but to allow
Kailas to fight his own case, despite his being completely ignorant of the law.
The case dragged on for months. It created a sensation among the public.
Thousands of people used to gather in the courtroom every day. Newspapers
began to fly off the stands. Enterprising readers earned money in the evening
from the resale of the day’s newspaper as by then vendors had none left. Those
issues which had earlier been known to only a few readers were now commented
upon by the ordinary populace. Naeem had never been more embarrassed. He
was the topic of discussion in every household and on every street. He was in the
eye of the storm and at the receiving end of the ire of the people. The day finally
arrived when the two friends, who would give their lives for one another, came
face to face in the dock. Kailas began to question Naeem. He had never felt such
anguish before. It was as if he were running a sword through his friend’s throat.
For Naeem, it was nothing less than a trial by fire. The countenances of both
were sad, one with self-reproach, the other with fear. Naeem tried to be jovial.
He would sometimes break out in nervous laughter; but Kailas—who knew what
travails his heart was undergoing at that moment?
Kailas asked, ‘Do you accept that we were schoolmates?’
Naeem replied, ‘Yes, I do.’
‘Do you accept that we were so thick that we had no secrets from each other?’
‘Most certainly, I do.’
‘Did you not tell me that the prince was responsible for this murder?’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Did you never utter the words that this is a packet of twenty thousand
rupees?’
Naeem neither hesitated, nor displayed any embarrassment. His voice didn’t
falter or quiver at all. There was no sign of any disturbance, instability or
bewilderment on his face. He stood impassive and untouched. Kailas had asked
this question hesitatingly. He had been afraid that Naeem would have no answer
to this question, and that he would start weeping in remorse. But Naeem replied
calmly, ‘It’s possible that you might have dreamt this whole conversation.’
Kailas was stunned for a moment. Then he turned in astonishment towards
Naeem and asked, ‘Didn’t you tell me yourself that you have been partial
towards Muslims on occasions and that you have been asked to investigate this
case because you are regarded as being anti-Hindu?
case because you are regarded as being anti-Hindu?
Naeem didn’t hesitate in the least. He spoke with composure, unperturbed,
‘Your imagination is truly amazing. In all the years I stayed with you, I didn’t
have an inkling that you had such a miraculous ability to invent incidents.’
Kailas didn’t ask any further questions. He was not as saddened by his defeat
as he was at the degradation of his friend’s conscience. He could not imagine in
his wildest dreams that a man could so brazenly deny his own words and that too
before the person to whom they had been spoken. To Kailas, it was the zenith of
human weakness. That Naeem, who was the same inside and out, he who
matched his words and his deeds, whose speech was a reflection of his innermost
feelings, that simple, self-respecting, truth-loving Naeem . . . how could he have
become so cunning and wicked? Did a man lose his humanity when shackled in
slavery? Was slavery a means of metamorphosing divine qualities into evil?
The court offered Naeem compensation in the form of a decree for twenty
thousand rupees. It was as if a thunderbolt fell on Kailas.

This decision caused a furore in the political world once again. The government
newspapers called Kailas a cheat, while those on the side of the public termed
Naeem the very embodiment of Satan. Naeem’s audacity might have acquitted
him in the eyes of the law, but the public looked down on him even more than
before. Kailas was deluged with letters and telegrams of sympathy. Newspapers
spoke of his fearlessness and truthfulness in glowing terms. Meetings and
processions were organized where dissatisfaction against the ruling of the court
was expressed; but dry clouds do not quench the thirst of a parched earth. How
was he going to get twenty thousand rupees? This was the cost of nationalism, of
following one’s principles. Twenty thousand! Kailas had never seen the amount
even in his dreams. Where would he get it from? The interest from such a large
sum would have been enough to rid him of the worries of earning a livelihood.
He abhorred the very thought of appealing to the public for money through his
newspaper. ‘I didn’t seek permission from my readers before launching on this
crusade,’ he thought. ‘No one had forced me to fight for the dead manager. I
took upon myself the responsibility of confronting the rulers. Why should I
burden the public when I alone am to blame for what has happened? Even if I
would be able to collect a thousand or two from the public, it would not only be
would be able to collect a thousand or two from the public, it would not only be
unjust, but also against the ideals of journalism. It would cast a slur on my
reputation. Why should I let others mock me for saving myself by asking for
charity? If I received laurels for fearless criticism, why should I expect others to
pay the price for it? Let them close down my newspaper, throw me in jail,
auction my house, and sell all my household goods. I shall face the
consequences for what I have brought upon myself rather than beg for charity.’
It was early morning. Rays of light from the east streamed down like a rivulet
of tears. The cool breeze pierced one’s heart like a cry of grief. The open ground
seemed impaled through the heart with arrows of light. The house was deathly
silent, indicating the concealed sorrow of the owner. Neither the noise of the
children’s voices nor the sound of the mother’s peacekeeping attempts broke the
deceptive stillness. If the lamp itself is dying out, how does one light up the
house? This was not the silence of hope, but that of grief, because today the
government auctioneer was coming to sell off the house to the highest bidder.
Kailas burst out in agony, ‘Alas! Today will be the last day of my public life.
The edifice that I built painstakingly over twenty-five years will be destroyed
today. My paper will be killed, my feet will be shackled with the chains of
mockery and ridicule, my face blackened, this peaceful abode destroyed, and my
family scattered like flower petals in the wind. There is no shelter for it in this
whole wide world. Public memory is short; soon, the memory of my services
will be lost in the darkness of oblivion. No one will shed a tear for me.’
Suddenly, he remembered that he still had to write the editorial for the day. He
had to inform his readers that today was the last day in the life of his paper. He
would write seeking forgiveness from his readers for any wrongs done in the
past, and thank them for their support and solidarity. He would tell them that he
wasn’t grieving the untimely demise of the paper because this death was
awarded only to those few who remained steadfast on the path of duty, and that
the only thing he regretted was not being able to sacrifice more than this for the
nation. He had conceptualized his editorial from beginning to end when he heard
footsteps. He raised his head and saw that it was Naeem—the same smiling face,
the same playful eyes. As soon as he entered, he enveloped Kailas in an
embrace.
Kailas disengaged himself and asked, ‘Have you come to rub salt on my
wounds?’ Naeem embraced him even harder, and replied, ‘Of course! That’s the
fun of friendship.’
‘Don’t jest with me,’ Kailas warned. ‘I’ll kill you.’
Naeem’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Ah cruel one! I was desperate to hear these
words from your lips. Berate me all you can, abuse me as much as you like, it’s
music to my ears.’
Kailas retorted angrily, ‘When the auctioneer comes to sell off my house
today, what will you do? You’ve saved your skin and left me in this mess.’
Naeem answered happily, ‘We’ll clap our hands and make him prance like a
monkey.’
Kailas said, ‘I’m not going to spare you today. Couldn’t you have pity on my
children?’
Naeem grinned. ‘Well, look who you took on this time. Once, the game
belonged to you. Now it’s my turn. You didn’t even consider the suitability of
the occasion. You just launched the attack.’
Kailas was solemn. ‘It was against my principles to ignore the truth.’
Naeem retorted, ‘And it was in keeping with my principles to strangle the
truth.’
‘When I leave my whole family to your care, you’ll weep for your fate,’
Kailas snapped. ‘I may be half your size, but I’m equal to three of you when it
comes to producing children. I have seven of them, neither less nor more.’
Naeem teased, ‘Okay, okay, now will you get me something to eat? I haven’t
eaten anything since the morning.’
Kailas said, ‘We’re all on forced fasting today. When the whole family is
dreading the arrival of the auctioneer, who’s going to ask for food? If you have
something in your bag, let’s eat it together. God knows, after this day life is
going to be worse.’
‘Will you do such a thing again?’ Naeem asked.
Kailas was defiant. ‘As long as the government uses brute force to rule over
us, we shall keep opposing it. My only regret is that I may not get such an
opportunity again. But you will not be able to get twenty rupees even, let alone
twenty thousand.’
Naeem confidently replied, ‘I’ll extract five times the amount from you, don’t
you worry.’
‘Go wash your face,’ Kailas laughed.
‘I need money,’ Naeem said. ‘Let’s make a compromise.’
 ‘I need money,’ Naeem said. ‘Let’s make a compromise.’
Kailas was aghast. ‘You’ve just swallowed twenty thousand rupees from the
prince and you still want more! Your government officers will be able to give it
to you. Go to them. I wouldn’t have anything more valuable than these papers.’
Naeem said, ‘They would be enough to repay my loan. Okay, let’s agree that I
may take whatever I wish from this house. Don’t cry about it afterwards.’
Kailas was unfazed. ‘Take what you wish, sell my house, my office, even me.
I swear I will not utter a word.’
Naeem was resolute. ‘No. I want one and only one thing.’
Kailas was intrigued. He thought, What object of such value do I possess? I
hope he won’t ask me to convert to Islam. My religion is the only thing that can
be valued as nothing or as everything. Let me see what the gentleman has to say.
He asked, ‘What do you want?’
Naeem said, ‘Permission to talk with Mrs Kailas alone.’
Kailas slapped Naeem. ‘There you go again! You’ve seen her a hundred
times. Is she an apsara?’
Naeem said, ‘Whatever she may be, you want a compromise, you have to do it
my way. But remember, I want to meet her in private.’
Kailas agreed. ‘All right. But after this, if you ask for money for the decree,
I’ll skin you alive.’
Naeem nodded in agreement.
‘But she’s a delicate, timid woman, don’t indulge in crass humour with her,’
said Kailas.
‘Don’t tell me what to do,’ said Naeem. ‘Just take me to her room.’
Kailas said, ‘Keep your head bowed.’
‘You can blindfold me if you wish,’ said Naeem.
Kailas’s wife, Uma, did not wear a veil. She sat lost in thought, and was
astonished to see Naeem together with Kailas. She greeted Naeem, ‘Welcome,
Mirzaji. We haven’t seen you in so many days.’
Kailas left them together and stepped out of the room. However, he hid behind
the curtain to overhear their conversation. His intentions were not bad, he was
just curious. Naeem was replying to Uma’s query. ‘We government people
hardly find the time. I had to collect the money for the decree, so I came over.’
Uma’s face went white. She answered solemnly, ‘We too have been worried
all these days. There’s no hope of getting it from anywhere, and he’s too self-
respecting to appeal to the public for it.’
respecting to appeal to the public for it.’
Naeem smiled, ‘What are you saying? I’ve taken every penny of that money.’
Uma was speechless. ‘Really? Where did he get the money from?’
Naeem replied, ‘That’s his habit. He must have told you that he hasn’t got a
penny. But I got it out of him in a minute. Please rise, and prepare the meal.’
Uma was disbelieving. ‘How could he have given you the money?’
Naeem said, ‘You’re simple, and he’s crafty. I know him only too well. He
must have fooled you by constantly whining about his poverty.’
Kailas entered the room, smiling. ‘Come out, Naeem! You couldn’t resist
playing a prank this time too?’
Naeem continued with a straight face, ‘Shall I write out a receipt for the
money?’
Uma intervened, ‘You’ve paid the money? Where did you get it from?’
Kailas replied, ’I’ll tell you later. Come out, Naeem.’
Uma was adamant, ‘Why don’t you tell me? Nothing’s hidden from Mirzaji.’
Kailas looked at Naeem. ‘You want to embarrass me in front of my wife?’
Naeem smiled, ‘You didn’t think twice before embarrassing me in front of the
whole world.’
Kailas smiled back. ‘Well, haven’t I paid twenty thousand for that already?’
Naeem said, ‘I’ll pay you back in the same coin then. Uma, I’ve got my
money. Let Kailas’s secret be safe with me.’

Translated from the Hindi by Urvashi Sabu

 The Condemned

Orphaned early and a widow now, Maani had nothing to fall back on except her
tears. She was only five when her father died. At sixteen, her mother, who had
somehow raised her, managed to get her married off with the help of the
neighbours. But within a year, Maani lost both her mother and her husband. In
this crisis, she could think of no one who could give her shelter except her uncle
Vanshidhar. So far, Vanshidhar had behaved in a manner that left little hope for
a peaceful existence with him. But she was ready to endure anything. She would
tolerate all his abuses, scolding and beatings. At least no one would suspect or
accuse her falsely of any wrongdoing. She would be protected from scoundrels
and ruffians. Vanshidhar, somewhat concerned about his family honour, was
unable to turn down Maani’s request.
But within a month or two Maani realized she would not be able to survive in
this place for long. She did all the housework, danced to everyone’s tune and
tried to keep everyone happy, but for some unknown reason, her uncle and aunt
remained bitter. They got rid of the maidservant the moment Maani arrived.
Even the boy who used to wash and clean was dismissed. But in spite of all this
relief, her uncle and aunt didn’t treat her with kindness. Chacha directed threats
at her, chachi called her names and her cousin Lalita cursed her at any given
opportunity. In the entire household, only her cousin Gokul was sympathetic
towards her. Only his words conveyed to her a sense of closeness and affection.
Gokul knew his mother’s nature. If he tried to make her understand the situation
or supported Maani openly, she would have found it impossible to continue
living in the house. That is why his sympathy remained limited to just
living in the house. That is why his sympathy remained limited to just
comforting Maani. He would say, ‘Sister, let me get a job and that will be the
end of your troubles. Then I will see who looks at you with scorn. Your bad
times will last only as long I am a student.’ Maani would be thrilled at these
words of affection, and she would bless Gokul from every pore of her being.

It was the day of Lalita’s wedding. Guests had been pouring in since morning.
The house resounded with the jingle of ornaments. Seeing the guests Maani too
felt elated. She had no ornaments on her body, she had not received any pretty
dresses, yet her face was brimming with joy.
It was the middle of the night; the auspicious hour for the nuptials had arrived.
Gifts for the bride had come from the groom’s quarters. Women were restless
with curiosity to catch a glimpse of the gifts. Lalita was being adorned with
ornaments. Maani had an intense desire to go and see the bride. She could not
resist the craving to see yesterday’s little girl transformed into a bride. Smilingly,
she entered the room. Suddenly she heard chachi shouting, ‘Who called you
here? Go, get out of this place.’
Maani had gone through a lot of suffering in life but this scolding pierced her
heart like an arrow. She began to curse herself. This is the reward you get for
your childish behaviour. What was the need for you to come and join the
married women? Feeling small, she came out of the room and moved towards
the staircase to go up and look for a place to cry alone in silence. Suddenly, on
the staircase, she ran into Indranath, who was Gokul’s classmate and best friend.
He had also been invited for the wedding. He had come upstairs to look for
Gokul. He had seen Maani a couple of times and knew that she was harshly
treated in this household. He had also caught some of what chachi had said to
Maani. He realized what was going on in Maani’s mind as she climbed the stairs,
so he followed her in order to console her, but the door was bolted from the
inside. He peeped in through a crevice and saw Maani standing by a table and
crying.
‘Open the door, Maani,’ he said softly.
Hearing his voice, Maani hid herself in a corner and asked, ‘What is it?’
In a voice choked with emotion, Indranath said, ‘Please open the door, I beg
you.’
Such an appeal, soaked in affection, was an unprecedented experience for
Maani. She had never imagined even in her dreams that in this cruel world
anybody would implore her in this manner. Maani opened the door with
trembling hands. Indranath charged into the room and saw a rope hanging from
the ceiling fan. His heart shuddered. He immediately took out a knife from his
pocket, cut the rope and said, ‘What were you going to do, Maani? Do you know
the punishment for this crime?’
Bowing her head, Maani said, ‘Could there be a punishment worse than this?
If a person whose face is despicable to people is punished harshly even when she
dies, then there is no justice in the court of God. You do not know what my
condition is like.’
Indranath’s eyes became moist with tears. Maani had spoken nothing but the
hard truth. He said, ‘These days will not last forever, Maani. If you think there is
nobody with you in this world, that is your illusion. There is at least one person
who loves your life more than his own.’
Suddenly, Gokul was seen approaching. Maani rushed out of the room.
Indranath’s words had triggered something like a storm in her heart. What did he
mean? She could not comprehend it at all. Yet, life seemed more meaningful to
her today. A light had dawned in the darkness of her life.

Gokul was annoyed to see Indranath with Maani. His entire demeanour changed.
After Maani left, he asked his friend harshly, ‘When did you come here?’
Indranath responded in a steady manner, ‘It was you I came here looking for.
When I did not find you here, I was going to return downstairs. If I had gone,
you would have found this door shut and a corpse hanging from the ceiling fan.’
Gokul surmised that Indranath was trying to make excuses to cover up his
guilt. He said sharply, ‘I never expected you to betray my confidence this way.’
Indranath’s face turned red. He shot up and said, ‘I did not expect you to
slander me so badly either. I did not know that you considered me so depraved
and crooked. Maani might be an object of contempt for you but she is and will
always be an object of veneration for me. I do not have to give you any
clarification for my conduct but Maani is much purer for me than you can ever
clarification for my conduct but Maani is much purer for me than you can ever
understand. I do not want to raise these issues with you at this moment. I was
looking for an appropriate time to say all this to you but I have to say it now
because the occasion demands it. I knew that Maani was not respected in your
house but that you consider her so depraved and disposable has only come to my
notice now, after listening to your mother’s comments. Your mother scolded her
as one would spurn a dog just because she had gone to have a look at the bride’s
ornaments! You will say, “What could I do?” It is improper to drink water in a
house where an orphan is tortured to such an extent. If you had made this clear
to your mother in the beginning itself, things would not have come to such a
pass. You cannot absolve yourself of this allegation. I cannot talk to your parents
now because a wedding is being celebrated in your house but I have no
hesitation in telling you that I would like to make Maani my life partner, and I
would consider myself blessed if I did that. I had thought that I would first find a
place to live and then make the proposal but I am afraid that a further delay in
this matter might mean losing Maani. Therefore, to free you and your family
from worries, I am making this proposal now.’
Gokul had never felt this kind of reverence for Indranath earlier. He was
ashamed of himself for having suspected his friend. He also realized that in
being indifferent to Maani for fear of his mother, he had ended up being a
coward. It was an act of cowardice and nothing else. Sheepishly he said that if
his mother had scolded Maani for no reason, it was a sign of her stupidity and
that he would clarify this whenever he got a chance.
Indranath said, ‘There is no time for inquiries and clarifications any more. I
would like to talk to Maani and tell you what we decide. I do not want her to live
here even for a moment longer. I have realized today that she is a self-respecting
woman, and to tell you the truth, I am enamoured by her nature. Such a woman
should not tolerate oppression.’
Gokul added hesitantly, ‘But . . . do you know she is a widow?’
When we see someone being unusually generous to us, we unravel all our
flaws to him. We want to show him that we are not entirely unworthy of his
favour.
Indranath said with a smile, ‘Yes, I know. I have heard about it and that is
why I did not dare say anything to your father. Although not knowing would not
have made any difference to my decision. Forget being a widow, even if Maani
were an untouchable or worse than the worst, for me she is a jewel of a woman.
were an untouchable or worse than the worst, for me she is a jewel of a woman.
We look for an experienced person when we want help with little things but
when it comes to a companion in life’s journey, we consider prior experience to
be a defect. I am not the one to suppress the law. There is no school greater than
the school of adversity. One can happily surrender one’s life strings to a person
who has graduated from this school. To me, being a widow is not a handicap—it
is an asset.’
Gokul said, ‘But what about the people in your home?’
Indranath said firmly, ‘I do not consider my family so stupid that they would
object to this proposal. If they do, I would like to keep my destiny under my
control. My elders have many rights over me. In many situations, I consider their
desire to be the ultimate law but I do not wish to be controlled by anyone when it
comes to the pursuit of my soul’s progress. I wish to enjoy the pride of being the
architect of my own life.’
‘And if Maani does not accept, then?’ asked Gokul doubtfully.
Indranath found this doubt totally baseless. He said, ‘You are talking like a
child, Gokul. It is a given that Maani will not accept easily. She will get kicked
around, snubbed and abused but will continue to stay in this very house. It is not
easy to erase sanskara but we will have to persuade her. We will have to
exorcize her accumulated impressions. I am not in favour of widows getting
married again. I think the ideal of exclusive dedication to one’s husband is the
most priceless jewel on earth and we should attack it with care but this problem
does not arise vis-à-vis Maani. Love and devotion are for a person and not to a
name. She cannot be in love with a man she has not even seen. It is only a matter
of ritual and convention. We should not worry about this display and outward
show. I think somebody is calling you. I will also go now . . . I’ll see you in a
couple of days. But you don’t hesitate and think too much about it, and let days
go by.’
Gokul put his arms around Indranath and said, ‘I will come to you myself day
after tomorrow.’

The wedding party had departed. The guests had also left. It was nine o’clock It
is well known how soundly one sleeps after a wedding! Everybody in the house
had been asleep since the evening. Some slept on the charpoy, some on the
had been asleep since the evening. Some slept on the charpoy, some on the
wooden settee, some on the floor; one slept wherever one found space. Only
Maani was taking care of the house, and Gokul was sitting in his room upstairs
and reading the newspaper.
Suddenly, Gokul called out, ‘Maani, get me a glass of cold water, please, I am
very thirsty.’
Maani went upstairs with a glass of water and was about to leave after keeping
it on the table when Gokul said, ‘Just a minute, Maani, I have something to say
to you.’
Maani replied, ‘I have no time to talk, brother. The entire household is fast
asleep. An intruder could sweep the whole house clean.’
Gokul said, ‘Let them now. If I were you, I would join the thieves and help
them steal. I am going to see Indranath just now. I have promised to see him
today. Answer me quickly and please do not hesitate. He will get restless if I
delay. Indranath loves you—do you know that?’
Maani turned her face away and said, ‘Is that why you have called me here? I
do not know anything.’
Gokul said, ‘This only he knows or you know. He wants to marry you
according to Vedic rites. Do you agree to the match?’
Maani looked down shyly. She could not answer.
Gokul reiterated, ‘Dada and Amma have not been told, you know the reason
why. They’d rather kill you through constant threats or burn you bit by bit than
give you permission to marry. It would humiliate them. Now the decision rests
with you. I think you should accept the proposal. Indranath certainly loves you
and he is a man of flawless character and immense daring. He is totally fearless.
I will be truly delighted to see you happy in life.’
Maani was overwhelmed but still could not utter a word.
Gokul was irritated now. ‘Look, Maani, this is not the time to be quiet, what
are you thinking?’
Maani said in a quivering voice, ‘Yes.’
Gokul felt light-hearted and smiled. Maani ran away, embarrassed.

In the evening Gokul told his mother, ‘Amma, there is a celebration in

Indranath’s house today. His mother is worried about coping with the housework
Indranath’s house today. His mother is worried about coping with the housework
alone. I said that I would send Maani to help out. With your permission, I will
drop Maani there. She will return in a day or two.’
Maani appeared at that moment. Gokul cast a sideways glance at her. Maani
almost froze in embarrassment. She could not find an escape route.
His mother said, ‘Why do you ask for my permission? Take her if she is
willing to go.’
Gokul said, ‘Go, get ready. You have to go to Indranath’s house.’
Maani objected, ‘I am not feeling well. I will not go.’
Gokul’s mother said, ‘Why don’t you go? You will not have to dig a well
there.’
Maani sat in the tonga in her white sari. Her heart was pounding and her eyes
overflowed with tears. Her heart was sinking for some reason, as if she was
going to drown herself in the river.
When the tonga had travelled a little distance, she told Gokul, ‘Brother, I am
feeling nervous, let’s go back, I beseech you.’
Gokul said, ‘You are crazy. Everybody is waiting for you there and you are
asking me to turn back.’
‘My heart says that something terrible is going to happen.’
‘And my heart says that you are going to become a queen.’
‘Why don’t we wait for five or ten days? Tell them I am sick.’
‘Don’t talk like a crazy person.’
‘People will make fun of us!’
‘As far as auspicious occasions are concerned, I don’t really care what anyone
says.’
‘Amma will not let you enter the house because of me. You will also get
scolded.’
‘I don’t care about that. That is her habit.’
The tonga reached its destination. Indranath’s mother was a progressive
woman. She welcomed the bride and led her in.

It was twelve o’clock when Gokul left for home. On the one hand, he had the joy
of having completed an auspicious task, but on the other, he was scared of facing
his family when they saw no sign of Maani returning. He decided to disclose
his family when they saw no sign of Maani returning. He decided to disclose
everything the moment he reached home. It was pointless to hide anything. He
would have to tell them the truth sooner or later. So why not today?
With this decision, he entered the house.
Opening the door, his mother said, ‘What were you up to till this late hour?
Why didn’t you bring her along? Who will do the dishes and clean the kitchen in
the morning?’
Bowing his head, Gokul said, ‘She may not come back now, Amma.
Arrangements have been made for her stay in that house.’
Wide-eyed, his mother blurted out in surprise, ‘What nonsense! How can she
live there?’
‘She is now married to Indranath.’
His mother felt as if she had fallen from the sky. She completely lost her
senses and did not realize what ugly abuses she spouted on her own son
—kulangaar, pimp, bastard and so on. Finally, Gokul could not contain himself.
He lost his patience. His face turned red, his brows wrinkled. He said, ‘Amma,
that’s enough. I don’t have the patience to take this any more. If I had done
anything improper I would not have raised my head even if you had beaten me
with your slippers. But I have done nothing. I only did my duty, as any decent
human being would do under the circumstances. You are a fool. You have no
idea how times have changed. I have listened to your abuses with patience so far.
You and, sadly enough, father, too, had made Maani’s life a living hell. You
treated her worse than one would treat an enemy. Just because she was
dependent on you? Just because she was an orphan? She will not return to listen
to your abuses any more. Hurt by your harsh words, she was going to commit
suicide the day there was a wedding celebration in your house. If Indranath had
not reached there on time, we, you and the entire family, would have been sitting
in jail today.’
Mother rolled her eyes and said ironically, ‘Oh, what a great son you are—
you saved the entire house from a disaster! And why not? This was your sister’s
turn. Next you will dispose me off to someone, so you can live in luxury. This is
the best way to make your living. What was the use of getting an education?’
Gokul’s heart ached and he writhed in agitation. In an anguished voice, he
said, ‘God forbid that a child be born from the womb of a mother like you. It’s a
sin to even look at your face.’
sin to even look at your face.’
He left the house and walked away like a crazy man. A fierce wind was
blowing but he felt as if there was no air for him to breathe.

A week went by but there was no sign of Gokul. Indranath had gone to Bombay,
where he had found a place to live. After making arrangements for their stay, he
wired his mother. Both she and Maani were to join him there. Vanshidhar had
first suspected that Gokul might be hiding in Indranath’s house. When he could
not find him there he started looking for him everywhere in the city. All his
visits to acquaintances, friends and relatives drew a blank. After running around
the whole day, when he came back in the evening, he would take his wife to task
saying, ‘So, this is the result of cursing your son. Curse, curse, keep on cursing
him again and again. God knows if you will ever come to your senses. The witch
had left, you should have left the matter at that. Our burden had gone away.
Keep a maidservant to manage the house. When she was not here, did we go
hungry? Widows are getting married again, this is nothing unusual. If it were up
to us, we would have thrown out the supporters of widow remarriage out of the
country. We would have cursed them and burnt them alive but this is beyond our
control. You too did not think it necessary to talk to me regarding this. I would
have then done whatever I deemed fit. Did you think I would not come back
from the office that day? That my last rites would be performed there? You just
fell upon the boy! Now cry, cry as much as you can!’
Dusk had fallen. After scolding his wife Vanshidhar was walking restlessly
outside his home. Time and again, he would get angry with Maani. My home has
been ruined because of this devil. God knows in what inauspicious moment she
chose to come to us—she just ruined us! Had she not come here, we would not
have witnessed these hard times. He was such a promising, talented lad, I
wonder where he’s gone! Suddenly, an old woman walked up to him and said,
‘Sir, I have this letter for you, please take it.’
Vanshidhar, his heart palpitating with hope, leapt forward and took the letter
from the old woman. Perhaps Gokul had sent it. He could not decipher anything
in the dark so he asked, ‘Where did you get this from?’
The old woman replied, ‘The wife of the gentleman who lives in Husainganj
and is now working in Bombay has sent this letter.’
and is now working in Bombay has sent this letter.’
Vanshidhar went to the room, lit the lamp and started reading the letter. The
letter was from Maani.

Respected Chachaji,
Accept pranams from the unfortunate Maani.
I was very sorry to hear that Gokul Bhaiya has gone somewhere and his whereabouts are not
known. I am the cause. This stigma was meant for me and it has stuck. I am sorry that you had to
suffer so much because of me. But bhaiya will definitely come back—I am sure about it. I am
leaving for Bombay by the nine o’clock train tonight. Please forgive me for the offences I have
committed and convey my pranams to chachi. My only prayer to God is that Gokul Bhaiya returns in
good health. God willing I will visit you and pay my respects to you at bhaiya’s wedding.

Vanshidhar tore the letter to pieces. He realized it was eight o’clock.

Immediately, he changed his clothes, hired an ekka from the road and left for the
station.

The Bombay Mail was waiting on the platform. There was a commotion among
the passengers. The noisy call of the hawkers drowned out all other sounds. The
train was about to leave. Maani and her mother-in-law were sitting in the ladies’
compartment. Moist-eyed, Maani was looking out into the distance. Past
memories, however unpleasant, can have a tinge of sweetness. Maani was
remembering her earlier days of suffering and feeling happy that they were over.
Who knows when she would meet Gokul again! If only chachaji had come she
would have had a chance to pay her respects. True, he had scolded her
sometimes but it was always for her welfare. But he would not come. The train
was about to leave. How could he come anyway? It would create a commotion
in society. God willing I shall see him when I come here next.
Suddenly, she saw Vanshidhar approaching the train. She stepped out of the
train and moved towards him. She was about to fall at his feet when he stepped
back. Casting a wrathful glance at her, he said, ‘Don’t touch me, stay away, you
. . . the unfortunate one. How dare you write to me after blackening your face!
Why don’t you die! You have ruined my clan. Till today we do not know where
Gokul is. Because of you he left home and here you are still sitting on my chest,
torturing me deliberately. Is there no water left in the Ganges for you to drown
in? Had I realized that you were so unchaste and disloyal, I would have strangled
you the very first day. Now you are trying to demonstrate your devotion to me!
you the very first day. Now you are trying to demonstrate your devotion to me!
Sinners like you are better dead than alive. That would lighten the burden on this
earth.’
A crowd of hundreds had gathered on the platform. Vanshidhar was hurling
abuses at her mercilessly. No one understood what the matter was. But in their
hearts all of them were condemning Vanshidhar.
Maani stood frozen like a statue. Her entire dignity lay shattered. She wished
the earth would burst open and swallow her, that someone would strike her with
a thunderbolt and put an end to her insignificant life! She had lost face in front of
so many people. Not a drop of a tear fell from her eyes, for there were no tears
left in her heart. There was a kind of burning forest fire instead which was fast
engulfing her mind. Whose life could be more depraved than hers in this world?
Her mother-in-law called out, ‘Bahu, get into the train.’

As the train moved, her mother-in-law said, ‘I have never seen such a shameless
person in my whole life. I am so enraged I wish I could have scratched his face.’
Maani did not raise her head.
Her mother-in-law said again, ‘God knows when these wretched people will
come to their senses, now it is almost time for them to die. Somebody should ask
him—what can we do if his son has run away! Why would this calamity befall
him if he were not such a sinner?’
Maani once again did not open her mouth. Perhaps she was unable to hear
anything. Perhaps she was not even aware of her existence. She was fixedly
gazing at the window—what was she perceiving in the dark?
The train arrived at Kanpur. Her mother-in-law said, ‘Will you eat something,
beti? Come, eat some sweets. It is past ten.’
Maani said, ‘I am not hungry now, Amma. I will eat later.’
Her mother-in-law went to sleep. Maani also lay down but her uncle’s face
loomed large in front of her eyes and his words rang in her ears. ‘Alas,’ she
moaned. ‘I am so depraved, so low that the earth will be less burdened if I die.’
She recalled Vanshidhar’s words—Don’t show your face again if you are your
parents’ daughter. I would not. If a face has been branded by slander, one does
not feel like showing it to anyone.
not feel like showing it to anyone.
The train moved on, piercing the heart of darkness. Maani opened her trunk
and put away her ornaments. Then she took out Indranath’s photograph and
looked at it for a long time. Her eyes shone with a glint of pride. She put the
photograph aside and said to herself, ‘No, no, I cannot blot your life. You are
godlike, you have taken pity on me. I am atoning for the sins of my past. You
picked me up and pressed me close to your heart and I will not taint you. You
love me and you will tolerate disrespect, insult and slander for me, but I will not
be a burden on your life.’
The train chugged on. Maani kept gazing at the stars till they disappeared. She
saw her mother’s face in the dark so bright, so vivid that she closed her eyes
with a start. Then she looked inside the compartment to see her mother-in-law
sleeping.

10

God knows how much of the night had passed. Maani’s mother-in-law woke up
at the sound of the door opening. The train was moving very fast but there was
no sign of her bahu. She rubbed her eyes, sat up and called out, ‘Bahu, bahu.’
But there was no reply.
Her heart started beating very fast. She cast a glance at the upper berth, looked
inside the toilet, below the benches—bahu was nowhere. Then she stood at the
doorway. She got suspicious—who had opened this door? Had someone come
in? Her heart grew restless. She shut the door and started crying loudly. Who
could she ask? The mail train would not stop for a while. I had told her—Bahu,
let’s sit in the male compartment but she did not listen to me. She said, ‘Amma,
you will have trouble sleeping in a male compartment.’ Now is this the comfort
she has given me?
Suddenly she remembered the alarm chain. She pulled the chain vigorously
many times. The train stopped after several minutes. The guard arrived. A few
more passengers joined in from the next compartment. They searched the entire
compartment. They checked the boards below carefully. There was no trace of
blood. They checked the luggage. Bedroll, box, small box, utensils—everything
was there. All locks were intact. Nothing was missing. If someone had entered
the compartment from outside where could he have gone from a moving train? It
was impossible to jump from a train carrying a woman. From these signs, all
was impossible to jump from a train carrying a woman. From these signs, all
those present concluded that Maani must have fallen down after losing her grip
on the handlebar. The guard was a nice fellow. He got off the train and searched
for Maani for one mile on both sides of the railway track. There was no trace of
her. What more could be done at night beyond that! Some people insisted upon
taking Mataji to the men’s compartment. It was decided that Mataji should get
off the train at the next station and a full search operation be carried out in the
morning.
We start depending on others in times of adversity. Mataji looked around for
help here and there. Her plaintive eyes seemed to be saying—Why can’t
someone bring back my daughter? Oh, she had barely tasted marital joy, she
was so excited about going to her husband! Someone should go to that wicked
Vanshidhar and tell him, ‘Look, your desire has been fulfilled. Are you happy
now?
The old woman sat crying and the train kept moving, breaking through the
darkness.

11

It was Sunday evening. Indranath was sitting on the terrace with a couple of
friends. There was fun and laughter all around as Maani‘s arrival was awaited. A
friend said, ‘Why, Indra, you have some experience of married life, what do you
advise us? Shall we build a nest somewhere or shall we spend the rest of our
lives sitting on the branches? From journals and magazines it seems that there is
little difference between married life and hell.’
Indranath smiled and said, ‘This is a matter of destiny, absolutely a stroke of
luck. If married life is like hell on the one hand, it is no less than heaven on the
other.’
Another friend said, ‘Will there be this kind of freedom?’
Indranath said, ‘Not even one per cent of this. If you wish to return from a
movie at midnight, to wake up at nine o’clock. and play cards after returning
from office at four, then marriage will not bring you any happiness. If you can
get a suit stitched every month now, then you may not even get one in a year.’
‘Your respected spouse is coming by train tonight, isn’t she?’
‘Yes, by mail train. Why don’t you come to the station to receive her?’
‘You don’t have to ask me. Why go home now? But you will have to treat us
 ‘You don’t have to ask me. Why go home now? But you will have to treat us
to dinner tomorrow.’
Suddenly, the postman came and handed Indranath an envelope.
Indranath’s face lit up. He slit open the envelope and started reading it at once.
As soon as he read it, his heart was paralysed, his breathing stopped and his head
reeled. He lost his vision, as though a black curtain had enveloped the earth. He
flung the telegram to his friends and started crying bitterly, his face covered with
both his hands. Perturbed, his friends picked up the telegram nervously and
looked at the wall. They recalled what they had been looking forward to and
look what had happened!
The telegram read like this:

Maani jumped off the train. Her corpse was discovered three miles from Laalpur. I am in Laalpur.
Come immediately.

One of the friends said, ‘An enemy might have sent a false report.’
The second friend said, ‘Yes, sometimes people indulge in such mischief.’
Indranath looked at them blankly but said nothing.
For many minutes, all three sat quiet and motionless. Suddenly, Indranath
stood up and said, ‘I shall leave by this very train.’
The train was to leave Bombay at nine. Both friends quickly wrapped the
bedroll and got it ready. One picked up the bedroll and the other, the box.
Indranath hurriedly changed his clothes and left for the station. Despair led and
hope followed.

12

One week had passed. Vanshidhar had just arrived home from office when
Indranath came and offered his respects. Vanshidhar was startled to see him, not
at his unexpected arrival but at his dishevelled appearance.
Vanshidhar asked, ‘You had gone to Bombay, no?’
Indranath said, ‘Yes, I have only just come back.’
Vanshidhar said in a sharp tone, ‘You destroyed Gokul.’
Indranath looked at his ring and said, ‘He is at my place.’
Vanshidhar’s sad face lit up. He said, ‘Why didn’t he come here? Where did
you meet Gokul? Had he gone to Bombay?’
‘No, I met him at the railway station yesterday when I got off the train.’
 ‘No, I met him at the railway station yesterday when I got off the train.’
‘Then go get him. Let bygones be bygones.’
Saying this, Indranath ran towards the house. In a minute, Gokul’s mother
called him indoors.
Gokul’s mother looked at him from head to toe and said, ‘Were you sick,
bhaiya? Why do you look so crestfallen?’
Gokul’s mother gave him a lota full of water and said, ‘Wash your hands and
face, son. Gokul is all right, I suppose? Where were you all these days? How
many times I have prayed for his return! Why has he not come?’
Indranath said, washing his hands and face, ‘I did suggest that he should come
but he didn’t out of fear.’
‘Where was he all these days?’
‘He said he was roaming around in the villages.’
‘So, you have come alone from Bombay?’
‘Not really, Amma has also come with me.’
Gokul’s mother asked with some hesitation, ‘Maani is in a good place, isn’t
she?’
Indranath smiled and said, ‘Yes, she is in great bliss now. She is free from all
earthly bonds.’
His mother said in disbelief, ‘Don’t be naughty now. Are you cursing the poor
girl? But tell me, why have you come back from Bombay so soon?’
Indranath said with a smile again, ‘What could I do? I got a telegram from
Mataji saying that Maani had jumped off the train and ended her life. Her body
was lying in Laalpur. I rushed there. That’s where I performed the cremation and
other rites. I returned home only today. Please forgive my offence now.’
He could say no more. Tears welled up and choked his throat. He took out a
letter from his pocket and kept it in front of her and said, ‘I found only this letter
in her box.’
For a long time, Gokul’s mother sat in speechless anguish, gazing at the floor.
Grief and more aptly repentance had overpowered her senses. She picked up the
letter and started reading it.

Swami!
When you get this letter in your hands, I will be gone from this world. I am very unfortunate. I have
no place in this world. Because of me, you too will be in trouble and be condemned. I thought about
it and decided that it is best for me to die. How do I reciprocate the compassion you have showered
on me? I had never desired anything in life but I regret not dying at your feet. My last request to you
 on me? I had never desired anything in life but I regret not dying at your feet. My last request to you
is that you do not mourn for me. May God always keep you happy.

His mother kept the letter aside and tears started flowing from her eyes.
Vanshidhar stood in the veranda motionless, as if Maani stood before him, in all
her modesty.

Translated from the Hindi by Neerja M. Chand

 The Path to Hell

As I was reading the scripture Bhaktmal, I fell asleep. What kind of devotees
were they for whom their love for God was everything? They remained
completely immersed in it. Such devotion is acquired only after great ascetic
fervour. Am I not capable of such devotion? What other bliss is there in this life
of mine? Those who love ornaments find them valuable. As for me, the very
sight of jewels is a torment to my eyes; those who value wealth and property die
for it, but the very name of wealth causes utter rage in me. Yesterday that stupid
Sushila decked me up with such delight; with such affection she braided flowers
in my hair. I tried hard to stop her but she didn’t listen. And what I was afraid of
is what finally happened. For all the time I had spent laughing with her, I spent
more time crying. Is there any other woman in this world whose husband burns
with jealousy from head to toe when he sees his wife well turned out ? Is there
another woman who hears her husband say—‘You’ll ruin my afterlife, your
demeanour suggests that’—and does not consume poison? God! What kind of
men are there in this world! Finally I went downstairs and started reading the
Bhaktmal. Now I will only serve Vrindavan Bihari, to him alone will I show my
adornments. He will certainly not burn with jealousy when he looks at me. He
knows the true state of my mind.

God! How do I control my mind? You are omniscient; you can feel the condition
of each and every pore of my body. I want to look upon him as my lord and
of each and every pore of my body. I want to look upon him as my lord and
master, I want to serve at his feet, do whatsoever he wants me to do. I don’t want
to do anything that will hurt him. He is not to be blamed. Whatever was written
in my destiny has happened. It’s neither his fault, nor my parents’. The entire
blame lies on my destiny alone. But despite being aware of all this, the moment I
see him approaching, my heart sinks, my face turns deadly pale, my head
becomes heavy. I don’t feel like looking at his face. I do not feel like speaking to
him. Perhaps no one would feel as dismayed looking at one’s enemy—the way I
feel looking at him. As the time of his return approaches, my heart begins to
pound. If he ever goes out for a day or two, I feel lighthearted. I laugh, and speak
as well; joy begins to descend into my life, but the moment I hear the news of his
return, darkness spreads all around me! Why is this the condition of my soul? To
me it seems that there was some enmity between us in our previous birth. It must
have been to avenge himself that he married me in this birth. These old beliefs
are still deeply ingrained in us. Why else would he burn with envy looking at me
and why would I hate the very sight of his face? This is not what marriage is
supposed to mean. I was so much happier at my parents’ house. I could have
happily stayed there till the last breath of my life. A curse be upon this tradition
of marriage, which compels parents to tie their unfortunate daughters to some
man or the other. What does this society know of the countless young girls who
are weeping because of it? So many young hearts undulating with dreams are
being trampled under its feet. For young, tender girls the image of a husband is a
source of so many sweet desires. The word husband embodies all that is best in a
man: ideal, noble, good-looking. When this living image of such a virtuous
husband comes into the mind of a young woman, it assumes a life of its own.
But for me what does this word symbolize? A spike that comes and penetrates
my being, the thorn that perpetually pricks my heart, a piece of grit that irritates
my eyes, the penetrating innuendo that pierces the insides of my soul! Sushila is
always laughing. She never complains about her poverty. She has no ornaments,
no clothes—she only has a small rented house and she does the entire domestic
work herself; still I never see her crying. If I could, I would have exchanged all
my wealth with her poverty. When she sees her husband returning home with a
smile, all her sorrow and misery disappear as if by magic, and her mind is filled
with happiness. The joy, the bliss that emanates from an embrace of love . . . I
could give away the wealth of all the three worlds for this one drop of love.
 3

Today I could not control myself. I asked him—what made him marry me? This
question had been disturbing me for months but I had so far restrained myself.
Today the container overflowed. He got really flustered by my question and,
trying to distract me, put on a grin and replied, ‘To manage the household, to
take on the household responsibilities . . . what else, for sex and lust? Without a
woman this house seemed like the dwelling of ghosts. The servants used to
squander away the wealth of the house. Things remained unattended wherever
they lay. There was nobody to take care of them.’ So now I realized that I had
been brought here to look after the house as a watchman. I must guard this house
and feel privileged about owning all this wealth. The main thing is the wealth; I
am merely its watchdog. May this house catch fire today itself. Till now I used
to look after this house unwittingly, perhaps not as much as he expected but at
least as much as my own discretion guided me. But from today onwards I take a
vow that I will never touch anything on any account. I know very well that no
man marries to merely procure a guard for his house and this gentleman had
uttered these words to spite me. Sushila is right, without a woman he must have
found his house desolate, just as one finds a cage desolate without a bird. This is
the fate of us women!

I do not know why he suspects me so much. Ever since destiny has brought me
to this house I have seen him casting glances full of aspersions towards me.
What is the reason? If I get my hair braided he is annoyed. I do not go anywhere,
and I do not visit anyone . . . still so much suspicion! This humiliation is
unbearable. Do I have no value for my honour? Why does he consider me to be
so frivolous, doesn’t he feel ashamed of doubting me? When a one-eyed man
sees people laughing, he invariably believes they are laughing at him. Perhaps he
too has developed this delusion that I am deliberately mocking him all the time.
Often when we trespass our limits this is precisely the condition of our mind. A
beggar cannot sleep peacefully sitting on the throne of a king. He will only see
enemies all around him. I feel this is the condition of all those old men who
marry young women.
 Today on Sushila’s insistence I was going to see Thakurji’s janki. Now a man
with reasonable intelligence can understand that dressing up like an uncouth
person will only make me a laughing stock. But God knows from where at that
very moment you landed up and asked me reproachfully, ‘Where are you off to?’
‘I am going to see Thakurji’s janki,’ I told him. He frowned and retorted,
‘There is no need for you to go anywhere. The woman who has not served her
husband will only accumulate sin instead of blessings by worshipping the deity.
You are trying to fool me. I know you women very well.
I was furious. What could I say? At that very moment I changed my clothes
and vowed that from now on I would never go for darshan. Is there no limit to
this suspicion? I don’t know why I stayed back. The right answer to his attitude
would have been to walk out of the house at that very instant, and then seen what
he would have done to me!
He is surprised to see me sad and unhappy. In his heart he considers me
ungrateful; he thinks he has bestowed a great favour on me by marrying me.
Being the owner of such a huge property and such tremendous wealth I should
have been excessively happy and I should have sung his praises throughout the
day. But instead of singing his praises I look morose. Sometimes I feel pity for
him. He cannot understand that lack of love can totally wreck a woman’s life.

For the last three days he has been sick. Doctors say there is no hope of his
surviving—he has pneumonia. But I do not know why I feel no sorrow for him. I
was never so hard-hearted. God knows where my tenderness has disappeared. At
the very sight of a sick person my heart would melt with compassion. I couldn’t
bear to hear anyone cry. And now even though I’ve been hearing him groan in
the room next to mine for the past three days, forget tears welling in my eyes, I
have not been to see him even once. I feel that I do not have any connection with
him. People may call me a witch or a whore but I have not the slightest shame in
stating that I am feeling a strange kind of malicious joy because of his illness. He
had imprisoned me. I do not want to attribute to it the sacred name of marriage—
this is merely imprisonment. I am not so generous as to worship the man who
has kept me in a prison, to kiss the feet that kick me. I believe that God is
punishing him for his sins. Without any shame I state that I am not married to
punishing him for his sins. Without any shame I state that I am not married to
him. A woman doesn’t become a married woman just because she has been tied
to someone. That union can only attain the status of marriage when at least once
the heart brims over with love. I can hear the gentleman blaming me entirely for
his illness. But this does not bother me. Whosoever wants it can take the entire
property, the entire wealth; I have no need for it.

It’s been three days since I have become a widow. At least that is what people
say. People can say what they like, it is not going to change what I think of
myself. I did not break my bangles. Why should I? I never used to fill my maang
with sindoor, even now I don’t. The last rites of the old man were performed by
his son. I stayed away. At home people pass all kinds of remarks, looking at my
braided hair some turn up their noses, and seeing my ornaments, some smirk, but
who cares? Just to tease them I wear colourful saris, I adorn myself, and I do not
feel even the slightest bit sad. I have been liberated from the prison. Now I visit
Sushila’s house often. A small house, no decoration, no furniture, not even a
single bed and yet Sushila is so happy. Looking at the radiance that surrounds
her, all kinds of desires begin to surface in me as well. Why should I call them
base when my mind does not consider them to be base? There is so much
enthusiasm in their life. Her eyes are constantly smiling, a sweet smile spreads
on her lips and her voice seems to be dipped in sweetness. With this joy, no
matter how momentary it may be, life becomes meaningful, and then no one can
erase this experience. One can live one’s entire life with its memory.
One day I asked Sushila, ‘If your husband were to go away to some distant
land wouldn’t you die of grief?’ Very seriously, Sushila replied, ‘No, sister, I
will not die, his memory will always keep alive the radiance in me, even if he
remains in that distant land for years together.’
I too seek such love, my mind longs for this pain of love. I too want this very
memory, which can make the strings of my heart vibrate, whose intoxication will
forever engulf and surround me.

Night passed and tears changed into convulsive sobs. I do not know why my
heart was filled with so much agony. My life seemed to stretch before me like a
huge barren land, where there were only thorny bushes and no green pastures.
The silence of the house haunts me; my mind is so restless that I want to fly
away somewhere. These days I do not even feel like reading devotional
scriptures. Nor do I feel like going out for a walk; I am unaware of what I even
want. But what I do not know every pore and fibre of my being knows. I am the
most animated, pulsating embodiment of my emotions. Every single part of my
body is an expression of my innermost pain and anguish.
The restlessness of my mind has reached the outermost state, where a person
is neither ashamed of slander nor afraid of it. Those greedy, selfish parents who
pushed me into this well, that stone-hearted man who enacted the role of putting
sindoor in my maang—evil and wicked curses surface again and again towards
them from the depth of my heart. I want to put them to shame. By disgracing
myself I want to disgrace them. I want to kill myself in order to get them
punished for killing me. My tender femininity has receded into the background
and in its place a raging flame is burning.
Everyone at home was sleeping. I went downstairs stealthily, opened the door
and stepped out of the house, like a person who is absolutely agitated because of
extreme heat and rushes out of the house and runs towards an open space. I was
feeling suffocated in the house.
There was dead silence on the road—the shops had closed. Suddenly I saw an
old woman approaching me. What if she is a witch, I thought. The old woman
looked me up and down and said, ‘Who are you waiting for?’
‘For death,’ I answered in vexation.
‘Destiny has great bliss in store for you. The dark night has passed; in the sky
one can see the light of the dawn breaking.’
I laughed and answered, ‘Is your sight so sharp that even in such darkness you
can read the lines of destiny?’
The old woman replied, ‘I do not read with my eyes, but with the power of my
mind. This hair of mine—it has not grown grey in sun. Your bad days are past
and your good days are approaching. Do not laugh, daughter, my life has passed
doing only this work. It is because of this old woman that the girl who was going
to drown herself in the river is now sleeping on a bed of flowers; the one who
was about to drink poison is now rinsing her mouth with milk. For this very
reason I walk the nights, to seek and help any unfortunate woman. I do not ask
reason I walk the nights, to seek and help any unfortunate woman. I do not ask
anyone for anything. By the grace of God I have everything. My only desire is
that I should be able to help as much as I can. Those who desire wealth should
get wealth, those who desire a child should have one, that’s all. What else should
I say? I give the mantra that fulfils what a person desires.’
I said, ‘I neither want wealth nor a child. You can’t fathom my heart’s desire.’
The old woman laughed. ‘I know what you desire, daughter. You are in search
of that, which though is found in this world, belongs to the heavens, which is
even more blissful than the boon of gods. It is the wonderful flower of heaven, it
is the most inconceivable, unobtainable fig of heaven, it is like the night of the
full moon in the fortnight of the waning moon. But in my mantra there is power
with which you can change your destiny. You are a seeker of love—I will put
you on a boat in the ocean of love which will take you to your desired
destination.’
I asked eagerly, ‘Mother, where do you live?’
‘My house is very close. If you are willing, then I welcome you with my
whole heart to follow me.’
She felt like some Goddess who had descended from the sky. I began to
follow her.

Ah! That old crone whom I had believed to be a Goddess from the sky proved to
be a demoness from hell. I was completely destroyed. I, who was in search of
nectar, found poison instead. I was thirsty for pure, unadulterated love. Instead I
fell into a filthy, noxious drain. I was not destined to get what I was looking for.
I yearned for the kind of bliss that Sushila enjoyed, not sensuality or
promiscuity. But in life when one begins to walk on the wrong track it becomes
difficult to return to the right path.
But I am not responsible for my degenerated state. The responsibility of my
plight rests on the shoulders of my parents and on that old man who wanted to be
my lord and husband. I would not have written these lines but I am writing them
with this thought in mind that after reading my life story, people may become a
little more aware. I again state, do not seek wealth, do not seek property, do not
seek families with a noble lineage for your young daughters, only seek a good
man. If you are unable to find an appropriately aged mate for your daughter, then
man. If you are unable to find an appropriately aged mate for your daughter, then
let her remain unmarried, kill her by giving her poison, strangle her, but do not
compel her to marry a decrepit old man. A woman can endure everything. She
can endure the most terrible, heart-rending, agonizing pain; what she cannot
endure is the death of her most beautiful, youthful dreams. As for me, I have no
hope left in this life of mine. Yet I will not exchange this base existence with
what I have left behind.

Translated from the Hindi by Diamond Oberoi and Rajesh Gupta

 The Secret of Culture

I can think of one thousand and one things about this world that I don’t
understand. For instance, why do men attack their hair with a razor the moment
they get up early in the morning? Is it because men have now become such
delicate creatures that they can’t bear the weight of their own hair? Another
thing, why do almost all educated men suffer nowadays from poor eyesight? Is it
because of the feebleness of the brain or some other reason? Why do people go
to so much trouble to acquire titles? And so on. But none of these questions
concern me at this moment. A new question has arisen in my mind, to which no
one gives any answers. The question is—who is a ‘civilized’ person and who is
not? What are the traits of a civilized man? On the face of it, this question seems
extremely simple, one that even a child can answer. But if you think deeply, it’s
not a simple question at all.
If wearing a jacket and trousers, tie, collar and hat, sitting at a table to eat
one’s meals, drinking tea or coffee a dozen times a day, or smoking a cigar while
walking down a street are marks of a civilized person, then one would have to
designate those white men walking the streets in the evenings as civilized. Badly
drunk, with their bloodshot eyes, stumbling gait and harassing passers-by for no
reason—can one really call them civilized? Never. So this much is proven:
Being civilized is something quite different; it has more to do with the mind than
the body.

2
Rai Ratankishore is one of my very few friends. He is a kind, generous, highly
educated man who holds a prominent position in the government. But the
handsome salary he draws is not adequate for his expenses. A fourth of it is
spent in the maintenance of his bungalow. He is often seen worried about his
finances. He doesn’t take bribes—at least I have no knowledge of it, even
though people may talk. What I do know, however, is that he often goes on tours
to augment his income. Every year, money reserved for other purposes in the
departmental budget is diverted to meet his travelling expense. If his superiors
quiz him about his excessive travels, he says that the nature of his work demands
travel to the districts to maintain peace. However, it is interesting to know that
Rai Sahib does not actually tour as much as his daily log book shows. His camp
is usually set up at a distance of about fifty miles from the city. Tents are put up
there and the subordinate officials live in them, while Rai Sahib stays at home
entertaining friends. But no one dares cast aspersions on Rai Sahib’s good
intentions! No one dares doubt his claim to being a civilized gentleman!
One day I went to meet Rai Sahib. He was reprimanding his servant, Damrhi,
a grass cutter. Damrhi was employed on a full-time basis but was allowed to go
home to have his meals. He lived in a nearby village. For some reason, he had
not reported for duty the earlier night, and he was being taken to task for it.
‘When we have employed you as a full-time servant, why did you stay at
home last night? I’ll cut yesterday’s wages from your salary,’ said Rai Sahib.
‘Huzoor, there was a guest visiting us, so I couldn’t come,’ Damrhi replied.
‘Then ask your guest to pay you yesterday’s wages.’
‘Huzoor, it will not happen again.’
‘Shut up!’
‘Huzoor—’
‘You’ll pay a penalty of two rupees.’
Damrhi left crying. He had come to pray for mercy but instead had a penalty
slapped on him. A fine of two rupees! And the crime he had committed was that
he had come to ask forgiveness for his fault!
So this was the penalty for one night’s absence! He had worked hard all day.
Only because he hadn’t slept here at night was he given this punishment. But
those who sit at home and enjoy themselves on fake travel bills? There is no one
to question or punish them. There should be punishment for such people, of a
kind they remember all their lives. But it is difficult to catch them. If Damrhi had
kind they remember all their lives. But it is difficult to catch them. If Damrhi had
been cleverer, he too would have come back late at night and gone to sleep in his
shed. No one would have known where he was earlier in the evening. But the
poor man was not so clever.

Damrhi owned a total of six biswas of land, and he had six mouths to feed. His
two sons, two daughters and wife worked all day long in the field but they could
barely manage two square meals a day. Well, one couldn’t expect gold from that
small patch of land! If all of them had left home and decided to work on wages,
they could have led a better life. But a traditional farmer would be ashamed to be
called a labourer. To save himself from this humiliation, Damrhi kept a pair of
bullocks. A good part of his salary went towards buying fodder for them. He was
ready to undergo all these hardships, yet he could not give up farming to become
a labourer. Can a wage earner, even if he earns a whole rupee a day, ever equal
the dignity of a farmer? It is not such a shame if one undertakes some casual
labour on top of farming. The bullocks were tied at his door to maintain his
honour. If he ever had to sell them, he would die of shame.
One day Rai Sahib found Damrhi shivering with cold and said, ‘Why don’t
you get warm clothes for yourself? Why are you shivering?’
Damrhi said, ‘Sarkar, I can’t afford two square meals a day. Where can I get
warm clothes?’
‘Why don’t you sell your bullocks? I’ve told you a hundred times. I don’t
know why you refuse to listen to reason.’
‘Sarkar, I won’t be able to show my face to my people if I do so. I won’t be
able to marry off my daughter. I will be made an outcaste.’
‘It’s this idiocy of yours that is the cause of your wretchedness. It’s a sin to
show any mercy towards people like you.’ Then Rai Sahib turned towards me
and continued, ‘Tell me, Munshiji, is there any cure for such madness? They’ll
die of cold, but will insist on having the bullocks tied to their door.’
I said, ‘My dear sir, this is the way they think, I guess.’
‘Well, then, I don’t care what they think. You know, for generations my
family celebrated Janmashtami. Several thousand rupees would go down the
drain every year. There was singing and feasting for several days. Invitations
were sent to relatives all around. Clothes were doled out to the poor. Once my
were sent to relatives all around. Clothes were doled out to the poor. Once my
father died, I put an end to all that. What was the use of it all? The family was
losing four to five thousand rupees every year. It created an uproar in our town.
People made a lot of fuss—if some called me an atheist, others accused me of
being a Christian. But who cares! The uproar subsided in a few days. It was a
free-for-all before I took the reins. If there was a marriage in any household in
the entire township, they expected firewood from my family. This tradition had
continued for generations. My father, in fact, maintained it by purchasing trees
from others. Wasn’t it sheer stupidity? I promptly put an end to this custom of
giving wood for free. There was another uproar. Tell me, am I supposed to
protect my own interests or listen to the complaints of others? Annually, I could
save a minimum of five hundred rupees on wood alone. Now no one dares
bother me with such demands.’
Once again, a question arose in my mind. Who is the more civilized of the two
—stupid Damrhi, ready to lay down his life for his family dignity, or Rai
Ratankishore, ready to give up family honour for money?

An important case was being heard at Rai Sahib’s court. A nobleman had been
accused of murder. Several people approached Rai Sahib for his bail. The bail
had become a point of honour with the accused. The nobleman had made it clear
to his lackeys that he was prepared to sell off his entire estate if he could wriggle
free of that case without a stain on his character. Gifts were sent to Rai Sahib,
people pleaded with him, but to no avail. The nobleman’s lackeys could not,
however, muster enough courage to offer a bribe upfront. Finally, when nothing
worked, the nobleman’s wife took the matter into her own hands and decided to
meet Rai Sahib’s wife and strike a deal.
It was ten o’clock. The two women started negotiating. The deal was struck at
twenty thousand rupees. Rai Sahib’s wife was thrilled. She ran to her husband
and said, ‘Take it, oh, do take it! If you don’t, I will.’
‘Hold your horses. What will she think of you? Do you not care for my
honour? I agree the amount is large, and will at once free me from your daily
call for luxuries, but you mustn’t make light of an officer’s honour. You should
have shown her that you were offended by her suggestion and said, “How dare
you suggest this! Get lost. I don’t want to hear such nonsense.”’
you suggest this! Get lost. I don’t want to hear such nonsense.”’
‘To be sure, that’s the first thing I did do,’ replied his wife. ‘I went into a rage
and gave her a piece of my mind. Don’t I know how to act in such
circumstances? The wretched woman fell at my feet and started crying.’
Rai Sahib said, ‘You should’ve said that if you even mentioned it to Rai
Sahib, he would chew you out.’ He hugged his wife in great excitement.
‘Rest assured, I said quite a lot, but she was not one to give up. She was
crying herself to death.’
‘I hope you haven’t given her your word.’
‘Word? I’ve taken the money and tucked it away in the strong box. They were
paper notes.’
‘How absolutely stupid! I don’t know when God will give you any sense, if
ever.’
‘Doesn’t seem likely now! If He were going to give me any, He would have
done it by now.’
‘Quite so. You didn’t even tell me; you just grabbed the money and locked it
up. If anyone finds out, I’ll be ruined.’
‘Well, think about it then. If you feel it might get you into trouble, I’ll go and
return the money.’
‘Once again, you’re being stupid. What was destined to happen has happened.
Now I will have to depend on God’s mercy and grant bail to the fellow. Don’t
you realize it’s like putting your finger inside a serpent’s mouth? You know all
too well that I hate such things and yet you get impatient. I have to violate my
principles because of your stupidity. I’d decided not to interfere with the course
of the law, but your stupidity has pre-empted it.’
‘Let me go and return the money.’
‘And let me go and take some poison.’
While the couple was indulging in this bit of play-acting, Damrhi was cutting
some barley from the village headman’s field. He had gone home after taking
leave for the night. He saw that there wasn’t a single straw for his bullocks to
eat. Several days were still to go before pay day; there was no money to buy
their fodder. His family had gathered some grass during the day to feed the
bullocks, but that was like a drop in the ocean. The bullocks stood there, still
hungry. At the sight of Damrhi they raised their tails and started bellowing. As
he came closer, they started licking his hand. Damrhi felt his heart wrench but
nothing could be done at that late hour. ‘Come morning, I’ll borrow money from
someone and buy some fodder,’ he thought.
But when he awoke at around eleven o’clock, he saw that the bullocks were
still standing before their trough. It was a clear moonlit night and it seemed to
Damrhi that both animals were gazing at him with imploring eyes. Tears welled
up in his own eyes to see them starving. Bullocks are as dear to a farmer as his
sons. He considers them not brutes, but his friends and helpers. Sleep left
Damrhi’s eyes when he saw the bullocks standing there hungry. He thought for a
moment, then picked up his sickle and went out in search of fodder.
Barley and millet crops stood ready in the fields outside the village. Damrhi’s
hands were shaking but the thought of his hungry bullocks pushed him to action.
He could have cut several sheaves of the crop if he wanted, but he didn’t.
Despite this pilfering he was not really a thief. He cut only as much fodder for
his bullocks as was necessary for the night. He thought that even if somebody
happened to see him, he would say that he had to do this for his starving
bullocks. He was sure that no one would blame him for taking a little bit of
fodder. He wasn’t cutting the crop with the intention of selling it, after all. No
one could possibly be cruel enough to blame him. ‘If worse comes to worst, he
might ask me to pay for it.’ He pondered deeply over his act and felt that the
meagre quantity of the fodder would save him from any accusation of theft. A
thief would have cut as much as he could carry on his head; he wouldn’t worry
about another’s profit or loss. Had a villager noticed Damrhi taking away the
fodder, he would certainly have been annoyed, but no one would have levelled
charges of theft against him. But as luck would have it, the beat constable from
the circle police station was passing by. He had got wind of a gambling den in
the local trader’s house and was looking to make some bucks from the gamblers.
When he saw Damrhi lifting the fodder on his head, he grew suspicious. Who
was cutting a harvest so late at night? It might be some thief stealing the crop.
He bellowed, ‘Who’s there carrying the crop? Stand still!’
Startled, Damrhi turned to see that it was the police constable! He went limp
with fright and stammered, ‘Huzoor, I’ve cut just a little. You can see for
yourself.’
‘Little or a lot, it’s a case of theft. Whose crop is this?’
‘Baldev Mehto’s.’
The constable had thought that he’d come upon a lucrative prey. But now his
 The constable had thought that he’d come upon a lucrative prey. But now his
hopes were dashed. He caught hold of Damrhi and dragged him to the hamlet.
But there too he drew a blank. So he took him to the police station where the
station officer promptly pressed charges of theft against him. The case was
brought to Rai Sahib’s court.
When Rai Sahib saw Damrhi standing accused he felt no sympathy for him.
On the contrary, he hardened his heart. ‘You’ve brought me infamy. This
doesn’t make any difference to you? You’ll spend a couple of months in jail; I
am the one who is embarrassed. People will say that Rai Sahib has got a bunch
of crooks for servants. If you weren’t my servant, I’d probably have given you a
lesser punishment. But as you are my servant, I will award you the strictest of
punishments. I can’t have people thinking that Rai Sahib was partial towards his
own domestic help.’
True to his words, Rai Sahib sentenced Damrhi to six months of rigorous
imprisonment. That same day he granted bail to the nobleman accused of
murder.
I heard both these accounts and came away convinced that civilization is the
art of getting away with your misdeeds. You can commit the worst of crimes, but
if you are able to camouflage it, you are civilized and urbane, a gentleman. If,
however, you lack this art, you are uncivilized and boorish, a rogue. This,
indeed, is the secret of culture.

Translated from the Urdu by M. Asaduddin

 Temple and Mosque

Chaudhary Itrat Ali was the owner of a big estate, a jagirdar. During the colonial
period, his ancestors had served the British in high positions. This estate or jagir
was a reward for their past services. By his efficient management his property
had increased in value and now there was no one equal to him in riches and
fame. The English officials made it a point to meet him whenever they were on
an inspection tour. But Chaudhary Sahib himself never went to greet any
official, even if it was the commissioner. He totally avoided going to the court.
He didn’t even attend any court sessions. He considered it inappropriate to stand
with folded hands before officials and flatter them. He stayed away as far as
possible from lawsuits, even if it meant incurring a financial loss. This job was
left entirely to his attorneys, and he didn’t much care whether they won or lost
the cases. He was a scholar of Arabic and Persian, followed the sharia very
strictly, considered charging interest on money lent to anybody a sin, offered
namaz five times a day, kept all of the thirty rozas and read the Koran every day.
Despite being ardently religious he was not touched by sectarian parochialism.
Taking a holy dip in the Ganga was his daily routine. Come rain or hail, he
would walk two miles and be at the banks of the Ganga at five in the morning.
While returning he would fill his silver flagon with water from the Ganga, and
he always drank this water. He didn’t take any other water except this. Even a
Hindu ascetic would not have so much reverence for the waters of the Ganga.
Every seventh day his entire house was plastered with cow dung inside and out.
Not only this, a pandit recited the sacred Durga slokas for the entire year in his
orchard. The warmth with which he welcomed saints and ascetics was rare even
amongst the kings. In short, his house provided daily hospitality to such holy
personages.
Food was cooked for the Muslim fakirs by the cooks in his own kitchen. More
than a hundred people were fed at the community dinner each day. Even after so
much benevolence he didn’t owe a penny to any moneylender. On the contrary,
his prosperity grew by the day. He circulated a general order allowing the use of
as much wood as was needed from the government-owned jungles for burning
dead bodies or for feasts at sacrificial offerings or marriages. There was no need
to ask Chaudhary Sahib. During the marriage of his Hindu tenants, there would
be somebody or the other to represent Chaudhary Sahib. The amount he gave as
a present was fixed. The amount of his contribution to the wedding of a daughter
was fixed too. Besides elephants and horses from his stable, his canopy, tent,
palanquin, carpets, fans, bedsheets and silver utensils were loaned to the people
without any fuss. One merely had to ask for them. People were ready to lay
down their lives for such a sagacious, kind and benevolent person like him.

Chaudhary Sahib had a Rajput chaprasi named Bhajansingh. This six-feet-tall,

broad-chested young man wielded the club well and could fight a hundred
adversaries single-handedly. He was a stranger to fear. Chaudhary Sahib had
immense faith in him, to the extent that he even took him along when he went to
Mecca for hajj. Chaudhary Sahib had no dearth of enemies. The zamindars of
the neighbouring areas were jealous of his power and fame. They were scared of
ill-treating their tenants because Chaudhary Sahib was always ready to take the
side of the weak.
When Bhajansingh was with him Chaudhary Sahib was not afraid even of
sleeping at the enemy’s door. Many a time when he was surrounded by his
enemies, Bhajansingh had risked his own life to get him out of the enemies’
clutches unhurt. He was ready to jump into the fire for his master’s sake. If he
stepped out of the house alone on some errand, Chaudhary Sahib felt worried
until he returned, lest he get into a brawl with someone. He was like a pet ram,
ever ready to hit someone when freed from the leash. Only one person
constituted his whole world and it was Chaudhary Sahib. You could call him a
constituted his whole world and it was Chaudhary Sahib. You could call him a
king, master or God— Chaudhary Sahib was everything to him.
The Muslims harboured a grudge against Chaudhary Sahib. They felt that he
had turned his back on his faith. How could they understand such a complex
lifestyle? If he was a true Muslim why should he drink Ganga water? Why
should he show respect and be hospitable to Hindu saints and ascetics? Why
should he arrange for the chanting of Durga slokas? The mullahs plotted against
him and plans to humiliate the Hindus were afoot. They finally decided to attack
the temple on the day of Janmashtami and inflict a humiliating defeat on the
Hindus. They would prove, once and for all, that it was silly for the Hindus to
swagger around on the strength of Chaudhary Sahib’s patronage. After all, what
could Chaudhary Sahib do? If he took the side of the Hindus he would be taught
a lesson too. All his Hinduness would be knocked out.

It was a dark night. Janmashtami, the birth anniversary of Lord Krishna, was
being celebrated at the temple. A toothless old man was singing dhrupad on his
tamboura and the devotees were waiting with drums and cymbals for the song to
get over so that they could begin their kirtan. The sweets vendor was preparing
the prasad. Hundreds had gathered to watch the spectacle.
Suddenly a group of Muslims arrived with sticks and started pelting stones at
the temple. There was a commotion. ‘Where are the stones coming from? Who
is throwing these stones?’ A few men stepped out of the temple and looked
around. The Muslims pounced on them with their lathis. What else did the
Hindus have in their hands besides drums and cymbals? Some of them sought
refuge back in the temple; others ran in the other directions. There was tumult
everywhere.
Chaudhary Sahib came to know of the riot. He said to Bhajansingh, ‘Thakur,
check out what this commotion is about. Ask these scoundrels to lay off. If they
do not pay heed, serve them a few punches. But, mind you, no bloodshed.’
Meanwhile, Bhajansingh was gnashing his teeth with growing impatience.
Chaudhary Sahib’s order was like the answer to his silent prayer. Carrying his
club on his shoulder, he rushed to the temple. The Muslims had created mayhem
there. Chasing the Hindus many of the men had entered the temple and were
indulging in vandalism.
indulging in vandalism.
Bhajansingh went mad with rage. He bellowed and entered the temple and
started beating the scoundrels. He was one against fifty, but he fought like a
tiger! He vanquished all of them single-handedly. Blind with rage, he did not
seem to care for anyone’s life. He felt as though some divine power was egging
him on, and Lord Krishna himself was protecting him. Men are known to have
performed impossible feats in the name of religion.
After Bhajansingh’s departure, Chaudhary Sahib felt worried that he might
spill someone’s blood and hurried to the temple. He witnessed the chaos that
reigned there at the moment. Some were fleeing the scene with their lives, some
lay there groaning and wailing. He wanted to call out to Bhajansingh when a
man came running towards him and fell on the ground. Chaudhary Sahib
recognized the person, and the world darkened before his eyes. He was Shahid
Hussain—his son-in-law and sole heir.
Chaudhary rushed forward and took Shahid in his arms. He called out loudly,
‘Thakur, come here . . . lantern . . . lantern! Oh, he is my Shahid!’
Bhajansingh’s hands and feet froze. He took the lantern and came closer. It
was indeed Shahid Hussain. His head was wounded and blood was gushing out.
Smiting his head in anguish, Chaudhary said, ‘Thakur, you’ve snuffed out the
light from my life!’
Trembling all over, Bhajansingh said, ‘Master, God knows, I didn’t recognize
him.’
‘I do not blame you. No one has the right to trespass on the temple of God.
My only regret is that my family line has come to an end and that too by your
hands! You’ve always risked your life to protect me. Now, God has chosen you
as the means for my destruction.’
Tears streamed down Chaudhary Sahib’s face as he said this. Thakur was
overwhelmed by guilt and remorse. He would not have been so grief-stricken if
his own son had died. Ah! To have brought about his master’s ruin! For whom
he was ready to lay down his life! One who was not only his master but his God.
He was ready to leap into fire at his mere suggestion! To have cut the roots of
his family line! He’d turned out to be a snake hidden in the grass! He said in a
choked voice, ‘Lord, there wouldn’t be a more unfortunate person than me. I will
have to live with this disgrace.’
Saying this, Bhajansingh pulled out his dagger. He wanted to wipe out the
disgrace with his blood by thrusting the dagger into his chest. But Chaudhary
disgrace with his blood by thrusting the dagger into his chest. But Chaudhary
Sahib leapt and snatched away the dagger from his hands. He admonished him,
‘What are you doing? Control yourself. Fate had this in store for me. It’s not
your fault. Whatever has happened was God’s will. I would have forgiven you
for taking my life with full knowledge of who I was if I had entered the temple
and defiled the deity. There is no graver crime than insulting someone’s faith.
God is my witness that even though my heart is being torn asunder and I feel that
I won’t be able to bear this grief, I hold no grudge against you. Had I been in
your place, I would have done the same, even if the victim were my master’s
son. I know my family will taunt me, my daughter will cry for vengeance; the
entire Muslim community will bay for my blood. I will be called a kafir and a
heretic. One day, some fanatic young man may decide to kill me but I will not
turn my face away from what is right. The night is still dark. Run away from this
place at this very moment and hide yourself in some barrack in my estate. Look,
some Muslims are coming this way. Members of my family are with them too.
Run, run!’

For a year Bhajansingh kept hiding in Chaudhary Sahib’s area. He was wanted
by the police, and the Muslims were also on the lookout for him. But Chaudhary
Sahib managed to hide him from their prying eyes. He bore the taunts of the
society, insults by his family members, hostility from the police and threats from
the mullahs, but he refused to divulge Bhajansingh’s whereabouts. As long as he
lived, he did not want to hand over such a loyal devotee to the ruthless guardians
of the law. The barracks in his estate were raided several times, the mullahs tried
to intimidate the servants in his household but Chaudhary Sahib kept hiding
Bhajansingh in the same way he concealed his own good deeds.
Bhajansingh was deeply grieved to see Chaudhary Sahib undergoing such
troubles to protect him. His heart kept telling him time and again, ‘I must go to
my lord and tell him to hand me over to the police.’ But Chaudhary Sahib just
advised him to remain in hiding.
It was winter. Chaudhary Sahib had gone on a tour of his estate. Nowadays he
did not stay in the house much. This was the only way he could escape from the
harsh words of his family. He had just finished his dinner and was lying down to
rest when Bhajansingh entered his room and stood before him. His face had
rest when Bhajansingh entered his room and stood before him. His face had
changed so much that Chaudhary Sahib was shocked. Bhajansingh said, ‘Master,
I hope you are well.’
‘Yes, by God’s grace. You appear unrecognizable. Where are you coming
from at this hour?’
‘Lord, I can’t stay in hiding any more. If you permit me, I will go and present
myself at court. Whatever is destined will happen. I can’t bear to see you
undergoing so much suffering because of me.’
‘No, Thakur, I can’t do this as long as I’m alive. I cannot throw you to the
wolves. The police will manipulate the evidence to suit their ends and you will
have to pay with your life. You have faced grave dangers for my sake. If I can’t
do even this much for you, I will be the most ungrateful person in the world.
Don’t bring up this subject again.’
‘What if somebody—’
‘Don’t worry about this at all. Nobody can touch even my hair until God
wishes it. Now go, it is dangerous to stay here.’
‘I hear that people have stopped socializing with you.’
‘It is better to stay away from one’s enemies.’
But the thought that had lodged itself in Bhajansingh’s heart did not leave.
The meeting made his resolutions firmer. ‘He’s wandering from place to place
because of me. There’s no one to take care of him here, to call his own. Shame
on my life!’
Early in the morning Bhajansingh reached the district magistrate’s bungalow.
Sahib asked, ‘Have you been hiding for so long at Chaudhary’s insistence?’
‘No, huzoor. I was scared for my life.’

Chaudhary Sahib was dumbstruck when he heard the news. Now what could be
done? If Bhajansingh didn’t have a lawyer, it would be difficult to save him. If
he pleaded for him, it would cause uproar in the Islamic world. Fatwas would be
issued from all sides. The Muslims were determined to send him to the gallows.
They had set up a fund and the mullahs had appealed to all Muslims from the
mosques to contribute generously to the fund. People went door to door to make
collections. The case now assumed the colours of a religious dispute. Muslim
lawyers jumped on the bandwagon to gain publicity. They poured in from the
lawyers jumped on the bandwagon to gain publicity. They poured in from the
neighbouring districts to participate in what had now become a jihad.
Chaudhary Sahib resolved to defend Bhajansingh at all costs. In his view,
Bhajansingh was innocent and Chaudhary Sahib was fearless when protecting
the innocent. To fight the case well, he decided to leave home and stay in the
city.
For six months Chaudhary Sahib fought the case with all his might. He spent
money like water and ran around like a whirlwind. He did things that were
against his disposition and which he had never done before in his life. He
pleaded with clerks, suffered egotistic lawyers, bribed officers and finally freed
Bhajansingh. The news spread like wildfire in the district. There was a furore.
Whosoever heard the story was stunned. This was nobility indeed! To risk
everything to save his servant from the jaws of death!
Yet, some Hindus and Muslims looked at this good deed from their communal
lenses. The Hindus celebrated the court verdict while the Muslims felt annoyed.
They felt that Chaudhary had acted against his faith. The Hindus thought that the
opportunity to perform Chaudhary Sahib’s shuddhi ceremony to make him a true
Hindu had come. The mullahs undertook religious preachings with a new zeal;
Hindus also raised the banner of their association.
Communal feelings heightened on both sides. Bhajansingh, too, lost his head
in this overwhelming tide of religiosity. He had a volatile temperament and was
easily provoked. He became the leader of the Hindus. He had not even offered a
lota of water to Lord Shiva but now he was ready to take up cudgels to defend
gods and goddesses. No Muslim could be found for purification, so they purified
one or two tanners. Other servants of Chaudhary Sahib were affected too. Those
Muslims who had never even looked at the mosque now offered namaz five
times a day. The Hindus who had never peeped into the temple now performed
sandhya twice daily.
The number of Hindus in the village was larger. On top of that Bhajansingh
was their leader, and everybody obeyed him. Earlier, even though the Muslims
were lesser in number, they had dominated the Hindus because of the latter’s
disorganization. This was no longer the case. Now that the Hindus were
organized, how could a handful of Muslims hold their ground?
Another year passed. It was Janmashtami again. The Hindus had not forgotten
the humiliation inflicted on them the previous year. Clandestine preparations for
the humiliation inflicted on them the previous year. Clandestine preparations for
a confrontation had been going on for some time. Devotees had started gathering
in the temple since the morning. All of them had sticks in their hands; many had
daggers hidden in their waistbands. It was agreed beforehand to stage some kind
of provocation to get the Muslims to fight. Never before had a procession been
brought out during this festival. Departing from this convention, a grand
procession was planned this year.
The earthen lamps had been lit. Evening namaz had started in the mosques.
Just then the procession was taken out with much fanfare. Elephants and horses,
flags and pennants, drums and other musical instruments—the entire
paraphernalia was on display. With his characteristic swagger, Bhajansingh was
leading the procession with the wrestlers of his akhada.
They saw Jama Masjid before them. The wrestlers readied their sticks, and all
of them became alert. The stragglers in the procession came closer to form a
well-knit group. They whispered amongst themselves. The trumpets blew louder.
The clarion call became shrill. The procession reached the mosque.
Suddenly a Muslim came out of the mosque and said, ‘It’s our prayer time.
Stop the drums.’
Bhajansingh replied, ‘The drums won’t stop.’
‘You have to stop them.’
‘Why don’t you stop your prayers?’ Bhajansingh challenged him.
‘Don’t swagger on Chaudhary Sahib’s strength. We’ll teach a lesson you’ll
never forget.’
‘You’re flexing your muscle on Chaudhary Sahib’s strength. We depend on
our own strength. This is a religious matter on which there can be no
compromise.’
Meanwhile, some more Muslims stepped out of the mosque and requested the
processionists to stop beating the drum; instead, the drumbeats grew louder. The
situation worsened. A maulvi called Bhajansingh a kafir. Bhajansingh grabbed
his beard. Pandemonium ensued. All those who fancied themselves as heroes
jumped into the arena. Bhajansingh let out a clarion call and entered the mosque,
the fight entering with him. It was difficult to say who won the battle. The
Hindus said, ‘We chased them and beat them to a pulp.’ The Muslims claimed,
‘We gave them such a thrashing that they won’t dare come this way in future.’
But they all agreed on one thing and that was Bhajansingh’s daredevilry. The
Muslims said that but for Bhajansingh’s presence, they wouldn’t have allowed a
Muslims said that but for Bhajansingh’s presence, they wouldn’t have allowed a
single Hindu to escape. The Hindus asserted that Bhajansingh was Lord
Mahavir’s avatar, no less. His stick brought everyone to their knees.
The Janmashtami festival was over. Chaudhary Sahib was smoking a hookah
in his drawing room. His face was flushed, his eyebrows raised, and sparks of
fire shot from his eyes. ‘The house of God has been defiled!’ This thought
wrenched his heart.
The house of God has been defiled! Wasn’t the field beside the mosque
sufficient for those cruel men to fight in! So much bloodshed in the sacred house
of God! Such denigration of the mosque! Both the temple and the mosque are
God’s abodes. If Muslims are liable for punishment for profaning the temple,
aren’t the Hindus accountable for the crime of defiling the mosque?
‘And Thakur is the perpetrator of this crime! He killed my son-in-law for the
same offence. Had I known that he would do this with his own hands, I would
have rather let him hang to death. Why would I have been so harassed, so
defamed and so grief-stricken for him? He is a loyal servant who has saved my
life several times. He’s always been ready to shed his blood for me. But today he
has defiled the house of God and he must be punished for this. What is the
punishment for this? Hell! There is no other punishment for him save the fires of
hell. He made the house of God impure, disrespected God. He who violates
God’s house denigrates God Himself!!’
Suddenly, Bhajansingh appeared before him.
Chaudhary Sahib looked at him furiously and asked, ‘Did you enter the
mosque?’
‘Master, the maulvis had attacked us,’ Bhajansingh replied.
‘Answer me—did you enter the mosque?’
‘When they started pelting stones from inside, only then did we enter the
mosque to catch hold of them.’
‘Do you know that a mosque is the house of God?’
‘I know, master. Wouldn’t I know that?’
‘The mosque is as holy as the temple.’
Bhajansingh did not reply.
‘A Muslim who defiles a temple is to be punished with death. Similarly a
Hindu who desecrates a mosque deserves the same punishment.’
Bhajansingh found no reply to this either. He had never seen Chaudhary Sahib
so angry.
‘You killed my son-in-law, but I defended you. Do you know why? Because I
felt that my son-in-law deserved the punishment. Had you killed my son or me
for the same crime, I wouldn’t have sought revenge. You have committed the
same crime today. I would have been truly happy if some Muslim had killed you
while you were in the mosque. But you escaped shamelessly from there. Do you
think that God will not punish you for this act? God commands that whosoever
disrespects him shall be punished with death. This is the duty of every Muslim.
If a thief is not punished, does he cease to be a thief? Do you accept that you
have been disrespectful towards God?’
Bhajansingh could not deny this crime. Chaudhary Sahib’s good counsel
removed his intransigence. He said, ‘Yes, sir, I’ve committed this offence.’
‘Are you ready to accept the same punishment which you once meted out?’
‘I did not kill your son-in-law intentionally.’
‘Had you not killed him, I would have done it with my own hands, do you
understand! Now I must take revenge for the blasphemy you’ve committed
against God. Tell me, do you want it from my hands or from the court of law?
The court will sentence you to prison for a period. I will kill. You are my friend;
I don’t hold any grudge against you. No one except God knows how much this
pains me. But I must kill you. My faith commands me to do so.’
Chaudhary Sahib drew his sword and rose before Bhajansingh. It was a
strange sight. An old man with grey hair, his back bent, was standing with a
sword before a giant. Bhajansingh could have settled everything with a single
stroke of his lathi, but he stood there with his head bowed. He respected
Chaudhary Sahib deeply, though he had never suspected him to be such a
religious person. He had assumed that Chaudhary Sahib was a Hindu in his
heart. How could he think of causing harm to a master who had saved him from
the gallows? He was fearless and like all truly brave men, he was without guile.
At that moment he was not angry, but repentant. He didn’t fear for his life but
was sorrowful for what he had done.
Chaudhary Sahib stood before Bhajansingh. His faith dictated, ‘Kill him!’ His
inherent goodness said, ‘Spare him.’ A conflict arose between these two
impulses.
Bhajansingh witnessed Chaudhary Sahib’s dilemma. He said in a choked
voice, ‘Master, your kindness won’t allow you to raise your hand against me.
voice, ‘Master, your kindness won’t allow you to raise your hand against me.
You will not be able to kill a servant you’ve raised. But my life is yours. You
saved it, you can take it whenever you want. You can send somebody in the
morning tomorrow to collect what is rightfully yours. If I give it to you here, a
riot will break out. If it happens in my own house, nobody will know who has
killed me. Please forgive my mistakes.’
And Thakur walked away from there.

Translated from the Hindi by M. Asaduddin

 Faith

In those days Miss Joshi was the darling of Bombay’s high-flying social circle.
Though she was only a schoolteacher in an insignificant institution for girls, her
lifestyle and social standing put many a rich heiress to shame. She lived in a
palatial bungalow, which at one time had been the residence of the maharaja of
Satara. It was not unusual for business tycoons, rajas and government officials to
make a beeline for her house all day. It was common knowledge through the
entire province that she was the answer to the prayers of all those desirous of
acquiring name and fame. Anyone hankering after a title kowtowed to Miss
Joshi. If someone wanted a prestigious posting for himself or for a relative he
worshipped the ground she walked on. Construction of government buildings,
contracts for salt, liquor, hardware, opium and other items under government
purview were all controlled by Miss Joshi. Whatever was accomplished was
with Miss Joshi’s blessings, and if anything was a possibility only Miss Joshi
could actually make it happen.
When Miss Joshi drove out in her phaeton drawn by the finest thoroughbred
horses, the carriages of the rich gave way involuntarily, while the most
respectable of shop owners quickly stood up to wish the lady reverently as she
passed by. She was a beauty—though there were women in the city who were
more beautiful than her. She was well-educated, witty and a good singer.
Whether she spoke or laughed, or arched an eyebrow—it was done with a certain
style and finesse that was unique. But then she did not have a monopoly over
these arts. Clearly, the secret behind her prestige, power and fame lay elsewhere.
Not just in the city, everyone in the entire province knew that Mr Johri, the
Not just in the city, everyone in the entire province knew that Mr Johri, the
governor of Bombay, was Miss Joshi’s slave. One look from Miss Joshi was a
supreme command for Mr Johri. At dinner parties, theatres and other social
functions he followed her around like a shadow and occasionally people saw his
car leaving Miss Joshi’s bungalow in the dead of the night. Whether this
relationship thrived more on lust or on adoration no one was quite sure.
However, Mr Johri was married while Miss Joshi was a widow. Therefore those
who condemned their association for being sinful were not being unduly harsh to
them.
Recently, the Bombay administration had levied a tax on foodgrain and in
protest the public had organized a massive rally. Representatives from all major
cities had arrived in large numbers to participate in the event. The people of
Bombay had gathered in a huge open ground right across Miss Joshi’s sprawling
bungalow to give vent to their pent-up emotions. The chairman of the meeting
had not yet arrived and so everyone chatted idly as they waited for their leader.
Some commented on the misery of the workers, while others discussed the state
of the nation and some drew attention to their own pathetic lives. It was felt that
if the public had adopted a tough stance in the past the administration would
have never slapped this tax on them—as a matter of fact it would have become
difficult for government officials to even step out of their homes. Our simplicity
and goodness have made us playthings in the hands of the officials, said a few.
They know that the more pressure they apply the more we will succumb . . . and
that we will never retaliate.
Apprehensive of hooliganism, the administration had called in the armed
police, who had surrounded the ground from all sides. Uniformed officers,
imperiously mounted on their horses, cracked a whip every now and then, boldly
cutting their way through the crowd as though the ground was completely devoid
of people. High-level government officials and the who’s who of Bombay had
strategically positioned themselves in Miss Joshi’s high veranda, from where
they could enjoy an uninterrupted view of the rally. While Miss Joshi welcomed
her guests making sure they were comfortable, Mr Johri stretched himself out in
an armchair, looking at the crowd with disgust and distaste, along with a certain
degree of apprehension.
Soon, Apte, the chairman of the meeting, was seen arriving in a hired tonga.
There was excitement everywhere as people ran to welcome their leader and
There was excitement everywhere as people ran to welcome their leader and
escort him to the stage. Apte, who was not more than thirty to thirty-five years of
age, was a thin man with greying hair. Though he was visibly tense, one could
also discern a hint of a smile on his face. Dressed in a rough white kurta, his feet
were bare and so was his head. The magical hold this semi-clad, emaciated,
seemingly listless man had over the crowd was indeed intriguing. But there was
no doubt about the fact that people loved Apte and would do anything at his
bidding. This one man was so powerful that he could have all the factories and
mills shut down in a matter of minutes and bring the city to a standstill. He had
given sleepless nights to several officials. Some of them, it was believed, even
screamed in their sleep—presumably at the thought of Apte. No living creature
posed a bigger threat to them than Apte. This bag of bones could make the entire
administration tremble in its well-polished shoes—because within the bag of
bones blossomed a pure, immaculate, strong and divine soul.

Standing on the stage, Apte first asked the gathering to remain calm, reminding
them to be true to their vow of non-violence. Then he moved on to comment on
the country’s political state of affairs. At that moment his eyes fell on Miss
Joshi’s veranda, and his heart, which beat for the poor and the downtrodden,
seethed with rage. While hundreds of people had gathered there to share their
misery and look for some respite, right across the ground, tables were crammed
with tea, biscuits, dry fruits and snacks and liquor flowing freely for the select
gathering. As the distinguished guests feasted they would occasionally cast a
supercilious look at the lesser mortals across the road, clapping their hands
together in unconcealed amusement. For the first time in his life, Apte lost
control and thundered . . .
‘While our comrades here struggle for each morsel of food, a tax is being
levied on foodgrain—simply to ensure that the government officials don’t have
to go without their usual share of goodies. We, who are the breadwinners of this
country, who extract wealth from the core of the earth—we are dying of hunger,
while those whom we have elected to power to make our lives decent and safe,
have turned into our masters, who spend their days in drunken revelry. Isn’t it
strange that we who toil day and night—we, who should be crowned kings—
have to go hungry day after day? While those who are really at our mercy for all
have to go hungry day after day? While those who are really at our mercy for all
their luxuries are savouring delicacies brought in from Spain and Italy! Who is
to blame for this?
‘Is it them? Is it their fault? No, certainly not. We are to blame for this,
friends, it is our fault! It is our fault that we have given them so much power
over ourselves. But today, we want to say it—loud and clear—that we shall no
longer tolerate this cruel and callous behaviour. It is unacceptable to us that our
children beg for food while this privileged group remains soaked in luxury,
completely oblivious to our misery. It is unacceptable that our families have to
sleep on empty stomachs while these people dance the night away in theatres
and clubs, drinking and throwing away money on prostitutes. Where else in the
world does the public die of starvation while government officials are lost in a
world of depravity and decadence, where poor, respectable women get pushed
around in the streets, while prostitutes masquerading as schoolteachers live in
the lap of luxury?’

Suddenly, the group of armed policemen looked agitated. Their officer was
giving orders, ‘Disrupt the meeting, round up the leaders, nobody should escape.
This is a subversive speech.’
Calling the police officer Mr Johri said, ‘There is no need to arrest anyone
else. Get Apte. He is our real enemy.’
The police started beating the crowd and soon an officer, accompanied by a
group of soldiers, surrounded and arrested Apte.
The crowd went berserk. Seeing their beloved leader being rounded up in this
manner was the ultimate test of their patience.
Just then Apte’s voice was heard rising over the commotion: ‘You have taken
a vow to remain non-violent and if any one of you breaks it I shall hold myself
responsible for it. I request you to please go home. The government officials
have behaved exactly in the manner we had thought they would. We have
succeeded in our aim behind holding this meeting. We didn’t come here to create
trouble—we gathered here to generate people’s sympathy and we have
succeeded in that objective.’
In a moment the crowd dispersed, and Apte was taken into police custody.
 4

Mr Johri said, ‘I’ve got my hands on the fellow after a long time. I’ll have him
booked under anti-national activities and make sure he goes to the Andaman
prison for at least ten years.’
‘What use would that be?’ asked Miss Joshi.
‘Why? He’ll be punished for what he has done.’
‘But just think of the heavy price we’ll have to pay for it. What is known only
to a handful of people right now will become common knowledge and we shall
lose face. You can’t stop journalists from writing what they want.’
‘I don’t care. I want to see him rotting in jail. Life will be peaceful for some
time at least. There’s no point thinking of what people will say. We can take
over all the newspapers in the province and make them dance to our tune. We
can prove all their allegations wrong and charge Apte for casting false aspersions
on us.’
‘I can show you an easier way out. You leave Apte to me. I’ll meet him and
by skilfully using all the charms that the fairer sex is known for I’ll help you
know his inner thoughts and emotions. I want to probe and find out intimate
details of his personal life—the kind that he dare not own up to in public. And
then, before we know it, public opinion will swing in our favour and soon
everyone will believe that he was a truly scheming character and had vested
interests and that the government has dealt with him appropriately. I’m
convinced he is a master conspirator and I’m determined to prove as much. I’ll
make sure he’s no longer a God in the eyes of the people—I want to expose him
as the evil force that he really is.’
‘It is not as simple as you imagine. Apte is a clever politician.’
‘There is no man who cannot be charmed by a woman.’
‘If you’re confident you can do this, then I have no problem. I only want to
punish him, one way or the other.’
‘Then order his release right now.’
‘Won’t that be perceived as weakness on our part?’
‘No, as a matter of fact, it will have a positive effect on people. Everyone will
think that the government has respected the public opinion.’
‘But what will people say if they see you going to his house?’
‘I’ll wear a veil and go . . . no one will know.’
 ‘I’ll wear a veil and go . . . no one will know.’
‘I still feel that he will be suspicious of you and won’t fall into your trap. But
if you want to give it a try then go by all means,’ Mr Johri said, looking lovingly
at Miss Joshi. Lightly touching her hand, he left.
A cool, gentle breeze was blowing that starlit night. Silence had descended on
the huge ground. It was completely deserted now, but Miss Joshi could still see
Apte standing on the stage in front of her eyes.

The next morning Miss Joshi left her bungalow dressed in simple clothes and
with no jewellery on. Devoid of all the trappings of the sophisticated world she
lived in, she appeared pure and clean. She walked up to the road and hailed a
tonga.
Apte lived quite a distance away in a locality inhabited by the less fortunate.
The tongawala knew his house so there was no problem finding it. Soon Miss
Joshi was standing at Apte’s door with her heart beating in an unusual manner.
With trembling hands she knocked on the door, which was opened by a middle-
aged woman. Miss Joshi was appalled by the simplicity of the house. There was
a cot in one corner, a battered bookshelf on the wall with a handful of books in
it, a low writing desk on the floor, while a clothesline ran across the room with
some clothes hanging from it. On the other side of the room there was a metallic
stove and a few utensils. A well-built man—the husband of the middle-aged
woman—was fixing a broken lock while a bright six-year-old boy was putting
his hands around Apte’s neck and beginning to climb on to his back. Apte lived
with this blacksmith in his house. Whatever he earned from his articles that
appeared in newspapers he gave to the blacksmith, and thus relieved of the
tedium of running a house, lived a life free of the mundane worries of day-to-day
existence.
A little taken aback at seeing Miss Joshi there, Apte quickly regained his
composure and stood up to welcome her, all the while wondering where he could
ask her to sit. He had never felt as ashamed of his poverty as he did today.
Aware of his embarrassment, Miss Joshi sat on the cot and said dryly, ‘I
apologize for arriving uninvited, but there was something important that couldn’t
be done without my coming here. Can I talk to you in private for a moment?’
Apte looked at Jagannath and motioned him to leave the room. His wife also
 Apte looked at Jagannath and motioned him to leave the room. His wife also
left with him. Only the little boy stayed on, observing Miss Joshi with curiosity,
wondering what she had to do with his Apte Dada.
Getting off the cot Miss Joshi now sat on the floor. ‘Do you have any idea
why I have come here like this?’
‘I can only attribute it to your benevolence,’ Apte replied awkwardly.
‘No, no. No one is so magnanimous as to be benevolent to those who openly
bad-mouth them. Do you remember all that you said about me in your speech
yesterday? I want you to know that by casting those aspersions you have been
extremely unfair to me. I didn’t expect this from a man as good, intelligent and
balanced as you. I am a defenceless woman, and there is no one to speak up for
me. Was it right on your part to make false allegations about me? If I were a
man, I would have challenged you to a duel. But alas! I am only a woman, and
all I can do is to reach out to your humane side. Everything that you said about
me is completely untrue.’
‘Assessment is based on outward appearances,’ Apte said, boldly.
‘Outward appearances can never give a real picture of anybody’s inner self.’
‘It is only natural to get confused about someone whose outward and inner
self are not the same.’
‘So it was your confusion that did it! And now I want you to erase the
disgrace that you have labelled me with. Are you prepared to make amends?’
‘If I don’t then there would be no one more depraved than me in this world,’
Apte said.
‘Do you have faith in me?’ Miss Joshi asked.
‘So far I have never disbelieved an attractive woman.’
‘Do you suspect that I am leading you on?’ Miss Joshi inquired.
Apte looked at her with his sincere, honest eyes and said, ‘Madam, I am an
uneducated, unsophisticated man, but the respect that I have for women is no
less than the reverence in which I hold all gods. I never saw my mother, and
have no idea who my father was, but the loving countenance of the kind-hearted
woman who brought me up as her child is always there in front of my eyes, and
has kept alive the respect that I have for womankind. I am distressed and
ashamed of having said what I did that day. It happened in a moment of frenzy
and today I am going to issue a statement in the newspapers regretting my words
and seeking forgiveness from you.’
So far Miss Joshi had only been associated with self-centred men whose every
 So far Miss Joshi had only been associated with self-centred men whose every
word had an ulterior motive. Apte’s childlike faith was heartening. No one from
her social circle of fashionable people would believe the happenings of today
even if Miss Joshi swore that she was telling the truth. Face-to-face they may
have agreed with her but she knew they would ridicule her the minute her back
was turned. In complete contrast to that scheming lot was this man whose each
word dripped with honesty and which seemed to emanate from the core of his
being.
Miss Joshi’s silence worried Apte. He was convinced that no matter how
much he apologized now, nothing would obliterate his rash speech. The thought
made him unravel personal details about himself in the hope that it would further
bring him down in her esteem. That Miss Joshi would know him for the
undesirable creature that he was and would therefore expect nothing better from
him.
He said, ‘I am more unfortunate than others. Not only did I never see my
parents, even the kind woman who brought me up as her own passed away when
I was thirteen, leaving me alone in this world. All that I had to go through then
makes me feel ashamed of my past even today. I worked as a dhobi, a cobbler,
washed dishes in a hotel, worked in a stable. On several occasions, pangs of
hunger drove me to beg on the streets. There’s nothing shameful about working
with your hands—even today I’m a worker. Begging, too, can perhaps be
justified in certain circumstances . . . but some of the things I did in those days! I
feel ashamed to even talk about them now. I duped people, I stole what I could
to the extent that I even got jailed for theft.’
Moistening her eyes, Miss Joshi said, ‘Why are you telling me all this? I can
make all this public and put you through so much embarrassment. Aren’t you
afraid of that?’
Apte laughed and said, ‘No, I have no such fears from you.’
‘What if I want to settle a score with you?’
‘When I am ashamed of what I did and am asking you for forgiveness then
there is no score left to settle. In fact this makes me wonder if you have really
forgiven me. But even if I hadn’t apologized, you wouldn’t have been looking
for revenge. Because the eyes of vindictive people don’t get wet so easily. I
think you are incapable of deception. If you wanted to deceive me you would
have never come here.’
have never come here.’
‘I have actually come here to worm things out of you.’
‘Go ahead. I’ve already told you that I have served a sentence for theft . . . in
the Nasik jail. I was physically very weak then and couldn’t do hard labour.
Taking me for a shirker the jail officials would beat me mercilessly. Fed up, I
finally escaped one day.’
‘You’re a dark horse, aren’t you?’
‘It was a neat escape . . . no one came to know. Even today there is a reward
of five hundred rupees on my head.’
‘Then I’m most certainly going to have the police take you away.’
‘In that case I may as well disclose my real name to you. My name is
Damodar Modi. The name I use now is a cover-up from the police.’
The little boy had been quiet all this while. When he heard Miss Joshi
mentioning the police he said, admonishing her, ‘Who can take my dada away?’
‘The police—who else?’
‘I’m going to beat up the police,’ the boy lisped.
Running to a corner he fished out a toy gun and stationed himself near Apte in
a protective stance.
‘Your bodyguard seems to be really brave.’
‘There’s a story behind this too. About a year ago, this boy had got lost. I
found him loitering in the streets and asking my way around I somehow
managed to bring him home to his parents. This family and I bonded so well that
I started living with them.’
‘I’m sure you know what opinion I have of you after listening to your story.’
‘Yes, exactly what I am . . . an impostor, a charlatan and a cheat.’
‘You are being unfair to me once again. I can forgive you for being unfair the
first time, but not for this. Anyone who can remain so pure, simple and
straightforward despite living through such adverse circumstances is not human .
. . he is superhuman. All the comments you made about me that day are true. As
a matter of fact I am far more immoral than you can imagine. I dare not even
look into your eyes. By showing me how noble you are you have brought me
face-to-face with my own real self. Take pity on me, please forgive me.’
With these words Miss Joshi fell at Apte’s feet. Helping her get up, Apte
mumbled, ‘Miss Joshi, for God’s sake don’t embarrass me.’
In a voice thick with emotion Miss Joshi said, ‘Please save me from these
rogues and make me worthy of you. God is witness to how I pity myself at
rogues and make me worthy of you. God is witness to how I pity myself at
times. Time and again I try to break free of this trap of decadence that has come
to envelop me completely but my willpower is not strong enough. It appears to
be the result of the way I have been brought up. Acquiring a good education at
the best of institutions made me contemptuous of the life of a housewife. The
thought of living a life where any man would be superior to me was revolting.
The concerns and responsibility of being a housewife seemed to come in the way
of my intellectual freedom.
‘By drawing attention to my intellect I wanted to overcome the disadvantages
of being a woman, and be free like men. Why should my life be controlled by
someone else? Why should my aspirations and desires have to be compatible
with someone else’s? Why should I give someone else the right to question my
actions? In my eyes matrimony was rather contemptible. It wouldn’t be right for
me to criticize my parents . . . may their souls rest in peace . . . but they were
never there to give me the correct advice. My father was an academic and my
mother, an illiterate person. Between the two of them there was constant fighting
and bickering. Pitaji looked at his marriage to an uneducated woman as the
greatest misfortune of his life. He would never tire of telling Ma that she had
ruined his life, that she was a liability . . . had it not been for her, the sky would
have been the limit for him. He felt that all the unhappiness in their lives
stemmed from Ma’s lack of education.
‘Pitaji wanted to keep his only daughter away from the influence of his wife.
If Ma ever said anything to me he would come down on her like a ton of bricks,
“Haven’t I told you so many times to never scold the girl? She can think for
herself. Your scolding her can really lower her self-esteem, don’t you realize
that?” And so my poor mother gave up and left me alone, and finally died an
unhappy woman.
‘Seeing the turbulence in my own home put me off marriage even more.
Perhaps the strongest influence on me was that of my college principal, who was
an unmarried lady. I’m now convinced that only sober, stable teachers should be
given the responsibility of educating young college students. Wayward
professors, with a weakness for the good things in life, have an undesirable
effect on young minds.
‘I’m saying all these profound things to you over here, but I know I’ll forget
them all the minute I reach home. The world I live in is totally polluted. There
everyone wants to see me drenched in decadence; they have a vested interest in
everyone wants to see me drenched in decadence; they have a vested interest in
me living that life. You are the first man to have faith in me, to have behaved
like a gentleman with me. For God’s sake, don’t forget me now.’
Apte looked sympathetically at Miss Joshi, ‘I shall consider myself fortunate
if I can be of any use to you. Miss Joshi, we are all human and none of us is
perfect. We make mistakes and go astray either because of the circumstances
around us or because of the way we are brought up. By changing our
circumstances we can save ourselves but if we lose our values then things
become more difficult. Your soul is pure and beautiful, it’s just circumstances
that have enveloped you in darkness. Now that you are able to discern and think
clearly, the dark clouds shall surely part and let the light in. But you have to be
prepared to renounce all that is around you.’
‘You will have to help me.’
Apte looked at her with piercing eyes and said, ‘Sometimes the doctor has to
force the medicine on the patient.’
‘I’m prepared for everything. Even the most bitter medicine . . . if it is coming
from you. Will you be kind enough to come to my house tomorrow?’
‘Certainly.’
Miss Joshi was leaving now. ‘Don’t forget, I’ll wait for you. And bring your
bodyguard along,’ she said, picking up the little boy in her arms and giving him
a hug.
Miss Joshi was on top of the world as she left. It felt as though she was
treading on air. A thirsty, weary traveller had spotted an oasis at last.

The next morning Miss Joshi sent out invitations for the evening. A party was
being organized in honour of Apte. Mr Johri smiled as he saw the invitation.
There was no way that fellow could get away now. Miss Joshi had really done a
good job. Well, it was her area of expertise, after all. ‘I’d thought this Apte
would be smarter than this. But it appears these revolutionary types only know
how to make grand speeches,’ Mr Johri said to himself.
The guests started to pour in from four o’clock itself. Senior officials, rich
industrialists, intellectuals and editors of leading newspapers arrived with their
wives. Miss Joshi had adorned herself in her finest clothes and jewellery, and
caused a stir in whichever group she moved. Delicious aromas wafted out of the
bungalow as strains of soothing music filled the air.
By five Mr Johri was there too, and shaking hands with Miss Joshi, he smiled
and said, ‘I wish I could kiss your hand right here. Now I’m convinced that that
fellow can’t escape from your clutches.’
‘Miss Joshi was born to play with men’s hearts,’ said Miss Petit.
‘I’ve heard Apte is an uncouth sort of a fellow,’ commented Mr Sorabji.
‘What else can you expect from someone who has never ever been to a
university?’ quipped Mr Bharucha.
‘Let’s pull his leg while he’s here.’ Mrs Bharucha giggled.
‘I’ve heard he’s a non-believer . . . doesn’t follow any rituals either,’ Mahant
Virbhadra’s voice was heard from behind his thick beard and moustache.
‘I too am a non-believer. I have no faith in any God,’ declared Miss Joshi.
‘That may be so, but you have converted any number of non-believers into
believers!’ the Mahant said.
‘How right you are, Mahantji!’ Mr Johri laughed.
‘So, Mahantji, is it Miss Joshi who has turned you into a believer?’ Mrs
Bharucha probed.
At that moment Apte entered with the blacksmith’s son holding his hand. He
was dressed like anyone else in the room. The boy was equally well turned out.
Looking at Apte that evening, people realized what a handsome man he actually
was. With his head held high, he appeared a well-bred gentleman, born and
brought up in these elite surroundings. Everyone watched him closely, waiting
for him to make a mistake so they could ridicule him, hoping he would make a
slip somewhere giving them an occasion to jeer at him.
But Apte sailed through the evening with an almost professional ease. Each
step he took, each gesture he made displayed his familiarity with the accepted
social graces. Those who had till now looked at him condescendingly were
suddenly envious of him. And so started a spate of bitter, cynical remarks. Much
to the dismay of some, Apte seemed a master of witticisms too. Every lethal
verbal attack directed at him met its match, but Apte’s responses were
completely devoid of venom or malice. Each word he uttered was steeped in
simplicity and honesty, and said in a manner that won over the heart of the
listener. Miss Joshi was delighted with Apte’s wit.
‘Which university did you study in?’ asked Mr Sorabji.
 ‘Which university did you study in?’ asked Mr Sorabji.
‘If I had studied in a university I would have been heading the education
department today,’ Apte replied.
‘I always thought of you as a dangerous creature,’ Mrs Bharucha confessed.
‘You’ve probably never seen me in the company of ladies,’ Apte smiled.
Suddenly, Miss Joshi went into her bedroom and got rid of all her finery.
There was a determination on her face while her eyes shone as though she were
possessed by some divine power. She looked at her luxurious surroundings with
revulsion, and got rid of her expensive clothes and jewellery. Putting on a clean
cotton sari, which she had got for herself the same morning, she kicked her
jewellery away.
Seeing her in this new avatar sent shockwaves through the drawing room.
What was happening? No one could believe their eyes except perhaps Mr Johri.
Miss Joshi is up to her tricks again, he thought, this must be the latest ploy to
further ensnare that man.
‘Friends! Do you remember the terrible things Apte said about me the other
day? Today I want to punish him for his misdemeanours. Yesterday I visited him
at his house and I have unearthed all his secrets. Apte, who roars like a tiger
while addressing a rally, collapsed under a single move of mine. I’m not going to
waste any more time in disclosing those secrets—you must be getting impatient.
All that I have seen is so frightening that all of you here will feel faint just
hearing about it. Now I’m convinced beyond doubt that this man is a rebel . . .’
Mr Johri clapped his hands and the room echoed with the sound of everyone
clapping in agreement.
‘But not a rebel against the state, he is a rebel against injustice, against
oppression, against arrogance.’
There was complete silence. Bewildered, people looked at each other.
Miss Joshi continued, ‘Mr Apte has collected arms secretly and murdered . . .’
Mr Johri clapped again and there was another round of applause.
‘But murdered whom or what? Grief, poverty, the people’s pain, blind faith
and his own personal aspirations; this is what he has murdered,’ Miss Joshi said.
There was silence once again while all the guests exchanged
uncomprehending looks as if wondering whether to believe their ears or not.
Miss Joshi went on, ‘Mr Apte has secretly looted and plundered, and
continues to do so . . .’
This time no one clapped; everyone waited with bated breath to hear what
 This time no one clapped; everyone waited with bated breath to hear what
Miss Joshi had to say next.
‘In fact he has robbed me too, he has taken away all that was mine, to the
extent that I am now without home and shelter and have no option but to seek
solace at his feet. My lord and master! Let this wretched woman be with you,
save me from sinking in this sea of depravity. I know you won’t disappoint me.’
With these words, walking up to Apte, she fell at his feet. The entire gathering
watched incredulously.

A week had now passed and Apte was in police custody. A case was being made
against him and the entire province was in a state of turmoil. Huge rallies were
held in the city every day and the police regularly rounded up a few
demonstrators. The newspapers were engaged in hot debates over the issue.
It was nine o’clock at night. Sitting at his table at the Raj Bhavan Mr Johri
was contemplating ways to get Miss Joshi back. Since that day he had been
consumed by jealousy and despite his best efforts he couldn’t stop thinking of
Miss Joshi.
He couldn’t believe that she had let him down like this. ‘What haven’t I done
for her? Is there anything that she wished for that I didn’t get for her . . . and she
has been unfaithful to me? No, no I can’t live without her. I don’t care what the
world says, I may have to give up this post or I may have blood on my hands but
I’m not going to spare Apte. I’m going to get rid of this man . . . I’m going to
throw him out of my life.’
Suddenly, the door opened, and Miss Joshi entered. Taken aback, Mr Johri got
up from his chair and, assuming that Miss Joshi had returned to him
disillusioned with her new life already, he said in a dry, condescending tone,
‘Come, darling, I’ve been missing you. No matter what you may do, I can never
forget you.’
‘You just say these things,’ Miss Joshi said.
‘You want me to tear my heart apart and show you?’
‘Love never lies, nor does love ever instigate. Right now you are baying for
my blood but instead are telling me that you miss me. You have put my saviour
behind bars, and you call this love? What do you want from me? If you think
that these hardships will tire me out and I shall return to you, you are mistaken.
You have every right to throw Apte in a prison, or hang him but none of these
things will affect me. He is everything to me. It is his magnanimity that has
saved me. And you, you defiled my very soul. Did it ever cross your mind what I
may be going through? You simply assumed I had no soul. But this man, this
superior human being has made me his simply on the strength of his purity and
honesty. In our first meeting I became his and shall remain his till my dying day.
You cannot change that. I needed to have true faith and I have found it. And now
all the riches of this world have no meaning for me. I may die craving for him
but I shall never return to you.’
‘Miss Joshi, love is not magnanimous, nor is it forgiving. For me you are
everything, and I thought you were mine. But if you can’t be mine then what do
I care where or how you are?’
‘Is that your final decision?’
‘What if I say yes?’
Miss Joshi drew out a pistol and said, ‘In that case first it shall be your body
lying on the floor and then mine. Tell me, is that your final decision?’
Miss Joshi was now pointing the pistol at Mr Johri. He got up from the chair
and smiled. ‘Would you ever have done this to me? Perhaps not. Now I’m
convinced that you can’t ever be mine. Go, you are welcome to be with your
Apte. All charges against him shall be dropped. Only pure love can have this
kind of courage, and now I’m convinced that your love is pure. If an old sinner is
capable of predicting the future then I tell you that the day is not far when you
shall be the hostess of Raj Bhavan. Apte has defeated me not only in love but
also in politics. A single meeting with an honest man can change one’s life,
infuse new life into a soul, take one from ignorance to knowledge and from
darkness to light. Today I’ve seen this being proven true.’

Translated from the Hindi by Vandana R. Singh

 Man and Woman

For Vipin Babu, a woman was the only beautiful thing in this world. He was a
poet and writing eulogies to the beauty and youth of women was the most
pleasant theme of his poetry. He perceived women to be the epitome of
kindness, sweetness and adornment in the world. A woman’s name only had to
be mentioned for his eyes to twinkle, and his ears to stiffen as if a maven had
heard the first strain of music. The moment he came of age, he started imagining
the beauty who would be the queen of his heart. She would have the brightness
of dawn, the delicacy of flowers, the gleam of gold, the grandeur of spring and
the melody of a cuckoo. She should be an embodiment of all the metaphors of
beauty preferred by poets. He was a devotee of that imaginary idol, praising her
in his poems. He would discuss her in his friends circle and stay inebriated in her
thoughts. The day was not far when his desires would become a reality, his
hopes would be fulfilled. The final examination of his college education had
ended and wedding proposals had begun to arrive.

The wedding date was fixed. Vipin Babu insisted on seeing the girl. But when
his uncle assured him that he had seen the girl and she was very beautiful, Vipin
Babu agreed. The baraat left with much pomp and show, and the auspicious
time for the nuptials arrived. When the bride, adorned with jewels, came to the
mandap, Vipin stole a glance at her hands and feet. What beautiful fingers she
had, as if they were the flames of many candles! Her graceful figure captivated
his heart. Vipin was on cloud nine. The next day after the bride’s farewell, he
was so impatient for a glimpse that the moment the palanquin bearers stopped
during the journey to wash their hands and feet, he sneaked off to see her. She
was peeping out of the palanquin, after having removed her veil. He caught sight
of her, and a wave of hatred, anger and disappointment swept through his face.
She was not the beautiful maiden that he had dreamt of for years. She was a
broad-faced, flat-nosed, puffy-cheeked ugly creature. Although she had a fair
complexion, there was a paleness about it instead of a rosy glow. A fair
complexion can never compensate for the missing beautiful features. Vipin’s
excitement went cold. Could she find no one other than me in the whole wide
world to hang like a burden around my neck? He was very angry with his uncle
who had endlessly praised her beauty. If only he could find him right now, he
would teach him a lesson he would never forget.
When the palanquin bearers resumed the journey, Vipin started thinking, How
will I ever talk to this woman? How will I spend my entire life with her? I feel
repulsed just seeing her face. I never knew such ugly women existed in this
world. What a disgusting face God has made, what terrible eyes. I could have
tolerated everything . . . but that big mouth! O God, why did this calamity befall
me?

Vipin felt his life was like hell. He fought with his uncle. He wrote an obnoxious
letter to his father-in-law, abused him, quarrelled with his parents, and even then
when he failed to find peace, he started thinking of running away. He pitied
Asha, thinking that it was not her fault, as she had not forced him to marry her.
But this pity and sympathy failed to overcome the hatred that ran through his
veins when he looked at her. She dressed herself in the best of her attires, and set
her hair in different styles. She would adorn herself looking at a small mirror.
But Vipin felt it was a futile attempt at preening. She heartily wished to keep
him happy, and would look for reasons to serve him but Vipin would always try
and run away from her. If they ran into each other by chance, he would utter
such nasty words to her that she would run away from the spot with tears in her
eyes.
eyes.
The worst thing was that his character began to get warped. He deliberately
tried to forget that he was married. Asha would not see him for days on end. She
would hear his laughter from outside. She would peep through the window and
find him embracing his friends and accompanying them for walks. She would
sigh in isolation.
One day, during a meal, she said, ‘Now it is difficult to even catch a glimpse
of you. Will you leave the house just because of me?’
Turning his face away Vipin replied, ‘I stay at home. These days I am looking
for a job, that’s why I need to go to different places.’
‘Why don’t you consult a cosmetic surgeon to remake my face? I have heard
these days there are doctors who can change and beautify faces.’
‘Why are you unnecessarily irritating me? Who told you to come here?’
Asha: ‘After all who will cure this hideousness?’
‘There is no remedy for this infirmity. When even God has failed, how can a
man do this work?’
‘Think about it; you are punishing me for God’s mistake. Who in this whole
world does not like a beautiful face? But have you ever seen a man who stayed
single just because he was not good-looking? Unattractive girls too do not stay
unmarried in their parents’ houses. Somehow they get married. Their husbands
may not die for them, but they do not demean them like a fallen fly in milk.’
Vipin replied angrily, ‘Why are you needlessly bothering me? I am not
arguing with you. The heart cannot be forced or convinced by any argument. I
never say anything to you. Then why are you arguing with me?’
Asha left after the stern rebuke. She understood that for this lifetime at least,
his heart had hardened towards her.

Vipin enjoyed frequent outings, and sometimes stayed out even during nights.
Poor Asha, drowning in anxiety and despair, fell ill. But Vipin would not come
to see her even by mistake. Leave alone looking after her, he wished in his heart
of hearts that she would die so that he could be free of her. The next time he
would check the girl out himself and marry again.
Now he was free of fetters. Earlier, he had been conscious of Asha. At least he
had been mindful of the fact that someone was keeping an eye on him. He got so
had been mindful of the fact that someone was keeping an eye on him. He got so
involved in bad habits that the men’s part of the house always remained
crowded. But sexual perversity not only robs one of wealth but weakens both
mind and body. Vipin’s face began to grow pale, his body weakened and his ribs
became visible. Dark circles formed under his eyes. He now began to take great
care to adorn himself—he applied aromatic oils, styled his hair differently and
changed his clothes frequently. However, all these embellishments failed to
reduce the dullness of his face.
One day Asha was lying on a charpoy in the veranda. She had not seen Vipin
for weeks. She felt a strong desire to see him. She was afraid Vipin might not
come but she could not stop herself and sent for him. Vipin took pity on her. He
came and stood before her. When Asha looked at his face, she was shocked. He
looked so lean that it was difficult to recognize him. She said, ‘Are you unwell
too? You look much worse than I do.’
‘Oh! What attraction does this life hold for me anyway that I should worry
about living?’Vipin answered nonchalantly.
‘Nobody withers away like this by worrying about living. Why don’t you take
some medicine?’
She held Vipin’s hand and made him sit beside her on the charpoy. Vipin did
not try to free his hand. There seemed to be an unusual humility in his behaviour
which Asha had never seen before. His words exuded a sense of hopelessness.
Although he was indifferent, there was no sign of anger. Asha felt that his eyes
were full of tears. Sitting on the charpoy, Vipin said, ‘Only death can cure me
now. I am not saying this to infuriate you. God knows that I do not want to hurt
you. I may not live for many days now. I can feel the symptoms of a serious
disease. Doctors have said the same. I feel ashamed of the fact that you have
suffered so much because of me. Please forgive me. While I sit here I can feel
my heart sinking. I think I am going to lose consciousness.’
As he was saying this he started shivering suddenly. An eerie sensation caught
hold of his entire body. Becoming unconscious, he fell on the cot and his limbs
began to convulse. He was frothing at the mouth and his whole body was
drenched in sweat.
Suddenly Asha recovered from her illness. For months, she had not left her
bed. But now the weakness in her eyes was replaced by a strange burst of
energy. Quickly Asha helped Vipin lie down comfortably and started sprinkling
water on his face. The maid rushed in too and fanned him. The news reached
water on his face. The maid rushed in too and fanned him. The news reached
everyone. Vipin’s friends hurriedly called for a doctor. But even after a lot of
effort by the doctor, Vipin did not open his eyes. By evening his mouth took on a
twisted shape and the left part of his body became paralysed. He could not even
utter a word, let alone move. It was not a mere seizure but a serious attack of
paralysis.

It is not an easy job to nurse a paralytic patient. Besides, Asha herself had been
unwell for months. But she forgot herself while nursing Vipin. Vipin was in a
critical condition for many days. Asha sat by him day and night. She would
prepare nutritious food for him and take his head in her lap to give him
medicine. Only such a patient woman could understand the little signs through
which he communicated his needs to her. She was heedless when her own head
ached or her body burnt with high fever.
After a fortnight, Vipin’s condition started improving. His right foot had
become crippled but he started speaking a few words with a lisp. The worst
affected part of his body was his good-looking face. It was very badly twisted, as
though someone had pulled a rubber toy out of all shape and stretched it out. He
would sit or stand for a while with the help of assistive devices but had no
strength to walk around. One day while he was lying down on the bed, he
thought of picking up a mirror to take a look at his face. He had never seen such
a hideous man. He whispered, ‘Asha, God has punished me for my pride. Really,
it is the consequence of the wrong I have done to you. Now if you turn your face
away with hatred after looking at me, I won’t complain. I want you to take
revenge for the way I treated you.’
Asha looked at her husband tenderly and said, ‘I see you with the same
feelings even now. I don’t find any difference in you.’
‘What! I look like a monkey now and you say that there is no difference. I
won’t go out now. God has really punished me.’

Many things were tried but Vipin’s face did not come back to its normal shape.
The left side of his face had twisted so much that the sight of it was frightening.
The left side of his face had twisted so much that the sight of it was frightening.
However, his limbs had gained enough strength to enable him to walk about a
little. Asha had vowed to propitiate the Goddess during her husband’s illness.
Today it was the occasion to fulfil that promise. The women from the entire
mohalla had come dressed up for the ceremony. There was a lot of singing and
celebration.
A woman asked, ‘Asha, now you must not like his face at all?’
‘I find it more attractive than earlier,’ Asha replied solemnly.
‘Oh come on, are you kidding?’
‘No, sister, I am speaking the truth. I got his soul in place of his good looks,
which is far more precious.’
Vipin was sitting in a room. Many of his friends had gathered there. They
were playing cards.
There was a window in the room that opened into the veranda. The window
had been closed at first but a friend of his now opened it quietly. Peeping
through the window, he said to Vipin, ‘Today beautiful fairies have gathered in
your house.’
‘Close the window,’ Vipin said.
‘Ah! Just look at these beautiful faces. Who is the most beautiful among them
according to you?’
Vipin glanced around cursorily and replied, ‘For me the one who is decorating
flowers on the thali is the most beautiful.’
‘What has happened to your eyes? Have they too become disfigured along
with your looks? For me she is the ugliest.’
‘That is because you are looking at her face; I see the beautiful soul beneath
it.’
‘Oh, is she Mrs Vipin?’
‘Yes, she is a Goddess.’

Translated from the Hindi by Shaifta Ayoub

 A Hired Pony

Two young men were walking hand in hand in the playing field of Agra College
one evening. One of them was named Yashwant, while the other one was
Ramesh. Yashwant was tall and of a sturdy build. There was an unusual glow on
his face that spoke of a life of moderation and good health. Ramesh was a man
of short stature with a lean body. He was spiritless and infirm. There was an
argument going on between them.
Yashwant said, ‘I consider wealth to be worthless before the spirit.’
Ramesh replied, ‘Oh, that’s wonderful.’
‘Yes, you just wait and see. I know you are making a jibe at me but I’ll show
you how insignificant wealth is for me.’
‘Well then, you can prove it to me later. I don’t consider riches to be
insignificant. I’ve been studying books since the last fifteen years for the sake of
wealth. I’ve also been staying here, away from my parents, brothers and relatives
for the same purpose. Who knows how many doors I will have to knock on and
how many people I will have to flatter? Won’t it involve a degradation of the
spirit? I can’t adhere to such high ideals. If I get a considerable bribe in a lawsuit
here, then perhaps I won’t be able to resist it. Would you let such a chance slip
through your fingers?’
‘I won’t even look at it and I’m sure you’re not as mean as you pretend to be.’
‘I assure you, I’m meaner than I’m ready to confess.’
‘I can’t believe that you’ll be able to harm anyone out of self-interest.’
‘Brother, only ascetics can subsist on ideals in this world, I cannot. I believe
that if I can win a bet by pushing you, then I’ll surely throw you to the ground.
that if I can win a bet by pushing you, then I’ll surely throw you to the ground.
And if you don’t mind, then I’ll say that you too will knock me down in such a
situation. It’s difficult to sacrifice self-interest.’
‘Then I’ll say that you are a hired pony.’
‘And I’ll say that you’re a blockhead.’

Yashwant and Ramesh had enrolled themselves together in school and had also
passed out together from college with their respective diplomas. Yashwant was a
bit slow-witted but he was hard-working. Whatever work he took on, he stuck to
it and wouldn’t rest before completing it. Ramesh was intelligent but lazy. Even
an hour of concentrated effort was difficult for him. Till his MA, he had always
been ahead, while Yashwant lagged behind. Intellect prevailed over diligence.
But, the equation reversed in the civil services exam. Yashwant left all other
activities and concentrated on his studies with full vigour. He turned his face
away from the usual entertainment. He didn’t go wandering around, didn’t visit
the circus or the theatre with his friends, and confined himself in his room.
Ramesh chatted away with his friends and played cricket. Occasionally, he
would open his books, for a change. He was fairly confident that he’d do better
than his friends this time too. He’d often go and tease Yashwant. He’d close
Yashwant’s books and exhort him not to risk his life studying. Civil service was
not the ultimate objective in life—so there was no need to sever all connections
with the world. If Yashwant saw Ramesh coming from a distance, he’d close the
door.
Finally, the day of the exam arrived. Yashwant had read everything, but when
he tried to think about how to answer a specific question, it seemed to him that
he’d forgotten everything. He was in a state of panic. Ramesh was not
accustomed to making preparations beforehand. I’ll see when the question paper
is before me, he thought. He was full of confidence and had no worry at all.
The results of the exam came out. The slow-moving tortoise won over the
fast-running hare.
Now Ramesh’s eyes opened but he didn’t despair. He was confident that for a
worthy person like him fame and wealth were bound to come, sooner or later. He
started preparing for the law exam and although he didn’t work too hard, he
passed in the first division. Yashwant sent him a congratulatory telegram. He
had become a government officer in a district.

Ten years passed. Yashwant worked very hard and his officers were very happy
with him. But, although his officers were pleased, his subordinates were
proportionately displeased. Yashwant wanted his subordinates to work as hard as
he did. He expected them to be as selfless as he was. Such individuals are
considered important for the administration. Yashwant’s work impressed his
officers and in five years he was made the district judge.
Ramesh was not as fortunate. He tried different courts but didn’t succeed in
his law practice. If the judge didn’t come on time, he would leave the court and
wouldn’t return even if he was called back. He’d say, ‘If the judge doesn’t
practise punctuality, why should I? Why should I wait for him for hours in the
court?’
He conducted interrogations with such courage that the judges who were
accustomed to flattery considered his fearlessness audacity. He didn’t know
what forbearance was. Whether it was the judge or a rival lawyer, if anyone
dared to bandy words with him, he’d give them a piece of his mind. Once he
even fought with the district judge. The consequence was—his degree was
revoked. However, he continued to reign over the hearts of his clients.
Then he got the job of a professor at Agra College. But his misfortune didn’t
leave him there either. He rubbed the principal the wrong way on the very first
day. The principal believed that the students should stay away from politics. He
didn’t allow any student of the college to participate in any political gatherings.
Ramesh began to openly violate this principle on his first day. He declared that
students needed to participate in political gatherings. This was a part of their
education. If in other countries, students had revolutionized society, why should
the boys in his country be suppressed? The consequence of this was—Ramesh
had to tender his resignation before the year was over. However, the students
continued to adore him.
Thus, led by circumstances and his own inclinations, Ramesh, in the course of
time, became a judge. First he fought in the court on behalf of his clients, then he
fought with the principal in support of the students and finally he challenged the
fought with the principal in support of the students and finally he challenged the
government on behalf of the common people. By temperament he was fearless,
self-respecting and a lover of truth and ideals. For such a person, there was no
other option but to become a servant of the common people. His articles on the
current state of the country began to appear in newspapers. His discussions were
so lucid, touching and comprehensive that soon his fame spread far and wide.
People felt that a new sun had risen in the firmament. The government officers
cringed after reading his articles. He aimed his target so sharply that it was not
possible for anyone to avoid it. The hyperboles flew over their heads thick and
fast. They could only watch the spectacle from a distance. These weapons were
beyond their reach, or became unwieldy in their hands. Ramesh’s jibes would hit
the bull’s eye and create a stir and commotion among the officers.
Yashwant shuddered reading the articles of his old friend. He was afraid lest
Ramesh got caught in the grip of law. He repeatedly cautioned Ramesh to
exercise restraint and beseeched him to curb the sharpness of his free-flowing
pen. Why should he deliberately poke his fingers into the jaws of this poisonous
law?
But Ramesh was intoxicated by the idea of leadership. He didn’t even care to
reply to these letters.
In his fifth year, Yashwant was transferred from his current job and became
the district judge of Agra.

The political situation of the country was worrisome. The secret police had
created quite a panic. Their fabricated stories frightened the officers of the
government. Newspaper agencies were silenced in some places while the leaders
of the public were stopped at others. To serve their own interests, the secret
police poisoned the minds of the rulers in such a way that every man with
independent thought appeared a murderer to them.
Ramesh was not one to sit quietly seeing such a state of affairs. As the officers
became more and more oppressive, Ramesh’s passion increased proportionately.
Every day, he would deliver a speech somewhere or the other and most often his
speeches would be filled with seditious sentiments. To speak about what is fair
and apparent is itself sedition! If someone’s political speech is not considered
seditious, then one should conclude that he has concealed his inner emotions. He
seditious, then one should conclude that he has concealed his inner emotions. He
doesn’t have the courage to bring whatever there is in his heart to his lips.
Ramesh had never learnt to hide the feelings of his heart. Being a mass leader,
he couldn’t afford to be scared of the hangman’s noose. If there was disaster
coming, let it! He was ready to bear everything. He became an eyesore for the
officers.
One day Yashwant sent for Ramesh. Ramesh felt like saying—Why? Do you
feel ashamed coming here? After all, you are just a slave. But then he thought
for a while and sent a message saying that he would come the following evening.
The next day, he reached Yashwant’s bungalow at six o’clock sharp. He didn’t
mention this to anyone; partly because others might accuse him of fawning on
officers and partly because there was a chance of some harm coming to
Yashwant.
The lamps had been lit when he reached Yashwant’s bungalow. Yashwant
gave him a hug. The two friends kept on chatting till midnight.Yashwant told
him everything about the experience that he had gained from his job. Ramesh
was surprised to find out that on many subjects, Yashwant’s political views were
much more independent than his. His opinion that Yashwant had changed
completely and was playing the tune of loyalty was proved completely wrong.
Ramesh said, ‘My good man. When you’re so disillusioned, why don’t you
give up your job? If nothing else, you’ll at least be able to preserve your soul.’
‘You worry about me later. Right now, you should worry about yourself. I’ve
called you to give you a warning. Presently, you are a pain in the neck for the
government. I’m afraid you might be arrested.’
‘I’m ready for it.’
‘What will you gain by jumping into the fire?’
‘I don’t care for gain or loss. My job is to carry out my duty.’
‘You’ve always been obstinate. But the situation is delicate. It will be wise for
you to show some restraint. Had the public been better informed, I would’ve
jumped into the arena before you. But when I find that such isolated sacrifices
are of no use, I don’t feel the urge to come forward.’
The two friends continued talking. They recalled their college days. For
classmates, the memory of their student days remains a perennial source of
entertainment and laughter. They discussed their professors; they talked about
what their other classmates were doing now. It was almost as if they were
college students again. There was no trace of seriousness in them!
college students again. There was no trace of seriousness in them!
The night advanced. By the time dinner was over, it was one. Yashwant said,
‘Where will you go now? Sleep here and we can talk some more. You rarely
come to see me.’
Ramesh accepted the invitation of his friend and spent the night there. When
he woke up the next morning, it was 9 a.m. Yashwant was standing beside him
and smiling.
There had been a heinous robbery in Agra the night before.

When Ramesh returned to his house at ten, he saw that the police had laid a
siege on it. An officer held up a warrant. His house was searched forthwith. One
didn’t know how a pistol had come to be in the drawer of Ramesh’s table.
Immediately he was handcuffed. Now who could have denied that he was
involved in the robbery? Misfortune befell several others. All the important
leaders were rounded up. The case went to the court.
One can’t say anything about the others, but Ramesh was innocent. He had
such conclusive proof of this that no one could have doubted it. But the question
was—could he use this proof?
Ramesh had thought that Yashwant himself would cooperate with his lawyers
for his release by becoming a witness. He thought that Yashwant, knowing that
he was innocent, would never allow him to be sent to jail; Yashwant wasn’t that
heartless. Days passed, but Yashwant didn’t take any initiative and Ramesh
hesitated to name him as his witness. He didn’t want to put his friend in trouble
on his account.
Yashwant was not heartless, or without feelings, but he lacked strong
conviction and courage. He was sad that his dear friend was suffering even
though he was innocent. Sometimes he would break into tears. But he couldn’t
muster the courage to get him released by explaining the situation. He was
scared of his officers lest they thought he had sympathy for the conspirators and
that he was in touch with them. This is my punishment for being an Indian. I
have to swallow the poison. The police have spread such terror among the
officers that even if Ramesh is let out because of my statement, they may not
disbelieve me but they’ll harbour suspicions in their mind that I’ve made false
statements to get my friend released. And my friend? He is accused of treason.
A month passed. The magistrate sent the case to Yashwant’s court. Several
people had been killed in the robbery and the magistrate didn’t have the power to
mete out the punishment the culprits deserved.

Yashwant was in a dilemma. He applied for leave but it wasn’t granted. The civil
surgeon was an Englishman. Therefore, he couldn’t dare to get a certificate from
him. Misfortune had befallen him and he couldn’t think of a way to avert it.
Look at the quirks of destiny! Two friends who had studied and played
together were standing before each other, separated only by a wooden railing.
But the life of one was in the hands of the other. Their eyes didn’t meet because
both had lowered their heads. Although Yashwant was seated in the seat of
justice and Ramesh was the accused, the real situation was the opposite.
Yashwant’s soul felt restless because of shame, guilt and pain while Ramesh’s
face glowed in the light of innocence.
What a difference there was between the two friends! One was a generous
soul. The other was selfish. Had Ramesh wished, he could have described what
happened that night in the open court. But Yashwant knew that Ramesh
wouldn’t take the help of that proof even if it meant saving himself from being
hanged.
As long as the hearing continued, Yashwant’s inner turmoil remained
unbearable. There was a constant tussle going on between his conscience and his
selfish interests and on the day of the judgment, he felt like he was the one
accused of murder. He didn’t have the courage to climb up to the pulpit. He had
to reach the court at three. The accused were standing there to hear their fate.
Ramesh looked more forlorn today. In his life’s struggle, the moment had
arrived when his head would be placed under the sword. So far, fear had been an
abstract feeling; today it appeared in an ugly, physical form.
Yashwant pronounced the judgment in a firm voice, though his voice choked
when he declared that Ramesh Chandra was condemned to seven years of
rigorous imprisonment. He placed the judgment paper on the table, and sitting on
the chair he pretended to wipe away his sweat although he was wiping his tears.
the chair he pretended to wipe away his sweat although he was wiping his tears.
He couldn’t read from the judgment any more.

7
By the time he was out of jail, Ramesh had become a confirmed revolutionary.
After the hard labour of the day, he sat in the dark cell and made plans about the
welfare of the people. Why do people commit sin, he wondered. Is it because
there is such disparity in the world? While some live in huge mansions, others
do not have even the shelter of a tree. While some are wrapped in silk and
pearls, others cannot afford even a tattered rag. Who is to blame for the
robbery, murder and other injustices that happen in this morally skewed world?
He dreamt of establishing a society that would dedicate itself to the removal of
such disparities. The world is for everyone and everyone has an equal right to
happiness. If the rich do not share their wealth willingly with others, what is
wrong with distributing their wealth against their wish? If the rich call it a sin,
let them. If the laws made by them provide punishment for it, let them do so. Our
course will be different. Before this court all those who have more wealth than
they need will be declared criminals. We’ll award them punishments, we’ll
extract hard labour from them. He had barely come out of the jail when he
declared this social revolution. Secret societies were formed, arms were gathered
and in a few days robbery became the rage. The police began to look for clues.
The revolutionaries started attacking the police as well. Their strength grew by
the day. Everything was done with such skill that no one knew who the
perpetrators were. Ramesh opened charitable dispensaries for the poor at one
place and banks at some others. He began to buy land out of the money gathered
from the robberies. Wherever an area was put on auction, he bought it off. In a
short time, he became the owner of a large property. The profit from the property
went to the welfare of the poor. Everyone knew that Ramesh was behind it but
no one dared to open their mouths. In the eyes of the civilized society, there was
no one more reprehensible than Ramesh. People would seal off their ears when
they heard his name. If anyone saw him dying of thirst they wouldn’t have given
him even a drop of water. But no one had the courage to oppose him publicly.
Several years passed. The government declared big awards for any
information on the dacoits. Experts of the secret police from Europe were invited
for this purpose but the robbers were so clever that no strategy worked against
for this purpose but the robbers were so clever that no strategy worked against
them.
However, Ramesh couldn’t live according to his own principles. As the days
passed, he realized that discontent was spreading among his followers. The
cleverer and more courageous among them would dominate others and wouldn’t
give them an equal share of the booty. Some of them, in fact, became jealous of
Ramesh. He lived a royal lifestyle. Others would say, ‘What right does he have
to spend the money earned by everyone?’ A sense of discontent brewed among
them as a consequence.
It was night; black clouds were hovering in the sky. That day they had
planned to raid the mail wagon. Everything was pre-decided. Five valiant youths
were selected for the purpose.
Suddenly, one young man stood up and said, ‘Why do you pick me again and
again? Everyone else gets a fair share, so why should I risk my life time and
again?’
Ramesh said firmly, ‘It’s my job to decide who will be sent where. Your job is
simply to carry out my orders.’
The young man persisted, ‘If I’m made to do more work, why shouldn’t I be
given a greater share?’
Ramesh gauged his attitude, picked up the pistol in his hands and said, ‘This
will be decided when you return.’
‘I want it decided before I go.’
Ramesh didn’t reply. He wanted to make short work of him with his pistol
when the young man jumped out of the window and fled. There was no one who
could beat him at running and jumping. It was an easy job for him to jump from
a running train.
He went straight to the chief of the secret police from there.

After his retirement, Yashwant had started practising law. He was friendly with
everyone in the department of justice. His practice looked up in no time and he
made lots of money. He also received a pension. Had he wanted, he could’ve
spent the rest of his life comfortably in his house. He also had no difficulty in
working for the country and the community. One could expect selfless service
from such men. But Yashwant had spent his entire life earning money. He
from such men. But Yashwant had spent his entire life earning money. He
couldn’t have done any work that didn’t bring him money.
Though the entire civilized society hated Ramesh, Yashwant hated him the
most. He’d say, ‘If a suit is filed against Ramesh, then I’ll fight on behalf of the
government without charging any fees.’ He would openly cast aspersions on
Ramesh—‘He’s not a man, but the devil himself. He is a demon. One shouldn’t
look at such a man’s face! Alas! Good families have been ruined at his hands.
Good men have lost their lives, numerous women have become widows and
children became orphans. If it was up to me, I’d have him shot or buried alive.’

Uproar spread throughout the city—Ramesh Babu has been caught! It was true.
Ramesh had been caught. That young man who had jumped from the train and
run away from Ramesh had spilled the beans. What he revealed about Ramesh’s
life appeared to be a sensational, demonic and sinful tale of forceful extraction
and murder.
The civilized society heaved a sigh of relief. Buttermilk lamps were lit in the
house of the seths. The naked swords that had been hanging over their heads had
disappeared. Now they could enjoy their sleep.
Ramesh’s exploits were printed in newspapers—tales that had previously not
been narrated out of fear. Reading them, one realized what disasters Ramesh had
caused. Many nobles and kings used to give him a monthly tax. He would send
them a chit conveying the date and the amount of money he wanted and no one
dared disobey him. He extracted money from the rich and spent a part of it in the
service of the people. He would write the amount and the rich had to pay off
without a demur.
However, if the elite were happy, the common people were sad. Now who
would protect them from the tyranny of the police? Who would save them from
the exploitation of the seths? Who would open technical schools for their boys?
Who would they now turn to for help? They had become orphans. He had been
their sole support. Now there was no one to listen to their complaints.
The police were collecting evidence. The public prosecutor was preparing for
the case but there was no lawyer ready to support Ramesh. In the whole district,
there was just one man who could’ve saved him from the shackles of law. It was
Yashwant. But would Yashwant, who didn’t even want to hear Ramesh’s name,
Yashwant. But would Yashwant, who didn’t even want to hear Ramesh’s name,
stand in support of Ramesh? Impossible.
It was nine at night. A woman entered Yashwant’s room. Yashwant was
reading the newspaper. He asked, ‘What do you want?’
‘I want a lawyer for my husband,’ said the woman.
‘Who’s your husband?’ asked Yashwant.
‘The one who studied with you and on whom a false case of robbery was
slapped.’
Yashwant got up with a start and asked, ‘Are you Ramesh’s wife?’
‘Yes.’
‘I can’t be his lawyer.’
‘As you wish. You are from this district and you were my husband’s friend.
That is why I thought I should not go to a stranger. Now I’ll call somebody
either from Allahabad or Calcutta.’
‘Can you pay them for their service?’
‘What are the charges of a big lawyer?’
‘Three thousand rupees a day.’
‘That’s all? Please accept this case then, I’ll pay you three thousand rupees per
day.’
‘Three thousand rupees per day!’
‘Absolutely. And if you are able to get him acquitted, then I’ll give you fifty
thousand rupees as a reward.’
Greed filled Yashwant’s heart. If the case ran for two months, he could earn at
least one lakh rupees. On top of that, there was the reward. It would be a deal of
two lakh rupees. He hadn’t been able to earn this much money in his entire life.
But what would people say? His own conscience didn’t support him. To save
such a man from the hands of the law was like murdering a lot of people. But it
was a question of two lakh rupees. And his group wouldn’t perish even if
Ramesh was given punishment. His followers would be there. They would
probably make even more trouble. Then why should I let these two lakh rupees
go? I won’t be able to show my face to anyone, no problem. I don’t care if
people are happy or displeased with me. I can’t let go of so much money. I’m not
throttling anyone, I’m not robbing anyone. It’s my duty to save the accused.
Suddenly, the woman asked, ‘What’s your answer?’
‘I’ll give you an answer tomorrow. Let me think about it.’
‘Oh no, I don’t have so much time. If you have a problem, then tell me
 ‘Oh no, I don’t have so much time. If you have a problem, then tell me
clearly. I’ll explore other options.’
Yashwant was not granted any time to reflect on the matter. A hasty decision
is always taken in self-interest. There’s no possibility of any loss here.
‘Can you give me some money in advance?’ Yashwant asked the woman.
‘Please do not mention money again and again. What is money worth against
his life? You take as much money from me as you want. Even if you are not able
to get him acquitted make sure you give a tough fight to the government.’
‘No problem. I’ll fight the case. I must have some consideration for our old
friendship.’

10

The police tried their best, and presented a plethora of evidence. The informer
gave a full account. But Yashwant offered such arguments, picked so many
holes in the evidence and pulled up the informer with such finesse that Ramesh
was acquitted without a stain on his character. The court couldn’t produce any
further proof of his crimes. The fact that a sober and sagacious lawyer was
pleading for the plaintiff was proof enough that the government had committed
some error.
It was dusk. A tent was pitched in front of Ramesh’s door. The poor were
being fed. His friends were invited. The celebration was in honour of Ramesh’s
acquittal. Everyone was thanking Yashwant. Ramesh was being congratulated.
Yashwant tried to engage Ramesh in conversation several times but the latter
just turned his face away. So far they had not exchanged even a single word.
Eventually Yashwant said, annoyed, ‘I can see you’re avoiding me, as though
I’ve done you a bad turn.’
‘And do you think you’ve done me a good turn? Earlier, you destroyed my
prospects for this world, this time you’ve spoiled my hereafter. If you had done
justice to me on the earlier occasion, my life would’ve been saved. And this time
if you had allowed me to go to jail my future would’ve been saved.’
‘Don’t you admit that I acted with extreme courage in your case?’
‘You did not act with courage; you acted out of self-interest. You are a
worshipper of your own interests. I consider you a “hired pony”. I know I’ve
ruined my life to a considerable extent but I’m not ready to exchange it for your
life. Don’t expect any gratitude from me.’

Translated from the Hindi by M. Asaduddin

 A Mother’s Heart

The world was collapsing into darkness for Madhavi. None of her kin were
around to assist her. There was no flicker of hope anywhere. She lived alone in
that deprived house and there was no one to wipe her tears. Twenty-two years
had passed since her husband’s death. There was no wealth in the house. One
can only wonder under what circumstances she had brought up her child; now
that young boy had been taken away from her. If he had died, she could have
somehow consoled herself. One can’t hold a grudge against death. But this
torture at the hands of those selfish people was unbearable. In a state of such
great anguish, her heart grew uneasy and she often thought of taking revenge
upon the one responsible for inflicting this cruel blow on her straightaway. There
were only two choices left—kill the enemy or accept death; both would have
brought contentment. How good-looking and promising the boy was, the token
of her late husband, the sole meaning of her existence and the result of her life-
long struggle. Who knows what difficulties her son was going through lying
behind bars! And what was his crime? Nothing! The entire neighbourhood was
fond of him. The teachers of his school doted upon him. People close to him or
otherwise loved him. There was never any complaint against him. Mothers like
Madhavi would congratulate her for having such a son. He was a virtuous young
boy with a generous and noble heart. He could himself sleep hungry but would
never spurn guests away rudely from his door. Did he deserve to go to jail? His
only crime was that at times he would narrate the gloomy tales of his friends in
misery to others and that he would always be ready to offer support to those
enduring oppression. Was this his crime? Is it a crime to serve people in
enduring oppression. Was this his crime? Is it a crime to serve people in
distress? Is giving shelter to a guest a crime too?
This young boy named Atmanand unfortunately had all those virtues that
unlock the doors of the jail. He was fearless, frank and forthright, brave, a
patriot, selfless and diligent. These are precisely the qualities that are needed to
be put behind bars. These virtues open the gates of heaven for those who are
freethinking and those of hell for the subservient. Atmanand’s social service, his
public speeches, and his political writings had put him under the scrutiny of
government officers. The entire police department from top to bottom remained
vigilant, and watchful eyes followed him everywhere. Finally a dreadful robbery
in the district gave them the opportunity they had been waiting for. A search was
carried out at Atmanand’s house; some letters and articles were found and
seized, which the police tagged as substantial evidence for the robbery. A group
of about twenty young men was noosed and Atmanand was accused to be the
leader of the gang. Witnesses were arranged. What could be cheaper to sell other
than one’s soul in these days of scarcity? What else is one left with to put on
sale! It is easy to arrange potentially good witnesses with nominal enticements.
Even the mean and worthless witnesses are turned into vox dei with a little hand-
holding by the police. So the witnesses were gathered and the case went on for a
month; the case was nothing but a farce, of course, and all the so-called accused
were sentenced. Atmanand received the hardest sentence—eight years of
rigorous imprisonment. Madhavi went to the court every day and observed the
proceedings sitting in a corner. Till then she had no idea about how weak,
pitiless and base human nature could be. When Atmanand’s sentence was
pronounced and he left the courtroom with the guards after saluting his mother,
Madhavi fell unconscious. A few considerate people dropped her home in a
carriage. From the moment she had regained consciousness, a stabbing pain rose
in her heart every now and then. She had absolutely no patience. In her state of
deep inner agony, she could see only one resolution to live for, and that was to
take revenge against this persecution.
Her son had been the sole substance of her life so far. But now she would
nurture a new fixation: revenge from her enemies. She had no hope left in her
life. She would consider her life fulfilled by avenging this victimization. She
would make this luckless man-fiend Bagchi shed tears of blood too, the way he
had done with her. The heart of a woman is tender, but only under favourable
had done with her. The heart of a woman is tender, but only under favourable
circumstances; the situation in which a man dominates others, a woman displays
angelic charm and courtesy. But a woman nurtures no less disgust and fury than
a man towards someone who has ruined everything for her. The only difference
is that a man takes revenge with the use of weapons whereas a woman employs
craft.
The nights grew wet with her tears but Madhavi never wavered. Her agony
dissolved into the promise of retribution to the extent that she grew oblivious of
the rest of the world. All she could think of was how to accomplish this task. She
had hardly ever stepped beyond the four walls of her house, having spent
twenty-two years of her widowhood within. But now she must go out, she
thought, in spite of her unwillingness; she’d masquerade as a beggar or a
maidservant; she’d tell lies and commit misdeeds; she’d do whatsoever was
needed to accomplish her revenge. This society had no place for munificence.
Even God has perhaps turned away from humanity having lost all hope. That is
why such oppression took place here, and the villains went unpunished. Now she
would punish the guilty with her own hands.

It was evening. Some friends had gathered for a get-together in a well-decorated

bungalow in the city of Lucknow. Song and dance were going on. Fireworks
were lying on one side. Food items were being picked up from the tables in
another room. There were police officers all around. It was the bungalow of Mr
Bagchi, the superintendent of police. He had won an important case a few days
ago. The officers were impressed and he was promoted. This get-together was to
celebrate the same. Such celebrations were often held here. Musicians were
available at no cost, the fireworks were for free; the fruits, dry fruits and sweets
would be brought from the market at half the price and thus, instantly, a banquet
would be set. Where others spent a hundred rupees, these people could manage
with just ten. Several guards were available for running all kinds of errands. And
what was the important case that he had won? It was the same in which the
innocent young men were thrown into the jail through fabricated witnesses.
At the end of the concert, people sat down for dinner. Unpaid workers and
porters who had carried the food items and decoration materials from the
marketplace had left complaining and cursing within their hearts; but an old
marketplace had left complaining and cursing within their hearts; but an old
woman was still sitting at the door. She did not fume like the other workers
while doing her job. She would swiftly carry out every order she received with a
smile. This was Madhavi who had come in the guise of a labourer to complete
her fatal resolve.
The guests left. The gathering dispersed. The items of the banquet were
cleared away. There was silence all around, but Madhavi was still sitting right
there.
Suddenly, Mr Bagchi asked, ‘Budhdhi, why are you sitting here? Did you get
something to eat?’
Madhavi replied, ‘Yes, huzoor, I did.’
‘Then why don’t you leave?’
‘Where shall I go, sarkar? I don’t have a house. If you allow it, I shall stay
here, and with your kindness I can have an ounce of flour.’
‘Can you work?’
‘Why not, sarkar? That’s what I want.’
‘Can you babysit my child?’
‘Yes, huzoor, I’d love to do that.’
‘Very well then. You can start from today itself. Go inside and do whatever
you are asked.’

A month passed. Madhavi does her work with such sincerity that the whole
house is happy with her. The lady of the house is quite short-tempered. She lies
on her bed all day and keeps screaming at the servants about petty issues. But
Madhavi gladly tolerates all her growling. The situation was such that no
maidservant would stay beyond a week in that house. Madhavi is the only one
with such guts that despite enduring the harsh and awful expressions, she never
lets a shadow fall on her face.
Mr Bagchi had had many sons before, but this one, the youngest, was his only
surviving child. Though his children were born healthy, they would soon catch
some disease and consequently either after two to four months or after a year,
they would succumb to death. Thus, this child was very precious for both
parents. If the boy caught a slight cold, they would get restless. Despite both
parents being educated, they were not averse to local remedies such as the
parents being educated, they were not averse to local remedies such as the
practice of magic, prayers, rituals and charms for the boy’s survival.
The boy was so attached to Madhavi now that he wouldn’t let go of her for a
moment. If she even left for a minute, he would disturb everyone with his
incessant cries. He would sleep only if he was put to bed by Madhavi, would
have milk only if fed by Madhavi, would play only if Madhavi played with him.
He, in other words, considered Madhavi as his own mother. There was nobody
close to him except Madhavi. The boy would see his father only a couple of
times in the whole day and so took him to be a stranger. His mother wasn’t in
any position to walk around with him because of her lethargy and weakness. He
would not allow his mother to take on his responsibility or take appropriate care
for his safety. If the servants of the house tried to cuddle him, their callous
handling made his tender limbs ache. Some would even toss the little boy high
up in the air, frightening him out of his wits. He grew afraid of those servants.
Madhavi was the only one who understood him. She knew precisely by what
means and under what conditions the boy could be pleased. And that is why the
boy loved her.
Madhavi used to think that the family was extremely well off. But now she
was shocked to see that they could barely meet their monthly expenses.
Accounts were taken of every paisa the servants were given to spend and many a
times necessary items were also avoided.
One day, Madhavi asked the boy’s mother, ‘Why don’t you get a fast toy car
for the boy? He gets restless being in my lap all the time.’
Frustrated, Mrs Bagchi replied, ‘How do I get that? It will cost no less than
fifty to sixty rupees. Where is the money?’
‘Malkin, you’re also talking like this!’
‘I am not lying. My husband has five more daughters from his first wife. They
study in a school in Allahabad. The eldest would be no less than fifteen or
sixteen years of age. Half his salary is spent on them. Besides, we are also
concerned about their marriages. Their weddings will cost no less than twenty-
five thousand rupees. Where will all this money come from? I get extremely
worried thinking of this. It is not any disease but such worries that make me feel
sick all the time.’
‘He receives the bribes too.’
‘Budhiya, one cannot truly prosper by corrupt means. In fact, frankly
speaking, this bribery has made our lives miserable. God knows how others wolf
speaking, this bribery has made our lives miserable. God knows how others wolf
down bribes so easily. Here, whenever such money comes in, there is always a
cost that comes along. The loss from such an income is too much. I always
advise him not to bring in such unlawful earnings, but who listens to me!’
It so happened that Madhavi herself was growing fond of the boy. She could
not even think of doing him any harm. She would sleep and wake up according
to the boy’s routine. The memory of her own misery at the hands of Mr Bagchi
would make her angry at him for a moment and her wound would get fresh
again, but destructive thoughts did not dictate her conscience. The wound was
healing, except that any minor hurt would cause pain. Otherwise, she didn’t have
any feelings of smarting or jealousy. Rather, she began to sympathize with the
family. She would speculate about the difficulties that would beset the family
unless they grabbed the share of others. How else would they survive? How
would they marry off their daughters? The wife is sick all the time. Moreover, the
man has to have a bottle of alcohol every day. These people are themselves so
unfortunate. A house where five marriageable daughters were there, where sons
died consecutively, where the mistress remained sick, where the master was an
alcoholic—they are already facing God’s wrath. Though ill-fated, I’m faring
better!

Rainy days are an ill omen for children who are weak. They suffer from ailments
like cough or fever or diarrhoea. How far can one fight for survival in cold
weather?
Madhavi had gone back to her own house one day. The boy had started crying
and so the mother asked one of the servants to take him out. The servant took
him out and sat him on the green grass. The grassy soil was wet with rainwater
and in some places there were small patches of water as well. It was the perfect
place to play around for the little boy! All excited, the boy started rolling about
in the water. The servant got busy chatting with other men. Hours passed. The
boy caught a terrible cold and was brought home with a running nose. When
Madhavi returned, she saw that the boy was coughing. Around midnight she
could hear a rattling voice coming out of his throat. Madhavi was terribly
shocked. She woke the mother up and said, ‘Look, what’s happening to the
child. I’m afraid he has got a cold. Yes, it seems like a bad cold.’
The mother woke up aghast and when she heard the boy’s rattling voice she
was terribly frightened. She had heard this fearful voice many times before and
thus was familiar with it. Perplexed, she asked, ‘Light some fire, get some husks
of wheat, make a pouch, and give him a hot compress. It will comfort him. I’m
sick of these servants. One of them had taken him out for a while. He must have
abandoned the boy in the cold.’
Both Madhavi and the mistress applied the hot compress all night long.
Finally, it was dawn. Hearing about the boy’s condition, Mr Bagchi rushed him
to the doctor. Fortunately, the child was attended to in time. The boy recovered
in three days. But he was so weak that he looked a terrible sight. Truly speaking,
it was Madhavi’s dedication that had saved the boy. The mother would fall
asleep, so would the father, but sleep fled Madhavi’s eyes. She would hardly
remember to eat or drink. She would propitiate the gods with her worship and
sacrifice herself completely for the well-being of the child, losing her mind
completely. This was the same Madhavi who had once come into this house to
avenge her own misery. She had come here for vengeance but had ended up
being an agent of beneficence. She had come here with a poisonous intent but
had ended up offering nectar. The divine in Man is so powerful!
It was early morning. Mr Bagchi was sitting by the boy’s swing. His wife had
a headache. She was lying on the bed and Madhavi was boiling milk for the
child nearby. Mr Bagchi suddenly said, ‘Budhiya, we will sing your praises as
long as we’re alive. You’ve given our child his life.’
The wife reiterated, ‘This woman descended in the form of a Goddess to free
us from our misery. I wonder what would have happened to us if she wasn’t
here. Budhiya, I have a request to make of you. Though life and death are in the
hands of destiny, one’s past too has a part to play. I’m wretched. It was due to
your blessed deeds that the child survived. I’m afraid God might yet take the
child away from us. To tell you the truth, Budhiya, I’m afraid I can’t even cuddle
the child. From today consider him your own son. With you the boy may have a
good chance of survival whereas with us he’ll be destined to be a part of our
misery. Why don’t you mother the child? Take him to your home or wherever
you wish. At least the thought that he’s being taken care of by you will ease my
worries. Truly speaking, it is you who is to be credited as being the mother of
this child, I’m a hag indeed.’
this child, I’m a hag indeed.’
Madhavi replied, ‘Bahuji, God will fix everything, why do you get so
disheartened!’
Mr Bagchi now spoke, ‘No, no, Boodhi Mata, there’s no problem in that. I
don’t believe in such pretentions yet my heart cannot help but accept them. I
myself was sold to a washerwoman by my own mother. I was born after three of
my brothers had died. Selling me was the only option for my parents to keep me
alive. You bring up this child. Treat him as your own son. We’ll pay for all the
expenses. Just don’t worry about anything. We’ll come and see him once in a
while whenever we desire. We believe that you’ll be able to take care of him
much better than us. I’m a corrupt man. One cannot help being corrupt in the
kind of profession that I am in. We are compelled to create false witnesses and
send innocents to prison. My weakened conscience cannot escape such
temptations. I know very well that evil begets evil, yet I’m helpless under these
circumstances. If I don’t follow these ways, I will be called unfit and thrown out
of the system. No one questions the English when they commit countless
wrongs. But if an Indian commits a single mistake, all the officers get after his
life. Indians shouldn’t occupy these bureaucratic positions because whenever
they do, they end up becoming morally degraded souls! Just to make up for their
fault of being Indians, they have to do a great deal of things that the Englishmen
can never even think of doing. So, what do you say? Will you accept my offer?’
Madhavi replied at once, ‘Babuji, I’ll always be ready to offer whatever
services I can afford, whenever you wish. I sincerely pray to God for the boy’s
survival!’
Madhavi felt as if the doors of heaven had opened before her and the angels
were offering their salutations to her through heavenly gestures. She could feel
the rays of light in the deepest corners of her heart. Such was the contentment in
the servitude of a mother’s love and care!
Till now, the boy was sleeping under the sheets. Once the milk was hot,
Madhavi lifted the boy from the swing and screamed. The boy’s entire body had
gone cold and his face had turned frightfully pale, shocking one’s heart, with
cold sighs escaping one’s throat and tears streaming down one’s eyes. Madhavi
clutched the child to her chest—though she should have laid the lifeless body
down.
All hell broke loose. The mother wept with the boy in her arms, never laying
him down. What discussions had been going on, and quite the opposite had
him down. What discussions had been going on, and quite the opposite had
occurred! Death revels in deceit. It does not come when people are waiting for it.
Death strikes when the sick person begins to recover, when he starts partaking
normal food, sitting and moving as usual, when the house starts celebrating, and
everyone believes that the worst is over, right then, the preying Death strikes its
deadly blow. This is the cruel game that Death plays on Man.
How deft we are in planting orchards of hope. There we sow the seeds of
blood and sweat, and consume the fruits of ambrosia. We water our saplings
with fire, and ourselves sit in a cool shade. How ignorant Man is!
The mourning went on for the whole day; the father cried, the mother was
tormented, and Madhavi was consoling both of them by turns. If she could have
brought back the child by sacrificing her own life, she would have felt fortunate.
She had come here determined to cause mischief, and today when her wish was
fulfilled and she should have ideally felt elated with joy, instead, she was
suffering far more than she had when her own son had been jailed. She had come
to make others weep, but now she herself was weeping inconsolably. A mother’s
heart is a storehouse of kindness. When you burn it, it emits the fragrance of
love and kindness, and if you crush it, it will only ooze compassion. A mother is
a Goddess. Even the cruellest moments of adversity cannot malign this source of
spotless purity.

Translated from the Hindi by M. Abbasuddin Tapadar and Kalyanee Rajan

 Theft

Childhood! One cannot forget childhood memories! This dilapidated house, this
straw mattress! Roaming around in the fields bare-bodied, barefooted! Climbing
the mango trees! All these moments flash before my eyes. I was happier wearing
rough-hewn leather shoes rather than the flex shoes that I wear now. The taste
that the hot panuaye juice had, one doesn’t find in the rose drink now. The
sweetness that was there in the chabena and raw berries cannot be found in
grapes and kheer mohan.
I used to go with my cousin Halder to another village to study with a maulvi. I
was eight years old then, and Halder (he now lives in heaven) was two years
older than me. Every morning both of us would eat stale chapattis, carry the
chabena made of peas and barley and leave the house. The whole day lay ahead
of us. There was no attendance register at Maulvi Sahib’s place, nor was there a
fine to be paid for being absent. What was there to fear then! Sometimes we
watched the soldier’s drill in front of the police station or spent the whole day
following the juggler who made the bear or monkey dance. Sometimes we
headed to the railway station to watch the endless movement of trains. Even the
timetable did not contain the kind of information we had about the timings of the
trains. Once, on the way back to our village, we saw that a moneylender from the
city was getting a garden made. A well was being dug. Even that was an
interesting spectacle for us. The aged gardener would very lovingly make us sit
in his hut. We insisted on helping him out with his work even though he resisted
it. We either carried the bucket to water the plants, or used the shovel to scrape
the ground or trimmed the leaves of the creepers using scissors. I felt so happy
doing that work! The gardener’s behaviour was childish. He used our services
but in a way that seemed as if he was obliging us. The amount of work he could
finish in a whole day, we completed in an hour. Now that gardener is no more,
but the garden is still green. As I walk past it, my heart wishes to cling to those
trees and cry and tell them, ‘Dear, you have forgotten me, but I haven’t; your
memories are still fresh in my heart, as fresh as your leaves. You are the living
example of selfless love.’
Sometimes we remained absent for weeks but came up with such excuses that
Maulvi Sahib’s knitted eyebrows would soon relax. If I had such an imagination
today, I would have written a novel that people would have been amazed by. But
now the situation is such that even after much persuasion I can barely think of a
story. Actually, Maulvi Sahib was a tailor. He pursued the role of a maulvi as a
hobby. Both of us praised him a lot in front of the unlettered villagers. One could
say that we were Maulvi Sahib’s brand ambassadors. We were proud of
ourselves whenever through our publicity Maulvi Sahib got some work. When
we could not think of a good excuse, we would take some gift or the other for
him. Sometimes we picked up a kilo or half a kilo of seed pods or five–ten sticks
of sugarcane, or carried fresh green sprigs of barley or wheat. A look at those
gifts would pacify Maulvi Sahib’s anger at once. When it was not the time of
harvest for these items, we would think of some other solution to save ourselves
from punishment. Maulvi Sahib had an interest in birds. Cages of blackbirds,
nightingales and crested larks hung in the school. Whether we remembered the
lessons or not, the birds certainly remembered them. They also studied with us.
We showed a lot of enthusiasm in grinding chana-dal powder for these birds.
Maulvi Sahib would instruct all the boys to catch moths. These birds had a keen
interest in the moths. Whenever we felt that Maulvi Sahib was about to fly into a
rage, we would start collecting moths, for they would take his anger away. By
sacrificing them we would pacify the wrath of Maulvi Sahib.
One morning both of us went to wash our faces in the nearby pond. Halder
took a whitish thing in his fist and showed it to me. Instantly I opened his fist.
There was a one-rupee coin in it. Astonished, I asked, ‘Where did you find this
rupee?’
Halder replied, ‘Mother had kept it on the shelf. I stood the cot sideways,
climbed onto it and took the rupee.’
 There was no chest or almirah in the house; the money was kept on a shelf at
some height. Yesterday, Uncle had sold san. The money had been kept to pay
the zamindar. I don’t know how Halder had got to know about it.
We had never touched a one-rupee coin before. I remember even today how
while looking at that rupee, waves of happiness and fear arose in our hearts. The
rupee was a precious thing. Maulvi Sahib used to get only twelve annas from us.
At the end of every month Uncle would go himself to Maulvi Sahib and pay the
money. Who could possibly assess our sense of pride? But the fear of getting
thrashed was ruining our happiness. The money was not uncountable. It was
quite understood that the theft would be detected. Halder had already had a first-
hand experience of Uncle’s anger, even if I hadn’t. Nobody in the whole world
was more innocent and naïve than Uncle was. But when he got angry, he lost all
sense of proportion in his blinding rage. Even Aunty feared his anger. For
several minutes both of us kept thinking about these things. Finally it was
decided that we could not let go of the money. Nobody would doubt us at all,
and if they did, we would straightaway deny it. What would we even do with the
money, we would staunchly say.
If we had thought over this plan a little more, the horrific drama that took
place might have been averted, but at that moment we did not have the capacity
to contemplate such things.
We entered the house sheepishly after washing our hands and faces. If by any
chance they decided to search us, then only God could save us. But everybody
was doing their work. Nobody spoke to us. We did not eat our breakfast—
neither did we carry the chabena; we just kept our books under our arms and left
in the direction of the madrasa.
It was the rainy season. There were clouds in the sky. We were walking
towards the school in high spirits. Even getting a position in the council ministry
would not have given us so much happiness. We had thousands of ambitions and
built thousands of castles in the air. We had got this opportunity after a long
time. We were unlikely to get this chance ever again. That is why we wanted to
spend the rupee in such a way that it would last for many days. Although during
those days, one could get very good quality sweets for five annas a kilo, half a
kilo of sweets would have sated both of us. But we thought that if we ate sweets
then the rupee would disappear that day itself. We had to eat something that
came cheap—which not only made us happy, but filled our stomachs and cost
came cheap—which not only made us happy, but filled our stomachs and cost
less. Finally, we saw guavas. Both of us agreed. We bought guavas worth two
paise. It was a time when things were cheap. We got twelve big guavas. Our
bellies were full. When Halder kept the rupee in the fruit-seller’s hand, she
looked at us with suspicion and asked, ‘Where did you find this rupee, Lala?
Have you stolen it?’
We had the answer ready. We had read at least two–three books, if not more.
Knowledge had left some influence on us. I promptly answered, ‘We have to pay
Maulvi Sahib’s fees. There was no loose cash in the house, so Uncle gave us the
rupee.’
This answer ended the fruit-seller’s suspicion. Both of us ate lots of guavas
while sitting on a bridge. But now where would we take the fifteen and a half
annas? It was not difficult to hide a one-rupee coin. Where would one hide a pile
of coins? We did not have much space around our waists or in our pockets. To
keep them with us would mean blowing a trumpet about the theft. After thinking
over it for a long time, it was decided that twelve annas would be given to
Maulvi Sahib and with the remaining three and a half annas we would buy
sweets. After taking this decision, we reached the school. We had gone to the
school after many days. Getting annoyed, Maulvi Sahib asked, ‘Where were you
all these days?’
I replied, ‘There was a death in the family, Maulvi Sahib.’
While I said this, I put the twelve annas in front of him. That way there was
nothing left for him to ask. Maulvi Sahib was ecstatic after seeing the money.
There were still many days left for the month to end. Normally, he would receive
the money days after the month started and that too after constantly demanding
it. It was not unusual for him to feel so happy after receiving the money so much
in advance. We looked at the other boys with pride in our eyes, as if we were
telling them: on the one hand, there are boys like you who do not pay the money
even after one asks for it, and on the other hand there are boys like us, who pay
in advance!
We were still reading our lessons when we realized that there was a fair near
the lake and so school would get over in the afternoon. Maulvi Sahib had to go
to the mela for a nightingale fight. Our happiness was beyond imagination when
we heard the news. We had already deposited twelve annas in the bank; with the
three and a half annas we could see the fair. There would be a lot of jubilation.
We could relish revadis, golgappas, enjoy the rides and reach home in the
We could relish revadis, golgappas, enjoy the rides and reach home in the
evening. But Maulvi Sahib had laid down a condition that before school got over
every boy had to recite his lesson. Those unable to recite it would not be freed.
As a result, I got free but Halder was kept in prison. Many other boys had also
recited their lessons, so they all left for the fair. I joined them. The money was
with me, so I didn’t wait for Halder. It was decided that once he got free, he
would come to the fair and then we would see it together. I had promised him
that until he came I would not spend a single paisa. But who knew misfortune
was to take such a dramatic turn? More than an hour had passed since I had
reached the fair, but Halder was nowhere to be seen. Had Maulvi Sahib still not
freed him or had he lost his way to the fair? I was looking at the road with
desperate eyes. My heart did not allow me to enjoy the fair alone. There was also
the doubt that the theft had been exposed and Uncle had taken Halder home.
Finally, when evening set in, I ate a few revadis and kept Halder’s share of the
money in my pocket and slowly walked towards home. On my way I thought of
visiting the school thinking that Halder may still be there, but it was desolate.
However, I met a boy who was playing there. The moment he saw me, he burst
out laughing and said, ‘Boy, go home, and you will get a thrashing. Your uncle
had come. He beat Halder all the way home. He punched Halder so strongly that
he fell flat on his face, and then he dragged him from here till home. You had
paid Maulvi Sahib’s salary, but he took even that away. Think of some excuse
now, otherwise you will also be beaten up.’
I was petrified. The blood in my body dried up. Things had turned out exactly
the way I had feared. My feet had become heavy like a maund. Taking a single
step towards home had become difficult. I offered obeisance in the form of
laddus, pedas and batashas to all the male and female deities whose names I
could remember. When I reached the village, I remembered the village deity,
because in our region, the wish of the village deity is of utmost significance.
I did all this but as home kept getting closer, my heartbeat kept rising. It
seemed as if the sky would fall on me. I could see people running back to their
houses leaving their work behind. Even the cattle were returning home. Birds
were flying towards their nests, but I was still walking at the same slow pace, as
if there was no strength left in my legs. I wished that I had got high fever or hurt
myself but if wishes were horses, then beggars would ride them. Death does not
come when you want it to. So what can I say about illness? Nothing happened
come when you want it to. So what can I say about illness? Nothing happened
and despite walking at a slow pace, the house appeared in front of my eyes.
What would happen now? There was a big tamarind tree right at our door. I hid
behind it so that the sky could turn dark and I could stealthily enter the house
and sit underneath the charpoy in my mother’s room. Once everybody was
asleep, I would narrate the whole story to her. Mother never beat me. I would cry
in front of her so that her heart melted. And nobody would ask further about it
once the night ended. By the next morning, everyone’s anger would have faded.
If all had gone according to plan, then there was no doubt that I could have
emerged innocent. But God had something else in mind. A boy saw me and ran
inside the house calling my name incessantly. Now there was no hope for me. I
helplessly entered the house, and screamed out suddenly like a beaten-up dog
that starts yelping when it sees someone approaching it. My father was in the
sitting room. His health had not been good for the last few days. He was on
leave. I was not sure what he was suffering from. He mostly ate dal, and in the
evening, he drank something in a glass that he kept pouring in from a bottle.
Maybe this was a medicine prescribed by an experienced quack. All medicines
stink and have a bitter taste. This one was equally bad but I don’t know why my
father enjoyed drinking it. When we drank such medicine, we would just close
our eyes and gulp it down at once. Maybe the effect of this medicine was felt
only when one drank it slowly. A few ‘patients’ from the village would sit with
my father and keep drinking for hours. They got up with great difficulty to eat.
Even at this hour, they were drinking it. When he saw me he shouted in anger,
‘Where were you till now?’
I answered in a hushed voice, ‘Nowhere.’
‘You are learning to steal now. Tell me, did you steal the rupee?’
I turned dumb. A naked sword was dancing in front of me. I was scared to
even utter a word.
Father scolded me severely and then asked, ‘Why aren’t you answering me?
Did you steal the rupee or not?’
Putting my life at stake, I answered, ‘I did not—’
Before I could utter the whole sentence, my father assumed a monstrous look.
Grinding his teeth, he suddenly got up and, raising his hand, walked towards me.
I screamed loudly and started crying. I screamed in such a manner that even he
got scared. His hand became still. Maybe he was wondering if my condition was
already like this, what would happen if he actually slapped me. I could even die.
already like this, what would happen if he actually slapped me. I could even die.
The moment I realized that my cleverness had worked, I started crying even
more loudly. That very moment, two or three men came forward and held my
father. They signalled at me to run away. Children in such situations become
more headstrong and get beaten up unnecessarily. I was intelligent enough to
understand that.
But the scene inside the house was much worse. The blood froze in my veins.
Halder’s hands were tied to a pillar, his whole body was covered with dust and
he was still sobbing. Maybe he had rolled about in the courtyard. It appeared as
if the entire courtyard was filled with his tears. Aunty was scolding Halder while
my mother was grinding spices. Aunty was the first to notice me. She said, ‘See,
even he has come now.’ Then to me, ‘Did you steal the rupee or did he?’
Fearlessly, I replied, ‘Halder.’
Mother said, ‘If he stole it why didn’t you come home and tell someone?’
It was difficult for me to save myself without lying. In my opinion, lying can
easily be excused if a man’s life is in danger. Halder was used to being thrashed.
Two or more punches would make no difference to him. But I had never been
beaten before. I could have not have survived those punches. Even Halder had
tried to save himself by involving me, otherwise why would Aunt ask me
whether I had stolen the rupee or Halder? By all means, lying for me was, at that
moment, pardonable if not praiseworthy. I promptly replied, ‘Halder warned me
that if I told anybody about it, he would kill me.’
‘See, it is exactly as I had predicted. I kept saying that my child does not have
this habit. He never touches any money. But everyone insisted otherwise.’
Halder protested, ‘When did I say that I would beat you if you tell someone?’
‘By the side of the pond,’ I replied.
Halder said, ‘Mother, he is lying.’
Aunt replied ‘It isn’t a lie, it is the truth. It is you who is the liar as your name
has been revealed. The rest of the world is not. Had your father been working in
the city and earning money, or, if he had earned respect in the eyes of other men,
then you could have been considered truthful. Now it is only you who is the liar.
Just as you faced the wrath for which you were destined, he ate the sweets he
was destined to.’
Aunt then untied Halder’s hands and took him inside. By gently criticizing
me, mother had changed the direction of the game. Otherwise, poor Halder
would have been beaten up further. I sat next to my mother and sang about my
would have been beaten up further. I sat next to my mother and sang about my
innocence. My good-hearted mother believed it to be the truth incarnate. She
was fully convinced that it was Halder’s fault. A moment later, I stepped out of
the storeroom with jaggery and chabena in my hands. At that very moment,
Halder also walked out eating rice puffs. We came out together and narrated our
predicaments to each other. While my story was a happy one, Halder’s was sad.
But the end was the same—jaggery and chabena.

Translated from the Hindi by Uttara Bisht

 The Goddess from Heaven

It’s all about destiny! Marriages are made in heaven. One marries whoever God
or his agents, the Brahmins, decide upon. Babu Bharatdas had laid down no
conditions while seeking a suitable bridegroom for his daughter. But he could
not find the kind of boy and family he sought. He wanted his daughter happy,
like any dutiful father, but according to him, possessions were of prime
importance. Character and education were secondary. Character is not reflected
on a person’s face and of what value is education in today’s world? Of course, if
wealth is accompanied by education, then what more can one ask for! He
searched far and wide for such a family but in vain. After all, how many families
are there with both these attributes? And the few families that did exist were not
of the same community. If the community matched, the stars did not; if the stars
matched, then the terms and conditions of the marriage could not be agreed
upon. Helpless, Bharatdas was forced to get his daughter Leela married off to
Lala Santsaran’s son, Sitasaran. He was the only son, fairly well-educated,
courteous, worldly-wise and also quite a romantic at heart. The most important
thing was that though he was handsome, strong, cheerful and brave, his views
were still very old-fashioned. Whatever was traditional was good, whatever was
modern, bad. When it came to business the zamindar used all the new practices
for that was an arena where he had no power. But he was a hardcore
conservative when it came to societal customs. Sitasaran blindly followed his
father in word and deed. He didn’t have a mind of his own. A dull intellect often
manifests as a lack of social liberalism.
 2

Leela’s trials started from the day she stepped into the house. The acts that had
been encouraged in her own home were prohibited here. Since childhood she
had been taught to take in big gulps of air, here it was seen as sinful to even open
one’s mouth to inhale. As a child she had been taught that sunlight was life, here
to even glimpse sunlight was considered harmful. At home, tolerance,
forgiveness and compassion were quoted as divine virtues, here one was not free
to even name these traits. Santsaran was an extremely acerbic, angry man who
wouldn’t allow a fly to land on his nose. It was only through cheating and lies
that he had amassed so much property is there space before this? This was his
mantra for a successful life. His wife was a notch or two above him. If her bahu
were ever to be found standing in the doorway of her darkened room or having
stepped foot on the terrace, floods would arrive, the heavens would fall. She was
stricken with the malady of incessant nagging. A bit of extra salt in the dal was
an excuse enough to nag all day. A huge, hefty woman, laden with jewellery,
wearing a wide lehnga of chintz, she sat all day long on her string cot, her box of
betel leaves beside her. Even a leaf dared not move against her wish. Observing
her bahu’s new-fangled habits, she boiled with rage. Our reputation is at stake.
Just look at the way she’s peering out from the balcony. If my daughter had such
a roving eye, I would have throttled her. Who knows what kind of people live in
her part of the world! She never wears any jewellery. Look at her; she couldn’t
care less about dressing up. Do you think these are good signs? Not just Leela,
Sitasaran too had to face her tongue-lashing. ‘Oh, so you also like sleeping in the
moonlight, is it? You call yourself a man? What kind of a man is he whose wife
does not listen to him? Home all day long, stuck to her. Don’t you have a tongue
in your head? Why don’t you make her understand?’
Sitasaran would say,‘Amma, if only she would listen.’
‘Why won’t she listen, aren’t you man enough? A mere glance from a man
should make a woman tremble.’
‘How far have you got trying to make her see reason?’
‘You think she cares? She must be thinking—this old woman will die sooner
or later and then I will be mistress of this house.’
‘Well, what can I say in response to that? Can’t you see how weak she has
become? She has lost her colour. Her condition is going from bad to worse,
become? She has lost her colour. Her condition is going from bad to worse,
being in that room all day long.’
Whenever she heard these words from her son, the mother would smoulder
and rage all day long, alternately cursing her luck and this time in her life.
Though he spoke like this in front of his mother, the moment he was with
Leela, Sitasaran’s attitude would change. He would say what Leela liked to hear,
to such an extent that both made fun of the old woman. Leela had no relief other
than this. All through the day she had to do endless chores. She had never sat
before a stove, but now she had to slap away at quintals of atta as rotis had to be
made for both the workers as well as the errand boys. Sometimes she would sit
and weep for hours over the stove. It wasn’t as if these people couldn’t afford a
cook but an old family custom demanded that the bahu cook, and this tradition
had to be maintained. It was only the sight of Sitasaran that calmed Leela’s
tortured spirit momentarily.
One summer evening, a breeze blew outside, but inside it was unbearably
stuffy. Leela was sitting and reading a book when Sitasaran came in and said,
‘It’s very hot in here, sit outside.’
‘It is far better to bear this heat than listen to the taunts one would start
hearing the moment one steps outside.’
‘If she says anything today, I won’t be able to hold myself back.’
‘And it will then be impossible to even stay in this house.’
‘We’ll get away from this strife.’
‘I won’t leave even if it kills me. Whatever she says or does, in her eyes, it’s
for my own good. It’s not as if she has any enmity towards me. Yes, we may not
like what she says, but that’s a different matter. She herself has had to endure all
the suffering that she now wants me to bear. Her suffering has not affected her
health in any way. At sixty-five she is sprightlier than me. So how can she
comprehend that such suffering might injure one’s health?’
Sitasaran looked at her wilted face with beseeching eyes and said, ‘You have
had to bear much sorrow in this house. This family is not worthy of you. You
must surely have committed some sin in your previous life.’
Playing with her husband’s hands, Leela said, ‘Then how would I have found
your love?’

3
Five years went by. Leela became a mother of two. A boy and a girl. The boy
was named Jankisaran and the girl, Kamini. The children kept the house alive.
The grandfather doted on the girl, while the grandmother doted on the boy. Both
the children were boisterous and spoilt, and were given to cussing and making
rude faces. Cussing and making rude faces was nothing to them. They would eat
throughout the day and so often fall sick. Leela had tolerated all her own
suffering but she could not bear to see these bad habits in her children, but who
paid attention to her? Despite the fact that it was she who had given birth to
these children, she was not considered significant; the children were everything.
She had no right to even scold her own children; her mother-in-law would tear
her apart.
The biggest trouble now was that her own health kept getting worse. During
her pregnancy she had to undergo all the cruelties that ignorance, foolishness
and superstition ordained for child-bearing women. In that hell hole where there
was neither air nor light, nor any hygiene, and a foul smell pervaded the musty,
filthy room, her delicate form shrivelled up. Whatever fight was left in her after
the first childbirth was razed entirely after the second. She became pale and her
eyes were sunken hollows. It seemed as if she was bloodless. Her appearance
changed completely.
It was summer. There were not just ripe mangoes to eat, but also watermelons.
There had never been such a good crop of both fruits. God only knew how they
came to be so sweet that year. No one could stop eating them. Baskets laden
with mangoes and watermelons arrived from Santsaran’s villages. The whole
house fell upon them. Babu Sahib was of old stock. In the morning he would
breakfast upon a hundred mangoes, then top it up with a full tray of
watermelons. The lady of the house did not lag behind. She stopped eating an
entire meal. Grain would not spoil after all. If not that day, they would be used
another day. But would mangoes and watermelons keep fresh even for a day?
You had to eat them all up or let them perish. They were used to this yearly
flood of watermelons and mangoes and no one ever complained. If one felt
heavy, one simply took some digestive.
One day Sitasaran felt twinges of pain in his tummy. He ignored it and sat
down to eat the mangoes. The moment he reached a hundred, he threw up.
Collapsed. He had relentless bouts of vomiting and diarrhoea. It was clearly
cholera. A doctor was called in from the city but Babu Sahib passed away before
cholera. A doctor was called in from the city but Babu Sahib passed away before
he reached. Weeping and the beating of breasts followed. By evening the dead
body was carried out of the house. When people returned from the funeral at
midnight, the mistress too was found to be suffering from cholera. Once more
there was a lot of scurrying around but by sunrise she too was gone. While they
lived, husband and wife had not been separated even for a day. In death, too,
they left the earth together at the same time. The husband at sunset, and his wife
at sunrise.
But the tribulations had not ended. Leela was busy with all the arrangements
for the rites, and nobody else bothered about cleaning up the house. On the third
day, both the children went into the living room, crying for their grandparents.
There was a slice of watermelon and a few mangoes kept on a ledge in the room.
Flies were humming over them. Janki climbed on to a stool to reach them and
then they sat down to eat them together. By evening both children were struck
with cholera; before long their parents were left weeping. The house was
enveloped in darkness. Where only three days ago there had been so much
clamour, now a pall of gloom had descended; one could not even hear the sound
of anyone crying. Who was there to cry? There were only two souls left. And
they were too numb to weep.

Leela’s failing health had made her almost lifeless by now. She didn’t have the
strength to even get up and sit. She seemed lost all the time, taking no interest
either in getting dressed or eating. She appeared to be detached from the home as
well as the world outside it. If she sat down somewhere, she would remain
sitting. Months went by before she changed her clothes or oiled her hair. The
children had been the sole reason for her to live. With them gone, life and death
seemed the same. Day and night she prayed to God to rid her of this existence.
She had experienced both joy and sorrow; now she had no more desires. But has
death ever responded to one’s call?
At first Sitasaran too wept a lot every now and then; he would even run away
from the house. But as the days passed by, his grief for his children ebbed; it is
perhaps the mother who feels the most pain at losing a child to death. Slowly he
was able to collect himself. He began to laugh and joke with his friends like
before. The ones closest to him would rally around his spirits even more. He was
before. The ones closest to him would rally around his spirits even more. He was
now the master of the house and free to do what he wanted. There was no one to
stop him. He began gallivanting all over the place. If once his eyes had welled
up with tears at the sight of Leela crying, now he would get irritated looking at
her immersed in grief. Life was not meant for crying. God had given them
children and it was He who had snatched them away. ‘Does that mean that we
also give up living?’ Leela was shocked to hear this. How could a father utter
such words? There seemed to be all kinds of people in this world!
It was the time of Holi. There was much singing and dancing in the men’s
quarters. A lot of people had been invited for the celebration. Leela was flat on
the floor, weeping. She was always reduced to tears when festivals came. If the
children had been alive they would have put on new clothes and how they would
have romped around! Without them, what festival could they celebrate, what fun
could they have?
All at once Sitasaran came in and said, ‘Are you going to spend the entire time
weeping? Why don’t you change your clothes, look more respectable? What
have you done to yourself?’
Leela replied, ‘You go back to your raucous mehfil, what do you care about
me.’
‘Are you the first to have lost children? Are you the only one to face such
tribulations?’
‘This we all know. Everyone copes in her own way. How can we control what
we feel?’
‘Don’t you have any duty towards me?’
Leela looked at her husband in bewilderment, clueless about what he meant.
Then she averted her face and resumed crying.
‘I want to put an end to this gloom. If you don’t have any control over your
heart, then neither do I. I can’t spend my whole life mourning.’
‘You go ahead with your fun and games, I’m not stopping you! Why do you
stop me from crying?’
‘My house is not for weeping.’
‘Very well, I will not weep in your house.’

5
Leela could see her husband slipping out of her hands. He had fallen prey to his
lust and there was no one who could talk him out of it. He seemed to have lost
his senses. She wondered what she could do. If she left, the house would
crumble and her husband would be like so many other rich young men trapped in
the clutches of his selfish friends. Some slut or the other would enter the house
and ruin him completely. Oh God! What should I do? Were he to fall ill would I
forsake him? Never. I would tend to him with all my being, pray to God, plead
with the heavenly powers. Agreed that he is not physically ill but he is definitely
mentally sick. If a man cries when he has to laugh and laugh when he should be
crying, then is there any doubt that he is mad? If I leave him, he will be
destroyed. It’s my duty to rescue him.
Yes, I will have to forget my sorrow. Cry I will, for tears are written in my fate
—so I will cry but through laughter. I will fight my destiny. I can do little else
but cry for those who have gone but I will not let go of those who are present.
Oh broken heart! Come, let me gather these pieces and make a grave out of you
and surrender my grief to you. Oh tearful eyes, hide my tears behind a halo of
laughter. Come, my ornaments, for long have I spurned you, forgive me for this
offence. You have been my companion in my good times, on wonderful journeys,
now stay with me in this crisis; don’t betray me. Leela sat up all night talking to
herself, while in the men’s quarters it was a total carnival. Drunk out of his
senses, Sitasaran would break into song or a fit of clapping. His friends seemed
to be painted in the same hue. It seemed that nothing mattered to them but sheer
debauchery.
The last mehfil fell silent. No more of their hoo-ha could be heard. Leela
wondered whether the crowd had left or fallen asleep. All at once a hush fell
over the house. She went and stood at the doorway and peeped into the drawing
room. A flame seared through her veins. The friends had departed. No sign of
the socialites either. Just a beauty lying on the couch with Sitasaran bent over
her, whispering softly into her ear. What was in their minds was clear from their
expressions. One’s eyes sparkled with interest; the other’s leered. Thus is an
innocent robbed by maya as beauty incarnate. Leela’s possessions were being
robbed right under her nose by a bewitching trickster. Leela was so infuriated
that she wanted to grab the slut with both hands then and there, snub her so
soundly that she would never forget it and throw her out of the house. Those
wifely feelings which had lain dormant for so long reawakened and agitated her.
But she curbed herself. Surging desires cannot be dammed all of a sudden. She
retraced her steps to the house, calmed her mind and thought to herself—In form
and beauty, in feminine wiles, I cannot match this evil one. She’s like a piece of
the moon, every part of her sparkles, every pore of her is intoxicating. Her eyes
are so full of thirst, indeed, not thirst but a volcano! Leela went right to a mirror.
After many months she looked at herself. A sigh escaped her lips. Grief had
completely ravaged her body. Next to the seductress she was like a juhi flower
beside a rose!

Sitasaran recovered from his hangover in the evening. When he opened his eyes
he saw Leela before him, smiling. His eyes soaked in this rare image of Leela.
He felt a thrill, as if he was meeting her after a long separation. How could he
know how much she had wept while adorning herself, how many tears she had
shed when she wove those flowers into her tresses. With reawakened desire he
arose and embraced her. Smiling, he said, ‘Today you have adorned yourself
with so many weapons that there seems to be nowhere to run.’
Leela laid a finger on her heart and said, ‘Stay here. You are always running
away, now I will keep you captive. You’ve enjoyed the pleasures of exotic
flowers, now look at the ones inside these dark rooms.’
Shamefaced, Sitasaran said, ‘Don’t call these dark rooms, Leela! They are
overflowing like a divine lake of love.’
Just then, they heard a friend’s footsteps outside. As Sitasaran began to walk
away, Leela caught his hand and said, ‘I won’t let you go.’
‘I’ll be right back.’
‘I’m afraid that you will leave me.’
When Sitasaran went outside, his good friend said, ‘Did you spend the entire
day sleeping? You seem really pleased. We had decided to go there now, right?
She is waiting for you.’
‘I’m ready to go but Leela won’t let me.’
‘You’re still the same moron. So you’re back in your wife’s clutches! Then
what is it that got you so hot and bothered earlier?’
‘Leela had shut me out of the house, so I went here and there seeking refuge.
 ‘Leela had shut me out of the house, so I went here and there seeking refuge.
Now she has reopened the gates and is standing at the entrance, calling out to
me.’
‘Oh come on, how will you find the same pleasure here? No matter how much
you adorn the home, can you turn it into a garden?’
‘Brother, the home cannot become a garden but it can become heaven. Now I
alone know how ashamed I am of my pettiness. She suffered so much grief
losing our children that it broke her body and diminished her beauty, and yet she
cast it away at just one signal from me. As if this sorrow had never existed in the
first place. I know that she can bear a lot of pain. She will protect me above
everything else. When she saw that her sorrow was making me suffer, she cast
aside her grief entirely. Today when I saw her adorned with ornaments and
smiling at me, I was exhilarated. I feel as if she is a Goddess from heaven who
has been sent only to protect a weak mortal like me. If I had to sell all my
property to take back the cruel words I have uttered to her, I would do it. Truly,
Leela is a Goddess from heaven.’

Translated from the Hindi by Swati Pal

 Punishment

It was dusk, and the court of law had been adjourned. Public servants and peons
were on their way home, their few pennies’ worth of daily earnings clanging in
their pockets. The sweeper was trying his luck in the pile of garbage, hoping to
find some money. In the verandas of the court, lawyers had been replaced by
bulls and under the trees dogs had curled up where scribes had been. Just then,
an old man, with tattered clothes and a stick in hand, arrived at the bungalow of
Gent Sahib and stopped in the portico. Gent Sahib’s name was Mr G. Sinha. The
attendant, spotting the old man, called out from afar, ‘Who stands there in the
shade? What do you want?’
The old man said, ‘I’m an old Brahmin, bhaiya, may I see the sahib?’
‘Sahib doesn’t meet the likes of you,’ the attendant replied curtly.
The old man hit his walking stick against the ground and retorted with some
haughtiness, ‘Why, pray? Do I look like a dacoit? Or is something else the
matter with my face?’
‘You’ve come begging to fight a case, haven’t you?’
‘Is that a crime? Is it so bad if one doesn’t sell their house to fight a case? I
have spent my entire life fighting my case, but never spent a penny meant for the
household. I give people a dose of their own medicine. With great difficulty I
have gathered money to give to the lawyer, begging at the doors of kind men.
The whole village trembles at my name. If one dares to play games with me, I
take no time to claim my right in the court.’
‘You haven’t encountered a powerful man yet, have you?’
‘How many powerful men I have put in their place, you have little idea. I go
 ‘How many powerful men I have put in their place, you have little idea. I go
right up to the high court. Dare anybody come in my way? Why should I be
scared when I don’t stand to lose a penny? Whatever I set my mind on, I make it
mine, by right or by might. So tell me, will you summon the sahib or should I?’
The attendant realized that he wouldn’t be able to get rid of this man easily.
He went in and informed the sahib, who asked him what the man looked like.
When he heard the description, the sahib said with a smile, ‘Bring him in right
away.’
‘Sahib, he is wearing dirty rags.’
‘Riches often rise from rags. Send him in.’
Mr Sinha was in the prime of his life, a calm, thoughtful man of few words.
Rigidity and discourtesy, the inseparables of administration, were not to be
found in him in the least. He appeared to be the God of justice and kindness. He
was gifted with the ability to judge people at a glance. His appearance was
godlike, with a complexion like ebony; dark and beautiful. He lay on the
recliner, puffing a hookah. The old man came in and greeted him.
‘So you are Jagat Pande. Come sit. Yours is a very weak case. Couldn’t you
have used some ploy?’ Sinha asked the man.
‘Do not say that, huzoor. I’m a poor man, this will kill me.’
‘Didn’t you seek advice from a lawyer or attorney?’
‘I have come this far seeking your mercy, sarkar.’
‘You think his kindness will alter file records of the case? Or write a new law?
You have been highly mistaken. I never go outside of the law. I hope you are
aware that my proposal in the Appeal is never turned down.’
‘Glory be to you, sarkar! I’m in great agony, sarkar!’ While he was saying this
he placed a bag of money at Sinha’s feet.
‘You will never cease to use your clever ways, will you? Come, shell out
more, dew doesn’t quench thirst. At least pay one tenth,’ retorted Sinha with a
smile on his face.
‘I come to you with great hope, friend of the poor!’
‘Come now, let’s see what you’ve got. This is a big name you’re seeking
support from!’
‘I’ll be rendered penniless, my lord!’ pleaded Jagat Pande.
‘Penniless be your enemies who sell property to fight! You’re a man of plenty,
by the grace of God, why fear!’
by the grace of God, why fear!’
Mr Sinha was not one to make any concessions in such matters. Jagat sensed
that no amount of craftiness would work here, so out came five more guineas.
But this time, placing them at Mr Sinha’s feet filled his eyes with tears of grief.
All his life had gone into earning this money. For years he had toiled in hunger
and heat, holding his heart back from desires and giving false statements in court
to save this money. Giving it away made him die a thousand deaths.
After Pande departed, around nine in the night, a tonga pulled up outside Mr
Sinha’s bungalow and from it, Pandit Satyadev, attorney to Raja Sahib Shivpur,
got down.
Mr Sinha smiled and said, ‘It looks like you will not let the poor live in peace!
Such cruelty!’
‘Messiah of the poor,’ Satyadev replied, ‘you could also say that these poor
people have instead made our survival difficult. I’m sure you’re aware that
nothing comes easy these days. The landowner has to deal with these fellows
with some measure of strictness. But of late matters have come to such a point
that the moment we show the slightest sternness, the so-called poor begin to
show their true colours. They all want to work the fields for free. You talk of
rent, and lo! They are up in arms! Now take the case of this Jagat Pande. I swear
by the Ganga, huzoor, what he claims is all false. There’s nothing that can
remain hidden from your highness. If Jagat Pande wins the case, we shall all
have to pack up and flee. Only Your Highness can get us our rightful position
now. Raja Sahib sends his greetings to your highness and desires that Jagat
Pande be taught a lesson that he remembers all his life.’
Frowning, Mr Sinha replied, ‘You do know that it is not me who makes the
law?’
‘Huzoor, all I know is that everything is in your hands.’
Saying this, he placed a bag of money on the table. Mr Sinha made a mental
estimate of how much money the bag held, and cleverly replied, ‘Present this
money before the raja as an offering from me. After all, you will hire a lawyer,
I’m sure. What will you pay him then?’
‘This is just a token amount that the raja has placed in the hands of Your
Highness. The amount shall keep rising with every hearing in the court.’
‘If I so desire, the case can hang for months.’
‘Who can deny your capability?’
‘So, even if there are five hearings, that will cost you a thousand bucks. You
 ‘So, even if there are five hearings, that will cost you a thousand bucks. You
give me half of that right here and your job is done in one single hearing. That
way you too will save half the amount.’
Satyadev pulled out another ten guineas and, placing them on the table, asked
in a smug tone, ‘With your permission, shall I convey to Raja Sahib that he may
sit back and relax, and that Your Highness’s kindness is ensured?’
Mr Sinha retorted sharply, ‘Not at all. I must make it clear right away that I’m
not taking the money in exchange for any prior assurance of victory. I shall
proceed according to the law and do what the law commands, not deviating an
inch. My principles do not permit me to act otherwise. It is very kind of you
people to respect me. But he who tries to put a price on my principles shall be
my biggest enemy. Whatever money I accept, I receive it as a reward for my
truthfulness.’

Jagat Pande had full confidence that he would win the case, but when he heard
the verdict the blood in his veins froze! His claim had been rejected! He was
about to lose a lot of money. Such trickery! I’m not a true Brahmin if I don’t
make the Lala Sahib pay for his fraudulence. What has he taken me to be? I am
going to teach him such a lesson that he’ll remember it all his life. This is hard-
earned money. I’ll see how somebody can just snatch it from me and digest it. It
will bring only damnation. I will not let them live a day in peace.
The same evening Jagat Pande sat down in protest outside the bungalow of Mr
Sinha. There was a banyan tree outside the gates, and all the men who travelled
from near and far seeking Mr Sinha’s mercy and assistance sought the shade of
the thick canopy that the tree provided, chewing on their sattu and chabena.
Jagat Pande would sit there through the afternoon, recounting to them tales of
Mr Sinha’s deceitfulness. He would neither eat nor drink; he just sat there
narrating his grief-stricken story to anyone who happened to be there. Anybody
who heard of what had befallen him unequivocally cursed Mr Sinha.
‘He’s a beast, not a man.’
‘He deserves to meet the most gruesome death.’
‘He took your money, and then he had the audacity to strike a deal with the
opponent! Why take a poor man’s hard-earned money to fulfil such vile
schemes!’
schemes!’
‘This is the sad reality of our fraternity. We call each other brothers! Even the
exploitative British rule is better than this!’
Comments of this kind continued all day. Even at the most ungodly hours of
the day people were found thronging around Jagat Pande.
This went on for four days and the news reached Mr Sinha’s ears. Like all
bribe-taking officials he too was arrogant. He went about his life completely
unaffected by all that was going on around him. Why fear people questioning his
integrity when he never deviated from what the law commanded? And even if
somebody were to point a finger at him, who would pay any heed? Who had the
ability to set up an inquiry against a man as clever as him? Mr Sinha considered
it beneath his dignity to wheedle with his officers. It was this quality of his
personality that brought him immense respect from his subordinates. But Jagat
Pande had made a move which Sinha did not know how to counter. He had
never come across such a nuisance of a man! He would ask his servants: ‘What
is the old man doing?’ The servants would make up stories simply to feed Mr
Sinha’s ears and be in his good books. ‘Huzoor, he says his spirit will haunt you.
“Let me get sacrificed at the altar. The day I die will be the day a hundred Jagat
Pandes will come to life and avenge me!”’Mr Sinha was a confirmed atheist; yet
a tiny seed of worry had been sown in his mind. His wife, on the other hand,
trembled with fear hearing such stories. She repeatedly urged the servants, ‘Go
to Pande and ask what it is that he wants. Tell him he can have all the money he
desires, all his demands will be met, but make him leave our doorstep.’ But Mr
Sinha would tell the servants not to carry out her instructions. He was still
hopeful that hunger and thirst would break the man’s resolve and he would
leave. A stronger reason for stopping them was that he knew that the servants
would try to use the situation to their advantage if they realized that Sinha was
succumbing to fear.
On the sixth day the news that Jagat Pande had gone mute reached the house.
He could barely move; he simply lay staring blankly into the sky. Rumour also
had it that he might die that night. Mr Sinha sighed and got lost in thought. His
wife, with tears in her eyes, said insistently, ‘Swear by me that you will go and
put an end to this. If the old man dies, we’re doomed. Don’t think twice about
the money. Even if it takes a couple of thousands to get the man to agree, do it.
I’ll go up to him if your self-esteem is preventing you from going.’
I’ll go up to him if your self-esteem is preventing you from going.’
‘For several days,’ said Sinha, ‘I have contemplated going to him, but seeing
the horde of people that he is always surrounded with discourages me. I will
never be able to speak to him in the presence of so many men, no matter how
urgent the situation is. You speak of spending money? I am prepared to spend as
much as it takes, but not to go there and make a spectacle of myself. Heaven
knows in what ill-fated moment I took his money. Had I the slightest inkling of
what was in store for me, I wouldn’t have so much as let him set foot beyond the
gates. He looked as innocent as a lamb! Never before have I committed such a
blunder in assessing a man.’
‘Should I go then?’ she inquired. ‘I will take the route that passes through the
other side of the city. And I will see to it that all the men are gone before I talk to
him. This way nobody will ever know that I met Jagat Pande. Tell me, do you
approve?’
Mr Sinha replied doubtfully, ‘People are curious, they are sure to find out, no
matter how much we try to hide things.’
‘Then let them. How long will we let this stop us from doing what needs to be
done? Why fear humiliation when we are facing enough of it already? The world
knows that you took his money. Nobody resorts to a hunger strike at someone’s
doorstep for no reason. What is the sense in being so egoistic when the situation
has already worsened so much?’
Mr Sinha could no longer keep his thoughts and feelings secret. He said, ‘My
dear, I’m not being egoistic. A dacoit doesn’t feel as much shame getting beaten
up in a courtroom full of people and a woman does not feel as insulted on being
accused of immorality as a haakim feels disgraced when his bribe-taking is
brought out into the open. He would rather end his life than be exposed to the
world. He can bear his ruin, but cannot face such humiliation. Apart from the
threats of being skinned alive or being crushed in an oil mill, there is nothing
else that can compel a haakim to admit to the sin of bribery. It does not
disconcert me in the least that the Brahmin will haunt us after death, or that we
will have to pray before his altar. I also know that sins are not met with
punishments too often. But at the same time my Hindu beliefs have not left me
entirely, which is why I fear being accountable for the death of a Brahmin. That
is all that drives me. And so tonight I will go at an opportune moment and put
the matter to rest once and for all.’
 3

It was past midnight. Mr Sinha set out from home to make peace with Jagat
Pande. Everything was quiet under the banyan tree. The night was so black it
seemed as though the deity of darkness resided right here. Jagat Pande’s breath
was so laboured it appeared as if death was dragging the life out of him. Mr
Sinha was scared beyond measure when he saw his condition. What if the old
fellow died? He pulled out a torch from his pocket and, moving closer to Jagat,
asked, ‘Pandeji, is all well?’
Jagat Pande opened his eyes and, failing in his attempt to sit up, replied, ‘You
ask if all is well? Can’t you see, I’m dying.’
‘But why are you killing yourself like this?’
‘Do I have a choice if this is what you want?’
‘This is not what I want, although my destruction is the sole aim of your
existence. After all, I took a mere sum of a hundred and fifty rupees from you.
For such a small amount you are making me pay such a heavy price!’
‘It is not a question of a hundred and fifty rupees, but the ruin you have
wreaked on me. If the decree was in my favour, I would have received ten acres
of land and achieved a position of esteem. You did not merely take my hundred
and fifty, you sent five thousand down the drain. Five thousand! But beware,
Sinha, you will not live too long in peace. Mark my words, you are on your way
to doom. You may be the judge in this worldly court. But in the courtroom of
God, it is we Brahmins that rule. Nobody can take what rightfully belongs to a
Brahmin and live in peace.’
Mr Sinha expressed his shame and remorse, tried to plead and persuade, but
eventually gave up and asked the question directly, ‘Tell me honestly, Pande,
how much money will you take to stop what you are doing?’
Jagat Pande sat up with a jolt and said forcefully, ‘Not a penny less than five
thousand.’
‘Five thousand is too big an amount. Have some mercy,’ Sinha pleaded.
‘Not a rupee less.’
Having said this, Jagat Pande lay down again. He had made his demand with
such finality that Mr Sinha immediately realized there was no room for
negotiation. He started making his way back to fetch the money, but by the time
he arrived home his intentions changed. Shelling out five thousand in place of a
hundred and fifty perturbed him. He thought to himself, Let him die if he so
wishes, I do not care about the sin of killing a Brahmin! This is utter hypocrisy.
Why must I worry about defamation? Government officials are defamed every
other day. Look how he sprang up when money was mentioned. Must have
thought he finally had me under his thumb. If fasting for six days can get you five
thousand rupees, I am prepared to repeat this ritual five times a month! Forget
five, I would gladly do it for one thousand. Here I slog all month and get a
meagre six hundred at the end. Not even an illegal income gets a lawyer more
than six hundred a month. He must be awaiting my return. He’ll take my money
and rejoice!
Just as he was about to stretch out on the charpoy, his wife came in. Her hair
was dishevelled, her eyes horror-stricken, and shivers ran down her body every
now and then. She opened her mouth to speak but only stuttered. With great
difficulty she said, ‘It must be past midnight now, no? Please go to Jagat Pande
now. I have just awoken from a ghastly dream, my heart is pounding madly
against my chest. I feel as though I will die of this anxiety. Please go and settle
the matter with him.’
‘I have just returned from there. My worry is much greater than yours. You
came just as I stepped into the house.’
‘Oh!’ she exclaimed. ‘So you did go! What did he say? Did he relent?’
‘He demands five thousand rupees!’
‘Five thousand!’
‘He will not settle for a penny less and right now I can’t put together more
than a thousand.’
After a moment’s thought, his wife said, ‘Give him what he desires, and
somehow get rid of this trouble. I can give you the money if you don’t have it. I
can foresee very dark days if he dies. His condition is not too bad, is it?’
If Sinha was ebony, his wife was sandalwood. He was her slave, following
every one of her commands. The wife too was content with this arrangement.
There lies an inherent contradiction between beauty and simplicity. A beautiful
woman is never naive. She knows how to establish control over even the most
secret corners of a man’s mind that are inaccessible to others.
‘All right,’ relented Sinha, ‘give me the money, I’ll hand it over to him. But
the man is a nuisance. What if he goes about showing people the money and
the man is a nuisance. What if he goes about showing people the money and
telling them how he got the better of me?’
‘He must leave this place, right?’
‘Then give me the money. I will remember this for life.’
With a tinge of suspicion, his wife added, ‘Come, I will also accompany you.
There’s nobody to see us at this time of the night.’ Nobody knows the workings
of a man’s mind like a wife knows her husband’s. Sinha’s wife too was fully
aware of her husband’s ways of thinking. Who was to say that he wouldn’t hide
the money on his way to Jagat Pande and return saying that he had handed the
money over? And he would then claim that Jagat Pande wasn’t leaving despite
receiving the money. So, she went and fetched the bundles of notes from the
trunk and, wrapping them in a cloth, set out into the night with Mr Sinha. Mr
Sinha looked pale. Every step he took was weighed down with grief. He walked,
lantern in hand, his head hanging in regret. How could he recover from such a
big loss? It would have been so much better if the devil had just died. It would
have amounted to some humiliation, but at least he would have derived comfort
from the thought that his money was secure. I pray to God he’s dead, thought
Sinha to himself.
The two had only reached the crossing when they saw Jagat Pande walking in
their direction—walking stick in hand, staggering at every step. His demeanour
was so terrifying it looked as though a corpse had come to life.
Spotting them in the dark, Jagat Pande sat down with a heavy sigh and asked,
‘What took you so long? Did you bring the money?’
The wife replied, ‘Maharaj, why did you take the trouble of walking all the
way? We were coming to you. You will take the money and leave for your home
right away, won’t you?’
‘Oh yes,’ he ensured, ‘I shall be off. Show me the money.’
The woman unwrapped the bundle of money and, casting the light of the
lantern upon it, said, ‘Count it if you wish. It’s a full sum of five thousand.’
Pande took the bundle and, squatting down on the ground, started to check if
everything was fine. His eyes began to glint with joy. Weighing the bundle in his
hand he asked, ‘Are you sure this is five thousand?’
‘Count the whole bundle.’
‘This will fill two baskets!’ he said. Excitedly spreading his hands out to
indicate plenty, he exclaimed, ‘Five thousand is this much!’
‘Do you still disbelieve me?’ Sinha asked.
 ‘Do you still disbelieve me?’ Sinha asked.
‘No, no. It’s a full five thousand! So should I leave now?’
He took the bundle and began to walk away, staggering like a drunkard, but
just a few steps later he stumbled and fell to the ground. Mr Sinha rushed to pick
him up, only to find that his eyes had turned blank and his face was pale. He
asked frantically, ‘Pande, have you hurt yourself?’
Pande parted his lips as if to speak, like a dying bird opens its beak to chirp,
but no sound came out. The last thread of life also snapped. His mouth remained
open and the bundle of notes stayed on his lifeless chest. The wife came running
and seeing the dead body let out a scream.
‘What happened to him?’ she asked.
‘He died, what else?’
Beating her head with her hands she cried, ‘Dead! Good heavens! What do we
do now?’
She scuttled towards the bungalow. Mr Sinha pulled the bundle of money
away from the corpse and also began to head home.
‘What will you do with this money?’ Sinha’s wife asked.
‘I will donate it for some religious work.’
‘I beg you, do not keep this money at home! Oh God!’

Before daybreak the news had already spread across the city—Jagat Pande lost
his life because of Mr Sinha. A mob of nearly a thousand men was present when
his body was picked up. Curses and abuses were being hurled at Mr Sinha.
After dusk, Mr Sinha had returned from the court and was sitting gloomily
when the servants of the household came up to him and said, ‘Sarkar, relieve us
from our jobs! Give us our money and set us free. The men of our fraternity have
threatened us with ostracism from the community if we do not stop serving you.’
Sinha asked agitatedly, ‘Who threatened you?’
‘Who all should we name, sarkar! All of them say the same,’ the palanquin
bearer said.
‘Huzoor, I am being threatened that my entry into the temples will be banned,’
said the cook.
Mr Sinha commanded, ‘You cannot leave without a month’s notice.’
The horse-wrangler said, ‘Huzoor, we cannot survive if we are at loggerheads
 The horse-wrangler said, ‘Huzoor, we cannot survive if we are at loggerheads
with our own community. We resign today. You can pay us whenever you think
is appropriate.’
Mr Sinha first tried to handle them with anger, then resorted to coaxing them,
but the servants stuck to their guns. Within half an hour, every one of them left.
Mr Sinha sat there helplessly. But how difficult can things be for a haakim? He
immediately sent word to the kotwaal that he was in need of servants and very
soon several unemployed men were sent to his bungalow. Work resumed once
again.
From that day tensions grew between Mr Sinha and the Hindu community.
The dhobi refused to wash his clothes. The milkman tried to evade bringing
milk. The hairdresser too refused his services to Mr Sinha. What made matters
worse was his wife’s weeping and wailing. Every night she would have
nightmares. She could not go from one room to another in the dark out of fear. If
anybody in the house reported the slightest discomfiture or illness, she would
begin to wallow in panic and anxiety. The biggest of her sorrows was that even
relatives stopped visiting them. One day her brothers came, but left without even
touching a glass of water. Another day, a brother-in-law visited, but he did not
even take the paan that was offered to him. With great patience, Mr Sinha bore
the contempt that came his way. He had lost nothing in terms of money. Men in
need continued to turn up at his door, and gifts and money poured in like they
always had. So there was hardly any great cause for worry.
But to have enmity with one’s own community is akin to living in a pond
infested with crocodiles. It is merely a matter of time till some occasion or the
other comes when one has to admit defeat to the society. Mr Sinha too was faced
with such a situation within a year. The occasion was the wedding of his
daughter. This is an occasion that forces even the most arrogant of men into
meekness. You may not have a single care for the world—who comes and goes,
what they eat, whether they do or do not meet you—but a daughter’s wedding is
a problem that you simply can’t circumvent. Where will you go! Mr Sinha had
anticipated that Triveni’s marriage would be jeopardized to some extent, but at
the same time he was also convinced that he would tide over it on the strength of
his money. He let some months pass thinking that maybe time would calm this
storm, but when Triveni turned seventeen, Sinha realized that there was not
much time to waste. He began sending out proposals. But wherever the
much time to waste. He began sending out proposals. But wherever the
messenger went, he was met with the same reply: ‘We can’t accept the
proposal.’ The households that would have jumped for joy at being offered such
a proposal only a year ago now replied dryly, ‘We can’t accept the proposal.’ Mr
Sinha tried to lure families with money and land, by offers to send the boy
abroad for studies, but all his plans and schemes were turned down. Observing
the attitudes and responses of the high-class families, Mr Sinha turned to those
families with whom he was previously averse to even sitting down for a meal.
But he received the same response from this quarter too. Maybe someone from
the families that had been excommunicated from the society would agree to take
his daughter’s hand in marriage, but Mr Sinha could not bring himself to build
relations with people who had no position in the society. In such a manner, a
year passed.
Mrs Sinha was lying on the charpoy groaning, Triveni was cooking and Mr
Sinha was sitting near his wife, worried. In his hand he held a letter, at which he
was looking repeatedly. He was lost in thought. After a long time the ailing
woman opened her eyes and proclaimed, ‘I won’t last now. Pande will not let me
live. What is that in your hand?’
‘It’s a letter from Yashodanandan,’ he told her. ‘This man has neither shame
nor gratitude, I helped him get a job, got him married. And today he has the
audacity to refuse to marry his younger brother to my daughter. His fate would
have turned around, the damned man!’
‘Bhagwan,’ she cried out, ‘call me to you! I cannot bear to see this any more. I
want to have grapes. Did you send for them?’
‘I’ve fetched them myself.’
He placed the plate of grapes near her. She started to eat them one by one.
When the grapes were over, she asked, ‘Who will you send the proposal to
next?’
‘How do I answer you? I cannot think of any other person to ask. It’s a million
times better to live outside the society instead of living in such a society. I took a
bribe from a Brahmin; I don’t deny that. But who doesn’t? Nobody turns down
an opportunity for gain. Forget Brahmin, bribe-takers will exploit God Himself,
if needed. If the man who offered the bribe ends his life in disappointment, how
is that a sin on my part! If somebody, unhappy with my decision, poisons
himself, why am I to be held responsible for it? Yet I am prepared to atone for
the damage that has been done, willing to accept the punishment that the
the damage that has been done, willing to accept the punishment that the
fraternity deems fit for me. I have told everybody repeatedly that I am ready for
reparation of any kind, but nobody listens. Punishment should always be in
keeping with the gravity of the crime, else it would be injustice. If the fraternity
decides to send me to the Kaala Paani prison for breaking bread with a Muslim, I
will never agree to such a penalty. Besides, it is I who has committed the crime.
Why mete out the punishment to my daughter? This is sheer injustice.’
‘But what will you do? Can’t a panchayat be held?’ asked his wife in
desperation.
‘Even the panchayat is constituted of men from the same fraternity. I have no
expectations or hopes of fair judgement from them. I tell you, the real reason
behind this ignominy is jealousy. They have always been jealous of me, which is
why they are grabbing every opportunity to humiliate me. I know their mentality
fully well.’
‘My heart’s desire has died. I will have to leave this world with my wishes
unfulfilled. If this is the will of God, then so be it. I fear for my child’s future
hearing the things you say. My last humble request to you is that please don’t
marry her outside the fraternity, else my soul will not find peace even in the
heavens. This sorrow is taking my very life. Oh, what calamity is going to befall
my child!’
With these words Mrs Sinha’s eyes welled up with tears. Consoling her, Mr
Sinha said, ‘Don’t worry, my dear, all I intended to say was that such thoughts
sometimes cross my troubled mind. I swear, the cruelty of my fraternity has
broken my heart into a million pieces.’
‘Don’t blame the fraternity,’ she said defensively. ‘If it were not for the fear of
the fraternity, Man would stop at no bad deed. Do not blame the society.’
Placing a hand on her bosom, she groaned, ‘My heart is aching. Even
Yashodanandan has turned us down. There’s not a single hope for comfort. What
do I do, oh lord!’
Mr Sinha asked worriedly, ‘Should I call the doctor?’
‘Call him if you wish, but I will not survive,’ she sobbed. ‘Fetch Tibbo, let me
hug her one last time. My heart is sinking. My child! Oh my child!’

Translated from the Hindi by Sarah Mariam

 The Outcaste

A mother and daughter used to live in a hut on the other side of the village. The
daughter used to collect leaves from the orchard, the mother used to roast grains
in the clay oven. This was their livelihood. They would get a ser or two of grains
and be content with that. The mother was a widow, the daughter unmarried, and
there was no one else in the house. The mother’s name was Ganga, the
daughter’s, Gaura.
For many years Ganga had been worried about Gaura’s marriage but no match
could be finalized. Ganga had neither remarried after her husband’s death, nor
had she taken up any job. So people used to wonder how she made ends meet.
Other people wore themselves down to the bone to earn a living and yet failed to
obtain enough to fill their bellies. Even though this woman didn’t work, she and
her daughter lived comfortably, and didn’t have to beg. There was definitely
some mystery in this. Slowly this suspicion became stronger and continued to
persist. In the community nobody was willing to get engaged to Gaura. Shudra
communities are usually very small. They cover an area not more than five to ten
kos. That’s why no one’s virtues and vices can remain hidden from others.
To dispel these suspicions, the mother went on many pilgrimages with her
daughter. She went as far as Orissa, but the doubts could not be quelled. Gaura
was young and beautiful, but nobody had seen her laughing or chatting, either
near the well or in the fields. She would never raise her eyes. But these things
further strengthened people’s suspicions. Surely there was some mystery. No
woman can be so virtuous. Surely there was some secret.
Days passed in this fashion. The old woman was wasting away with worry.
 Days passed in this fashion. The old woman was wasting away with worry.
The lovely girl’s countenance, on the other hand, was blooming day by day. The
bud was blossoming into a flower.

One day a stranger passed through the village. He was coming from a distance of
ten to twenty kos. He was on his way to Calcutta in search of a job. It was night.
Looking for the house of another Kahar, he came to Ganga’s home. Ganga
welcomed him warmly—she brought wheat flour for him and offered her own
utensils. The Kahar cooked and ate his food, lay down and started talking. The
conversation turned to Gaura’s engagement. The Kahar was young. He saw
Gaura, observed her behaviour and her lovely image was imprinted on his mind.
He agreed to the alliance. He returned home and brought some ornaments from
his sister’s house. The village draper loaned him some clothes. He came with
some kinsmen for the engagement. They got engaged, and he started living
there. Ganga could never let her daughter and son-in-law out of her sight.
But within a week or so, Mangru started to hear all kinds of gossip. People,
not only of his own caste but of the other castes also, started filling his ears with
stories. Hearing them time and again, he began to regret having heedlessly fallen
into a trap. But the thought of deserting Gaura made his heart shudder.
After a month, Mangru went to return his sister’s jewellery. At mealtime, his
brother-in-law did not sit down to eat with him. Mangru suspected something
and asked his brother-in-law, ‘Why don’t you come?’
His brother-in-law said, ‘You go ahead, I’ll eat later.’
Mangru: ‘What is the matter? Why aren’t you eating with me?’
Brother-in-law: ‘How can I eat with you till there is a meeting of the
panchayat? I can’t forgo my community for your sake. You didn’t consult
anyone before you became engaged to a whore.’
Mangru left the kitchen, pulled on his quilted jacket and returned to his in-
laws’ home. He left his sister crying.
That same night, Mangru, without saying a word to anybody, went off
somewhere, leaving Gaura behind. Gaura was sound asleep. How was she to
know that her gem of a husband, whom she had got after so much patience and
perseverance, was deserting her forever?
 3

Many years passed. There had been no news of Mangru at all. Not even a letter
had arrived, yet Gaura was very happy. She would fill her hair parting with
vermilion, wear colourful clothes and put layers of colour on her lips. Mangru
had left behind an old book of bhajans. Occasionally she would read that book
and sing. Mangru had taught her Hindi. She was able to read the bhajans,
stumbling over the words.
Earlier she used to keep to herself. She would feel a sense of hesitation while
talking to the other women of the village. She didn’t have that object on which
the other women used to pride themselves. All of them discussed their husbands.
And she didn’t have a husband then. Who could she talk about! Now she too had
a husband. She too had the authority to talk on this subject to other women. She
talked about Mangru—how affectionate, gentlemanly and brave he was. She
could never have her fill of talking about her husband.
The women would ask, ‘Why did Mangru leave you?’
Gaura would say, ‘What could he do? Can a man lie around in his in-laws’
home? It is a man’s job to go off and earn some money. Otherwise how will he
maintain his dignity?’
Whenever anybody asked why he didn’t write letters, she simply laughed and
said, ‘He is afraid to tell me his address. He knows Gaura will descend upon
him. To tell you the truth, if I could find out his address, I wouldn’t be able to
bear living here even for a single day. It is a good thing that he is not sending me
letters. How will the poor man manage home and hearth in a new land?’
One day a friend said, ‘We don’t believe you. You’ve definitely quarrelled
with Mangru, otherwise he wouldn’t have left you without saying anything.’
Gaura answered with a laugh, ‘Behen, does one fight with one’s God? He is
my master, why would I quarrel with him? If he ever fought with me, I would
drown myself. Could he have gone after telling me? Wouldn’t I have clung to
his legs?’

One day a man came from Calcutta and stayed in Ganga’s house. He told them
that he belonged to a neighbouring village. He lived in Mangru’s neighbourhood
in Calcutta. Mangru had asked him to bring Gaura to him. He had sent two saris
and some money for the journey as well. Gaura couldn’t contain her happiness.
She agreed to go along with the old Brahmin. Before she left, she embraced all
the women of the village. Ganga accompanied her till the station. Everybody
said that Lady Luck had finally smiled on the poor girl. Otherwise she would
have died of frustration.
On the way Gaura thought—I wonder what he must be like now. His
moustache must have grown. Men are comfortable away from home. His body
must have filled out. He must have become a babu sahib! I will not speak to him
for the first two or three days. Then I will ask—why did you leave me? Even if
somebody had spoken ill of me, why did you believe that? Why did you believe
others instead of believing your own eyes? Whether I am good or bad, I am
yours, why did you make me cry for so many days? If somebody had spoken
about you in this manner, would I have left you? When you accepted me, you
became mine. You may have millions of faults, for all I care. I can’t leave you
even if you become a Turk. Why did you desert me? What did you think, running
away is easy? At last you had to call me, didn’t you? How couldn’t you? I took
pity on you which is why I’m coming back to you, otherwise I could have said, I
won’t go to such a heartless man. Then you would have come running to me.
With perseverance, one can even attain the gods! When they can come and stand
in front of us, how could you not come? In her excited state she repeatedly asked
the old Brahmin how far they were from their destination. ‘Does he live on the
other end of the earth?’ She wanted to ask so many other questions but could not
out of hesitation. She consoled herself by imagining what lay in store. He must
have a large house since people live in pukka houses in towns. As he is on such
good terms with his sahib, he must have a servant too. I will fire the servant.
What will I do lying idle the whole day?
From time to time she missed her home too. Poor Amma must be crying. Now
she will have to do all the household chores by herself. I wonder if she’s taking
the goats to graze or not. Poor things must be bleating the whole day. I’ll send
money for the goats every month. When I return from Calcutta, I will bring
sarees for everyone. I will not return empty-handed then. I will have a lot of gifts
with me. I will bring something or the other for everyone. By that time we’ll have
lots of goats.
Gaura spent the entire journey daydreaming. How was the simple woman to
 Gaura spent the entire journey daydreaming. How was the simple woman to
know that her desires differed from what providence had in store for her? How
was she to know that demons lurk even in the guise of old Brahmins? She was
happily absorbed in building castles in the air.

On the third day, the train reached Calcutta. Gaura’s heart started pounding. He
must be standing somewhere nearby. He must be coming now. With this thought,
she pulled the veil over her face and prepared herself. But Mangru was nowhere
in sight. The old Brahmin said, ‘Mangru doesn’t appear to be here, I have
searched everywhere. Maybe he is busy and couldn’t get leave to come; also, he
didn’t know which train we would be taking. Why wait for him, come, let us go
home.’
Both of them climbed into a tonga and set off. Gaura had never ridden a tonga
before. She was proud of the fact that she was sitting in a tonga while so many
babus were walking on foot. Very soon the tonga reached Mangru’s home. It
was a huge building, the compound was neat and clean, and pots of flowers were
kept in the porch. She started climbing up the stairs, full of astonishment, joy
and hope. She was oblivious of herself. As she started climbing the stairs her feet
started aching. This entire palace is his. He must be paying a lot of rent. He
doesn’t care about money at all. Her heart was pounding. Mangru may be
coming down the stairs. What will I do if I meet him on the stairs? I hope I find
him sleeping. I will wake him and he will get up with a start when he sees me. At
last they reached the top of the stairs. The godly Brahmin made Gaura sit in a
room. This was Mangru’s home but he wasn’t here either. A single cot stood in
the room. Some utensils were lying in a corner. This is his room. Then the house
must be somebody else’s, he must have taken this on rent. Let me see, the hearth
is cold. He must have eaten puris in the bazaar last night and gone to sleep. This
is his charpoy. A pitcher had been placed in one corner. Gaura’s mouth was
parched. She poured out some water and drank it. A broom was lying in one
corner. Gaura was tired by the journey, but fatigue disappeared in the excitement
of love. She swept the room, washed and kept the utensils in one place. She
found intimacy reflected in every object of the room, even the floor and the
walls. She had never felt this pride of joyous ownership even in the home where
she had spent twenty-five years of her life.
Gaura sat in the room till evening but there was no news of Mangru’s
whereabouts. Mangru must be free now. In the evening everybody is free. He
must be coming now. The old Brahmin must have told him about her; couldn’t
he have taken leave for a short while? Something must be the matter, that’s why
he hasn’t come.
It grew dark. There was no lamp in the room. Standing at the door, Gaura
waited for her husband. She could hear the sound of many footsteps on the stairs.
Again and again, Gaura felt that Mangru was coming, but nobody came that
way.
The old Brahmin arrived at nine o’clock. Gaura thought it was Mangru. She
came out of the room quickly. When she saw that it was the Brahmin, she asked
him, ‘Where is he?’
The Brahmin replied, ‘He has been transferred from here. When I went to his
office, I got to know that yesterday he and his sahib left on an eight-day journey.
He pleaded with his sahib to give him ten days’ time but the sahib didn’t agree.
Finally Mangru left a message with the people saying that if the members of his
family arrived, they should be sent to him. He has left his address with them.
Tomorrow I will put you on a ship. There will be many people from our country
on that ship, so you won’t have any problems on the way.’
‘How long will the ship take?’
‘It won’t take less than eight to ten days, but there is no need to worry. You
will not face any difficulties.’

Till now Gaura had been hopeful of returning to her village. She would
definitely bring back her husband sometime or the other. But after boarding the
ship she felt that she would never see her mother again, would never look at her
village, and that her link with her country was being severed forever. Standing
on the quayside, she cried for a long time; the ship and the sea scared her. Her
heart was full of trepidation.
 The ship set sail in the evening. Her heart started quivering with a deep,
imperishable fear. Despair overwhelmed her for a while. Who knows where I am
going, whether I’ll meet him there or not. Where will I find him, I don’t even
know his address. Time and again she regretted the fact that she hadn’t come one
day earlier. If I had met him in Calcutta, I would never have let him go.
There were many other passengers on the ship. There were some women too.
They were constantly using foul language. That’s why Gaura never felt like
talking to them. Only one woman appeared to be sad from her demeanour. She
seemed to be from a good family. Gaura asked her, ‘Where are you going,
behen?’
The woman’s large eyes filled with tears. She said, ‘How can I tell you where
I am going? I am going where destiny takes me. Where are you going?’
‘I am going to my lord and master. He works in the place where this ship will
stop. If I had come yesterday, I could have met him in Calcutta. I got delayed. If
I had known he would go so far away, would I have come so late?’
‘Oh, behen, has somebody misled you too? Who came with you from home?’
‘My husband sent a man from Calcutta to fetch me.’
‘Did you know him?’
‘No, it was an old Brahmin from a neighbouring village, he said.’
‘That tall, thin, stork of an old man, with a boil in one eye?’
‘Yes, yes, that one! Do you know him?’
‘He is the same villain who has destroyed me too. May God rot his next seven
generations in hell, may he remain childless, and may he die a leper. If I tell you
my story, you will think I am lying. Nobody will believe it. What shall I say?
My life has been destroyed because of him. I can’t show my face to anybody.
But life is precious. I am going to Mauritius so that I can spend the remaining
days of my life by working as a labourer.’
Gaura was scared to death. It seemed the ship was sinking in fathomless
water. She realized that the old Brahmin had cheated her. In her village she had
heard of poor people going to Mauritius as indentured labourers. However,
anyone who went there never came back. ‘God, what sins of my mine have you
punished me for?’ she said. ‘Why do they deceive people and send them to
Mauritius?’
‘Greed for money, what else? I hear that all these people are given money for
every person they hire.’
every person they hire.’
‘Behen, what will we have to do there?’
‘Labour.’
Gaura wondered what she could do now. The boat of her hopes had foundered
and there was no one to rescue her except the waves of the sea. The foundation,
on which she had built the palace of her life, had submerged. Can there be any
other refuge for her except water? She remembered her mother, her home, her
village and her friends and she felt an intense, piercing pain as if a serpent,
sitting in the core of her being, was striking her again and again. ‘God! If you
were going to torment me like this, why was I ever born? Don’t you feel pity for
a suffering woman? You torment only those who are already tormented!’
She said in a pained voice, ‘What will we have to do now, behen?’
‘That we’ll know only when we reach there. If it comes to hard labour, I don’t
mind but if anyone looks at me with a lustful eye, I have decided that I will
either kill him or kill myself.’
As she said this, she felt a strong desire, common to all unhappy people, to tell
her story. She said, ‘I am the daughter of a prominent family and the daughter-
in-law of an even more prominent one, but so unfortunate! My dear husband
passed away in the third year of our marriage. I was in such a state that every
day it seemed to me as if he were calling me. Initially I would see his image the
moment I fell asleep but gradually I began to see him even when I was awake. It
seemed as if he was standing in person and calling to me. I didn’t mention it to
anyone out of embarrassment but I used to wonder how I could see him if he had
died. Thinking this to be a delusion, how could I have calmed myself? My heart
used to say, why can’t I obtain that which is apparent and visible? I only needed
gyan. Who could impart that gyan except sages and holy men? I believe even
now that there are certain practices by which we can talk to the dead and see
them in their tangible form. I started searching for holy men. Ascetics would
come to my house often; I used to talk to them on this subject when I was alone
with them. But they would evade my questions by delivering sermons. I didn’t
need sermons. I knew my duties as a widow very well. I wanted that secret
knowledge which would lift the veil between life and death. For three years I
kept diverting myself with this game. Two months ago, that same old Brahmin
disguised as a sanyasi arrived at my home. I begged him for that gyan. That
scoundrel spread such a web of deceit that I was trapped even though I had eyes
to see. Now that I think about it, I am surprised I trusted him so much. I was
to see. Now that I think about it, I am surprised I trusted him so much. I was
willing to endure anything and to do anything for a glimpse of my husband. The
sanyasi asked me to go to him one night. I went on the pretext of meeting my
neighbour. A fire pit was smouldering near a peepul tree. In the bright
moonlight, the sanyasi, with his matted locks, looked like an apostle of yoga. I
stood near the fire pit. At that moment if he had ordered me to jump into the fire,
I would have jumped instantly. Very affectionately he asked me to sit down and
put his hand on my head. I don’t know what he did next but I fell unconscious.
After that I don’t know where I went and what happened. When I regained
consciousness, I was in a train. I felt like screaming but I sat quietly, thinking
that even if the train stopped and I climbed out of it, I wouldn’t be allowed to
enter my home. I was innocent in the eyes of God, but disgraced in the eyes of
the world. To leave one’s home in the night was enough to taint a young woman.
When I came to know that they were sending me to Mauritius, I didn’t object at
all. The whole world is the same to me now. If a woman has nobody in this
world, it doesn’t matter whether she is home or abroad. Yes, I have firmly
decided that I will protect my honour till I die. There is no greater torment than
death in the hands of fate. The fear of death for a widow! Life and death are the
same for her. Rather, death is a release from the adversities of life.’
Gaura thought, This woman has so much patience and courage. Why am I so
cowardly and despondent? When life’s desires have ended, why should I fear
death?
She said, ‘Behen, you and I will stay together; you are the only person I can
rely upon.’
The woman said, ‘Have faith in God and don’t be afraid of death.’
It was pitch dark. Above them was the black sky, and below, the black waters.
Gaura stared blankly at the sky, while her companion looked at the water. Before
her were the stars and an endless, infinite and total darkness all around!
A man started writing the names of the passengers as soon as they
disembarked from the ship. He was dressed as an Englishman, but from his
speech, he appeared to be an Indian. Gaura, head bowed low, was behind her
companion. She was startled to hear the man’s voice. She glanced at him
furtively. A tingling sensation swept through her entire body. ‘Am I dreaming?’
She didn’t believe her eyes; she looked at him again. Her heart started pounding
fast. Her legs started shaking violently. It seemed as if she was totally
surrounded by water and she was being swept away. She had to hold on to her
companion’s hand, otherwise she would have fallen. The man standing in front
of her was the very basis of her life and she hadn’t had the faintest hope of
meeting him in this life. He was Mangru; there was no doubt about that. Yes, his
face had changed. The youthful glow of his smiling and compassionate
countenance was completely missing. His hair was peppered with grey, cheeks
sunken and she could glimpse lust and harshness in his red eyes. But he was
Mangru. Gaura felt a strong desire to cling to the feet of her lord. She wanted to
scream but hesitation checked her. The old Brahmin had been right. My master
had really called for me and he had come away before I arrived.
She whispered to her companion, ‘Behen, you were wrong to blame the
Brahmin. The man writing the names of the passengers is my husband.’
‘Really, do you recognize him?’
‘Behen, can there be any deception in this?’
‘Then Lady Luck has smiled on you. Please don’t forget me.’
‘Is it possible that I can abandon you?’
Mangru lost his temper repeatedly and shouted abuses at the passengers time
and again. He kicked many of them, and he pushed many to the ground for not
being able to name the district their village belonged to. His behaviour filled
Gaura with a sense of acute shame. At the same time, she also felt proud of his
authority. Finally, Mangru came and stood in front of her, leered at her with
lustful eyes and said, ’What is your name?’
‘Gaura.’
Mangru started, and then asked, ‘Where is your home?’
Gaura replied, ‘Madanpur, district Benares.’
As she said this, she started laughing. This time Mangru looked at her
carefully, sprang forward, grabbed her hand and said, ‘Gaura, is it really you! Do
you recognize me?’
Gaura broke into tears; she couldn’t utter a word.
Mangru said again, ‘How did you come here?’
Gaura wiped her tears and, looking at Mangru said, ‘You are the one who sent
for me.’
‘Me! I have been here for the last seven years.’
‘Didn’t you ask that old Brahmin to bring me here?’
 ‘Didn’t you ask that old Brahmin to bring me here?’
‘I’m telling you, I have been here for the last seven years, and I will leave this
place only after my death. Why on earth would I send for you?’
Gaura hadn’t expected such harshness from Mangru. She thought, Even if it is
true that he didn’t call me, he should not have insulted me like this. Does he
think that he will have to feed me? He didn’t have such a mean character. His
position has probably gone to his head. Raising her head with pride, she said, ‘If
you want, I can go back, I don’t want to be a burden to you.’
Feeling a little ashamed, Mangru said, ‘Now you can’t go back from here,
Gaura. Very few people ever return from here.’
Having said this, he stood lost in worry for some time, as if in a dilemma
about what to do. The outline of his harsh face was touched with a glimpse of
misery. Then he said in a distressed tone, ‘Stay here now that you have come.
Whatever happens, we’ll deal with it.’
Gaura asked, ‘When will the ship return?’
Mangru replied, ‘You can’t go back from here for five years.’
‘Why, is there a compulsion to stay?’
‘Yes, that is the order here.’
‘In that case, I will labour and fend for myself.’
A tearful Mangru said, ‘As long as I live, you will not be parted from me.’
‘I don’t want to be a burden to you.’
‘I don’t consider you a burden, Gaura, but this place is not fit for a respectable
woman like you, otherwise wouldn’t I have called you here earlier? In Patna, on
my way from home, I met that same old man who lured you, and he tricked me
into getting indentured here. I have been stuck here since then. Come, stay in my
house, we’ll talk there. Who is this other woman?’
‘She is my friend. The old man trapped her too.’
‘She will go to one of the bungalows. All these people will be separated. They
will each be sent to a bungalow, depending on how they are shared out.’
‘She wants to stay with me.’
‘All right, bring her along with you.’
The names of the passengers had already been written down. After handing
them over to a peon, Mangru set off towards his home with the two women.
There were rows of densely foliaged trees on both sides. Only sugarcane fields
were visible, as far as the eye could see. Gusts of a cool, clean breeze were
blowing from the ocean. It was an extraordinarily a beautiful scene. But Mangru
blowing from the ocean. It was an extraordinarily a beautiful scene. But Mangru
was not looking at any of this. Staring at the ground, head bent, his gait was
unsure, as if he was puzzling over a problem in his mind.
They had barely walked any distance when they saw two men coming from
the opposite direction. As they neared, both stopped and one of them said with a
laugh, ‘Mangru, one of them is mine.’
The second one said, ‘And the other one is mine.’
Mangru’s face flushed. Shaking with rage, he said, ‘Both these women belong
to my family. Do you understand?’
Both the men guffawed and one of them went close to Gaura and, trying to
grab her hand, said, ‘She is mine, whether she belongs to your family or not.
You trying to trick me?’
Mangru growled, ‘Qasim, don’t touch them. If you do, you’ll regret it. I have
told you that they are women of my family.’
Mangru’s eyes were blazing. His expression frightened them a little and after
threatening him, they moved ahead. But the moment they stepped out of
Mangru’s vicinity, one of them challenged him, ‘Let’s see where you will take
them.’
Mangru ignored them. He lengthened his stride a little as we do in the solitude
of the evening when we pass a graveyard. At every step, we suspect that we
might hear some sound, that someone may come and face us, that something
wearing a shroud may rise from beneath the ground and stand in front of us.
Gaura said, ‘Scoundrels, both of them.’
Mangru answered, ‘Why do you think I said that this place was not suitable
for women like you?’
Suddenly, an Englishman riding a horse came from the right and said to
Mangru, ‘Well, jamadar, these women will stay in my bungalow. There is no
woman there.’
Mangru pushed the women behind him and shielding them said, ‘Sahib, these
women are from my family.’
‘Really! You liar! There’s no woman in my house and you are taking two. I
won’t let this happen. (Pointing towards Gaura.) Bring her to my house.’
Trembling from head to toe, Mangru said, ‘That is not possible.’ But the sahib
had ridden ahead without hearing him. He had given an order and it was the
jamadar’s job to obey it.
jamadar’s job to obey it.
They faced no further obstacles on the way to the residential area. There were
mud dwellings for the labourers. Men and women were sitting on the doorsteps
of their houses. All of them stared at the two women and laughed, gesturing to
each other. Gaura saw that there was neither any respect for age, nor a sense of
shame in anybody’s eyes. An uncouth woman, holding a chillum in her hands,
said to her neighbour, ‘Four nights of moonlight, and then the darkness of a
waning moon. The dark days follow too soon.’
The other one, plaiting her hair, said, ‘Why not, after all, they are fresh, young
ones.’

Mangru sat at the door the whole day like a farmer guarding his pea fields. Both
the women were sitting in the small room cursing their fate. They were now
familiar with the conditions prevailing here. They had been hungry and thirsty
but seeing how things were in that place, hunger and thirst had disappeared.
At around ten in the night, a guard came and asked Mangru to come with him
as the agent was calling him.
Mangru said from where he sat, ‘Listen, Nabbi, you are also from my country.
If the need arises, you will help me, won’t you? Go and tell the sahib that
Mangru has gone somewhere; at most he can fine me.’
Nabbi: ‘No, bhaiya, he is very angry and drunk; if he hits me, well, I’m not so
strong.’
Mangru: ‘All right, go and tell him I am not coming.’
Nabbi: ‘What is it to me? I’ll go and tell him but it won’t be good for you.’
Mangru, after thinking for a while, picked up his stick and began walking with
Nabbi towards the sahib’s bungalow. It was the same sahib whom Mangru and
the two women had met earlier. Mangru knew that it would not be possible to
survive there even for a minute after falling out with the sahib. He went and
stood in front of him. The sahib scolded him and asked, ‘Where is that woman?
Why have you kept her in your house?’
‘Sahib, she is my wife.’
‘All right, who is the other one?’
‘She is my sister, sahib!’
‘I don’t care. You will have to bring one of them.’
 ‘I don’t care. You will have to bring one of them.’
Mangru fell at his feet and narrated his entire story in tears. But the sahib
wasn’t moved at all. In the end, Mangru said, ‘Sahib, she is not like other
women. If she comes here, she will kill herself.’
The sahib laughed, ‘Oh! It is not so easy to kill yourself!’
Nabbi said, ‘Mangru, why do you complain when it is your turn? Didn’t you
force your way into our homes! Even now whenever you get a chance you go
there! Why are you crying now?’
The agent remarked, ‘Oh, he is a scoundrel. You bring her immediately;
otherwise I will thrash you with a whip.’
Mangru pleaded, ‘Sahib, beat me as much as you want, but don’t ask me to do
something that I can’t do as long as I live!’
The agent threatened, ‘I will give you a hundred lashes.’
‘Sahib, give me a thousand lashes but don’t look at the women of my family.’
The agent was dead drunk. He took his whip out and began lashing Mangru
with it. Mangru endured ten or twelve lashes with patience, then started
groaning. The skin on his body was lacerated and when the whip fell on his
flesh, a cry of pain would escape him however much he tried to suppress it and
so far he had been given only fifteen lashes out of a hundred.
It was ten o’clock at night. There was silence all around and in that quiet
darkness, Mangru’s pitiful wailing hovered in the sky like a bird. The clusters of
trees appeared to be statues of despair, silently weeping. This stonyhearted,
lustful, roguish, conscienceless jamadar was now willing to give up his life to
protect the honour of an unknown woman only because she was his wife’s
companion. He could bear falling in the eyes of the whole world but he wanted
undivided command over his wife’s devotion. Even an iota of deficiency in this
was intolerable for him.
What did his life matter compared with this divine love? The Brahmin woman
had fallen asleep on the floor, but Gaura was waiting for her husband. She had
not been able to speak to him yet. She needed a lot of time to narrate and listen
to all the travails of the last seven years and when could she find that time except
at night? She was a little annoyed with the Brahmin woman now for hanging on
to her. He was not coming home because of her.
Suddenly she was startled by the sound of someone crying. God, what
woebegone person was crying at this time of the night? Surely, somewhere
somebody must have died. She got up, went to the door and imagining Mangru
to be there said, ‘Who is crying? Why don’t you go and find out?’ But when she
didn’t get any response, she listened closely. Suddenly, her heart missed a beat.
It was his voice. The sound could be heard clearly now. It was Mangru’s voice.
She went out of the door. The agent’s bungalow was a stone’s throw away. The
sound was coming from that direction. Somebody was beating him. A man cries
like this only when he is being beaten. It seemed like the sahib was hitting him.
She couldn’t keep standing there and so ran towards the bungalow as fast as she
could. The way was clear. She reached the gate in a minute. It was closed. She
pushed the gate with all her might, but it didn’t open. When nobody came out
even after she had called loudly many times, she climbed over the grill of the
gate and jumped inside. On reaching the other side, she saw a dreadful sight.
Mangru was standing naked on the veranda and the Englishman was lashing him
with a whip.
She sprang forward and, in one bound, stood in front of the sahib. Protecting
Mangru with her arms, strengthened by her undying love, she said, ‘Sahib, have
mercy, beat me as much as you want in his place, but let him go.’
The agent stopped, went towards Gaura like a madman, and said, ‘If I leave
him, will you stay with me?’ Mangru’s nostrils started flaring. This vile, base
Englishman was talking like this to his wife. It was intolerable that this priceless
gem, for whose protection he had endured so much torture, was slipping into the
sahib’s hands. Come what may, he wanted to spring forward and grab the sahib
by the neck. What was the point of living after this insult! But Nabbi quickly
grabbed him, called other men and tied his hands and feet. Mangru started
tossing on the ground.
Weeping, Gaura fell at the sahib’s feet and said, ‘Sir, let him go, have pity on
me.’
Agent: ‘You will stay with me?’
Swallowing her anger, Gaura said, ‘Yes, I will.’

Lying on the veranda outside, Mangru was groaning. His body was swollen, his
wounds were smarting and every limb of his body felt stiff. He didn’t even have
the strength to move. The wind pierced his wounds like arrows but this was a
pain he could bear. What was unbearable was that the sahib was with Gaura in
this very house and he was unable to do anything. He had almost forgotten his
pain, and was listening with his ears close to the wall, so that he could get to
listen to their conversation. ‘Let me find out what they are talking about. Gaura
will surely scream and run and the sahib will chase her. If I could get up, I would
overpower him and bury him alive!’ But a considerable amount of time passed,
and Gaura neither screamed nor did she run out of the bungalow. Sitting with the
sahib in a well-appointed room, she was thinking, Is there no kindness in him?
Having to listen to Mangru’s cries of pain made her heart break into pieces.
Doesn’t he have a family—a mother or a sister? If his mother had been here, she
wouldn’t have allowed him to commit such excesses. My mother used to get so
angry when she saw boys throwing stones even at trees. Trees also have life.
Wouldn’t his mother have stopped him from killing a man! The sahib was
drinking liquor, and Gaura was playing with a carving knife.
Suddenly, she saw a picture. Gaura asked, ‘Sahib, whose picture is this?’
The sahib put down his glass of liquor on the table and said, ‘Oh, she is Mary,
the mother of our God.’
‘It is a very nice picture. Sahib, is your mother still alive?’
‘She is dead. She fell ill when I came here. I couldn’t even go to see her.’
A shadow of pain passed over his face.
‘Your mother must have been very sad then. You didn’t love her. She died
weeping and you didn’t even go to see her. That is why you are so hard-hearted.’
‘No, no, I loved my mother very much. There was no other woman like her in
the whole world. My father died when I was very young. My mother raised me
by working in a coalmine.’
‘Then she was a Goddess, and you don’t feel pity for others even after having
suffered the misery of poverty! Won’t that goddess of compassion, looking
down on your harshness, be distressed? Do you have her photograph?’
‘Oh, I have many. Look, that is her picture, on that wall.’
Gaura saw the picture. She was moved, and she remarked, ‘She was really a
Goddess, it seems, the Goddess of kindness. Did she ever beat you? I know that
she could never have been angry with anyone. She seems to be the epitome of
kindness.’
‘Oh, Mamma never hit me. She was very poor, but she used to donate
 ‘Oh, Mamma never hit me. She was very poor, but she used to donate
something or the other to charity from her income. When she saw an orphan,
tears would well up in her eyes. She was very kind.’
Gaura replied insolently, ‘And you, the son of that Goddess, are so cruel. If
she had been here now, would she have allowed you to kill somebody like a
murderer? She must be weeping in heaven. You must also believe in heaven and
hell. How are you the son of such a Goddess?’
Gaura didn’t feel afraid at all while saying this. She had taken a firm decision
in her mind and now she was not scared of anything. Even the shadow of fear
vanishes once one has decided to give up one’s life. But that heartless
Englishman, instead of growing angry at these insults, was becoming more
polite. However unacquainted Gaura may have been with human emotion, she
knew that every heart, whether of a sage or a butcher, has a special corner of
love and respect for a mother. Is there any unfortunate being that doesn’t cry, at
least for a short while, when he remembers his mother’s love? Is there anyone in
whom the soft emotions of the heart do not well up by that? The sahib’s eyes
brimmed with tears. He kept sitting with his head bowed. Gaura continued in the
same tone, ‘All the hardships she bore have been in vain. Even after her death,
you are troubling the woman who suffered such hardships to bring you up. Does
a mother nurture and feed her son with her own lifeblood for this? If she could
speak, would she remain quiet? If she could check your hand, wouldn’t she
restrain you? I think if she had been alive, she would have taken poison and
killed herself.’
The sahib couldn’t control himself now. In a drunken state, the current of guilt
flows as naturally as that of anger. Covering his face with both his hands, he
started crying and he cried so much that he began to sob. He went and stood in
front of his mother’s photo for some time, as if asking her forgiveness. Then he
said in a choked voice, ‘How can my mother find peace now! Oh my God! She
can’t find happiness even in heaven because of me. How unfortunate am I!’
‘In a little while, you will change your mind and you will begin your cruelties
again.’
‘No, no, I will not cause Mamma any unhappiness again. I will send Mangru
to the hospital immediately.’

9
Mangru was sent to the hospital the same night. The agent took him there
himself. Gaura accompanied him. Mangru was feverish and lay unconscious for
a long time.
Mangru didn’t open his eyes for three days. Gaura sat next to him all that
time. She didn’t move from his side even for a moment. The agent came many
times to inquire about his condition and each time he apologized to Gaura.
On the fourth day, Mangru opened his eyes, and saw that Gaura was sitting in
front of him. When she saw him open his eyes, Gaura went and stood near him
and asked, ‘How do you feel now?’
Mangru said, ‘When did you come here?’
‘I came here with you, I have been here ever since.’
‘Is there no place for you in the sahib’s bungalow?’
‘If I had desired bungalows, would I have crossed the seven seas to be with
you?’
‘So what happiness have you given me by coming here? If you had to stay
with him, why didn’t you let me die?’
Gaura answered him irritably, ‘Don’t talk like this to me. Such things set my
body on fire.’
Mangru turned his face away, as if he didn’t believe Gaura’s words.
The whole day Gaura stood next to him without a morsel of food or a drop of
water. Gaura called out to him many times, but he remained silent. This insult,
tinged with the suspicion, was intolerable for the gentle-hearted Gaura. How
could she live without the love of the man whom she treated as God? This love
was the foundation of her life. Having lost that, she had lost everything.
It was well past midnight. Mangru was fast asleep, oblivious to everything;
perhaps he was dreaming. Gaura touched his feet with her forehead and left the
hospital. Mangru had rejected her. She would reject him too.
A furlong east of the hospital flowed a small river. Gaura went and stood on
its bank. A few days ago, she had been living comfortably in the village. How
could she have known that what was attained with so much difficulty could be
lost so easily? She remembered her mother, her home, her friends and her goats’
little kids. Did she leave all that for this? The words of her husband—‘Is there no
place for you in the sahib’s bungalow?’—had pierced her tender inner core like
arrows. ‘All this happened because of me. If I hadn’t come here, he could have
continued living comfortably.’ Suddenly she remembered the Brahmin woman.
How would that poor creature pass her days here? Let me tell the sahib that she
should either be sent home or be given a job in a school.
Gaura was about to return when somebody called, ‘Gaura! Gaura!’
It was Mangru’s voice, trembling with emotion. She stood quietly. Mangru
called again,‘Gaura! Gaura!! Where are you? For God’s sake . . .’
Gaura heard no more. She jumped into the river. She couldn’t put an end to
her master’s troubles without ending her life.
Hearing the sound of the splash, Mangru too plunged into the river. He was a
good swimmer! But even after diving many times, he couldn’t find her.
In the morning, both their bodies were found floating side by side in the river.
In the journey of life, they had never been united. In the journey to heaven, they
were travelling together.

Translated by Preeti G. Dewan

 Laila

No one knew who Laila was, where she came from or what she did. One day
people saw a peerless beauty at the main square in Tehran swaying to the Hafiz
ghazal that she sang, accompanied by her tambourine:

Those who surrender to material pleasures care not about people nor are their souls stirred,
Hence they have no attachments, nor any desires, as they are cut off from the real world

And all of Tehran was enamoured by her. This was Laila.

To imagine Laila’s beautiful form think of the blushing crimson of dawn
when the blue sky is tinted with a golden glow; think of the spring when flowers
of all hues blossom in the gardens and bulbuls sing.
To imagine Laila’s beautiful voice think of the constant peal of those bells
that can be heard ringing upon the camel’s neck in the silence of the night, or the
tune that comes from the lips of a shepherd lying under the shade of some tree,
playing his flute in the lazy lull of midday.
Whenever Laila sang in abandon, a divine light shimmered on her face. She
was such a fascinating embodiment of the poetic, the musical, the fragrant and
the beautiful that old or young, rich or poor, all would bow their heads before
her. All would be spellbound by her; all heads would sway to the rhythm of her
song. She would sing of future tidings when the land would be governed by
contentment and love, when conflicts and wars would cease. She would awaken
the king with her questioning—when will all this dissipation end, how long will
the enjoyment of power go on for? She would awaken the dormant desires of
people; she would make the blood quiver in their veins with her voice. She
people; she would make the blood quiver in their veins with her voice. She
would sing of the valour of immortal heroes, and of the dignity of those wise
women who had forsaken their lives for family honour. Her moving songs would
tug at people’s heartstrings; they would feel tormented.
All of Tehran was enamoured by Laila. For the downtrodden, she was a light
of hope, for the ardent she was an angel from paradise, for the wealthy, she was
an awakening of their spirituality and for the people in power, she was a
harbinger of mercy and justice. A signal from her eyebrows could make the
masses leap into flames. Laila drew the masses the way consciousness draws the
unconscious.
And this incomparable beauty was as pure as nectar, as spotless as snow and
as innocent as a fresh bud. For her loving glance, for her enigmatic smile, for
one bewitching gesture—what extraordinary things would happen—mountains
of gold would rise, wealth would pay homage, empires would lick the dust at her
feet, poets would be torn asunder, scholars would fall on their knees, but Laila
would never even lift an eye to look at anyone. She lived under the shade of a
tree, ate what she got as alms, and sang the strains of her heart. Like the verses
of a poet, she was only an object of delight and light, not to be consumed. She
was an image of the blessings of sages, immersed in benediction, coloured with
peace, untouched by anyone—priceless.

One day in the evening, Nadir, the prince of Tehran, passed by on horseback.
Laila was singing there. Nadir reined in the horse and for a long time stood there
and listened, lost in oblivion. The first couplet of the stanza ran:

Those who raise not their voice against injustice or untruth live only in body while their souls die
And once the inner spirit dies, no longer can one realize one’s dreams or fulfil another’s wishes as
one lives a lie

He dismounted from the horse, sat right there on the ground and wept with his
head bowed. After that he arose and going to Laila laid his head at her feet. The
people around her politely dispersed.
Laila asked, ‘Who are you?’
Nadir said, ‘Your slave.’
‘What do you want from me?’
 ‘What do you want from me?’
‘Your wish is my command. Light up my humble abode by stepping into it.’
‘This is not my habit.’
The prince sat down again and Laila began singing. But her voice quivered
like the broken string of a veena. She looked at Nadir with beseeching eyes and
said, ‘Don’t sit here.’
Many of the men around spoke up. ‘Laila, this is Prince Nadir.’
Laila said nonchalantly, ‘I am happy to hear that. But what work do princes
have here? They have their palaces, their mehfils and their glasses of wine. I sing
for those whose hearts are full of pain, not for those with whims and fancies.’
The prince said dejectedly, ‘Laila, for one note of yours I can surrender
everything. I was a slave to fancy but you have made me taste the pleasure of
pain.’
Laila began to sing again, but she lost control over her voice—as if it was not
hers at all.
Laila put the tambourine over her shoulder and started walking towards her
home. The audience also went home. Some people followed her till the tree
where she rested. By the time she reached the entrance of her hut, everyone had
departed. Only one man remained standing silently a few yards away from her
hut.
Laila asked, ‘Who are you?’
Nadir said, ‘Your slave, Nadir.’
‘Don’t you know that I never allow anyone to enter my abode of peace?’
‘I can see that.’
‘Then why do you sit here?’
‘Hope clings to my breast.’
After a while Laila asked again, ‘Have you eaten something and come?’
‘Now there is neither hunger nor thirst.’
‘Come, today let me feed you the food of the poor. Taste the pleasure of that
as well.’
Nadir could not refuse. There was a unique flavour in the millet rotis that day.
He thought about the great joys that this huge mansion of the universe held. He
felt as if his soul was being uplifted.
When he finished eating, Laila said, ‘Now go. It is past midnight.’
Eyes brimming with tears, Nadir said, ‘No, Laila. Now this shall be my abode
 Eyes brimming with tears, Nadir said, ‘No, Laila. Now this shall be my abode
too.’
All day long Nadir would listen to Laila’s songs: in lanes, on roads, wherever
she went he trailed after her. At night he would lie under her tree. The emperor
tried to reason with him, the empress tried to reason with him, the nobles
entreated with him but the obsession with Laila would not leave Nadir. In
whatever condition Laila lived, he lived in that state too. The empress would
send him the best delicacies, but Nadir would not even look at them.
But Laila’s music no longer whetted the appetite. It was that strain of broken
strings that had neither its earlier suppleness, nor magic, nor impact. She
continued to sing, the audience continued to listen, but now she didn’t sing for
her own heartfelt pleasure. She sang to please their hearts and the listeners never
came compulsively, they came to make her happy.
In this way six months passed.
One day Laila did not go to sing. Nadir asked, ‘Why, Laila, aren’t you going
to sing today?
Laila said, ‘Now I will never go. Tell me honestly, do you enjoy my singing
as much as you did before?’
‘Much more than before.’
‘But others don’t like it any more.’
‘Yes, I am shocked by this.’
‘It’s nothing to be shocked about. Earlier my heart was free. There was place
in it for everyone; it would reach out to all hearts. Now you have shut its doors.
Now only you are there, that’s why you alone prefer its voice. This heart is now
of no use to anyone but you. Come, till today you were my slave; from now on I
will be your woman. Come on, I will follow you. From today, you are my
master. Set alight this hut. I will burn my tambourine in it.’

There was a festival of joy in each household of Tehran. Today Prince Nadir had
married and brought home Laila. After a very long time his heart’s desires had
been fulfilled. All of Tehran swore by the prince and shared in his happiness.
The emperor on his part had proclaimed that on this auspicious occasion, no
money or time was to be wasted, people should only gather at masjids and pray
to the lord to bless the bridegroom and bride with a long life and prosperity. But
to the lord to bless the bridegroom and bride with a long life and prosperity. But
on the wedding of their beloved prince, money, and more precious than money,
time, was of no consequence. The rich engaged in festivities, lit torches, had
music played, while the poor took up their tambourines and roamed the streets,
jumping with joy.
In the evening the rich and elite of the city gathered in the Diwan-e Khaas to
congratulate the prince. Fragrant with perfume, glittering with jewels and
blossoming with happiness, the prince came and stood before them.
The qazi pronounced, ‘May the lord bless His Highness.’
A thousand voices said, ‘Amen!’
The wealthy wives of the city too came to congratulate Laila. Laila was
dressed in absolutely plain garments. There were no signs of adornment.
One of the women said, ‘May your husband live forever.’
A thousand throats echoed, ‘Amen!’

Many years passed Nadir was now the emperor and Laila his empress. Iran had
never been so well governed. Both were benevolent towards their subjects, both
wished to see them contented and self-sufficient. Love had so far erased all those
problems that initially made Laila apprehensive. Nadir advocated monarchy,
Laila, democracy, but in their interactions, there were no differences. Sometimes
he would surrender and at other times she would give in. Their marital life was
exemplary. Nadir would observe Laila’s expression, Laila would do the same.
When they got some respite from work they would both sing and play,
sometimes go wandering by rivers, sometimes sit under the shade of some tree
reading and swaying to the ghazals of Hafiz. No longer did Laila lead a simple
life and nor did Nadir follow the royal practices of the past. The emperor’s
palace, which had housed harems that had begums in scores and dozens, now
had Laila alone. In those palaces there were now dispensaries, madrasas and
libraries. Where once the annual revenues had reached millions, now they never
went over a few thousands. The leftover money was spent on public welfare.
This entire plan had been drafted by Laila. Nadir was the emperor but the power
was in Laila’s hands.
Everything was in place but the public was not content. Its dissatisfaction
grew day by day. The monarchists were afraid that if such conditions prevailed,
grew day by day. The monarchists were afraid that if such conditions prevailed,
there was no doubt about the monarchy being wiped out. The tree planted by
Jamshed that had for many centuries withstood storms and turbulences was now
being rooted out by the delicate yet lethal hands of a beauty. The democrats had
had high hopes from Laila, but now all their misgivings were being proved right.
They said that if Iran proceeded in this manner on the road to progress, then
Doomsday would come before the desired destination was reached. The world is
flying in aeroplanes and we are still afraid to even sit on carts for fear that some
movement of it may cause an earthquake. Both factions often quarrelled with
each other. Nadir’s explanations had no effect on the rich—neither did Laila’s
advice to the poor. The nobility became bloodthirsty for Nadir while the public
became Laila’s enemy.

While discontent spread throughout the empire, the fire of rebellion kindled
many hearts. In the emperor’s palace the peace of love reigned, the emperor and
his queen both under the illusion that the people were content.
It was night. Nadir and Laila were seated in the recreation chamber, playing a
game of chess. The room was without any ostentation; only a rug was spread
out.
Nadir caught hold of Laila’s hand and said, ‘Enough, no more of this
unfairness, your turn is over. Look here, one of your pawns has been beaten.’
‘Oh, this move! All your infantry remain and the king is checkmated! This
was my bet.’
‘The pleasure of losing to you is far more than winning against you.’
‘Oh, so you mean you are pleasing yourself! Save the king or you will lose in
the next move.’
Vexed, Nadir retorted, ‘All right now, beware, you have dishonoured my king.
Once my queen is up, all your pawns will be wiped out.’
‘You seem to have news of everything! Come on, make a move. Now let your
queen speak. No excuses now, I’m telling you. Twice I’ve let you off, this time I
won’t.’
‘As long as I have my knight, my Dilram the king has nothing to fear.’
‘Oh, this move? Give me your Dilram. Now say, do you accept defeat?’
‘Yes, beloved, now I have been routed. When I have been swept by your
 ‘Yes, beloved, now I have been routed. When I have been swept by your
charm, then what chance did the king have?’
‘Don’t make excuses, sign this farman quietly. As you had promised.’ Saying
this Laila took out the farman, which she had herself written in pear-like letters.
In it, the revenue tax for grain had been reduced to half. Laila had not forgotten
the subjects; even now she was engaged in their welfare. Nadir had promised to
sign the farman on the condition that she defeated him three times at chess. That
he was a veteran player, Laila knew, but these were not moves of shatranj, it
was only sport. Nadir smilingly signed the farman. With one stroke of the pen
the people were freed from an annual tax worth five million. Laila’s face flushed
with pride. That task which years of agitation had been unable to bring about the
gaze of love had accomplished in just a few days.
Her happiness brimmed over as she thought of the moment the farman would
be published in the government gazettes and be seen by lawmakers, and how
happy those who cared for the welfare of the masses would be. People will sing
my praises and bless me.
Lost in love, Nadir looked at her moonlike face, and it seemed as though if it
was within his means he would have stored away her beautiful visage in his
heart.

Suddenly there was a furore at the palace entrance. Like a swarm of ants a horde
of people, heavily armed, jostled at the palace gates, trying to bring down the
walls. With each passing minute the cacophony intensified and it seemed that the
angry mob would break the gates and storm in. Then it was found that some
people had scaled the walls on ladders. Laila stood there in shame and sorrow,
her head bent. Not a word escaped her lips.
Was this the same public whose tales of suffering made her voice
impassioned? Were these the same helpless downtrodden, starving, masses
tormented by oppression, to whom she had dedicated herself?
Nadir too stood silent but not from shame. Wrath made his face burn, sparks
flew from his eyes, he constantly bit his lips and his hand paused on the handle
of his sword. He kept staring at Laila with sorrowful eyes. All he needed was
one signal. At her command his army would make this rebel faction flee in the
same way a storm bears away the leaves, but Laila would not meet his gaze.
same way a storm bears away the leaves, but Laila would not meet his gaze.
Finally losing patience, he said, ‘Laila, I want to summon the royal army.
What do you say?’
Laila looked at him with helpless eyes, saying, ‘Just wait a while, first ask
these people what they want.’
At this indication, Nadir went up to the roof. Laila followed behind. Both of
them now stood facing the public. People saw them standing on the rooftop in
the light of the torches and it appeared as if the gods had descended from the
skies. From a thousand voices came the cry—‘There she stands, there she is,
there Laila is!’ This was the same people that used to be spellbound by Laila’s
melodious songs.
Nadir addressed the rebels in a loud voice, ‘Oh you unfortunate subjects of
Iran. Why have you surrounded the royal palace? Why have you raised the flag
of revolt? Have you no fear either of me or of your God? Don’t you know that at
one sign from my eyes your existence can be reduced to ashes? I command you
to go away this very instant or else I swear by the holy book, I will make rivers
of your blood flow.’
One of the men, who seemed to be the leader of the rebels, came up in front
and said, ‘We will not leave until the royal palace is rid of Laila.’
Nadir said wrathfully, ‘Oh you ingrates, fear the lord! Aren’t you ashamed of
offending your queen’s dignity! Ever since Laila became your queen she has
indulged you so much. Have you completely forgotten that? You brutes, she is
the empress but she eats the same food that you feed the dogs, wears the same
clothes you give away to fakirs. Come and see the royal chambers, you will find
it empty of ostentation and grandeur like your houses. In spite of being your
empress Laila leads the life of a fakir, so constantly is she absorbed in serving
you. You should be putting the dust of her feet upon your forehead, making it
the kohl of your eyes. Never before on the throne of Iran has there stepped an
empress who would sacrifice her life for the poor, share their grief, surrender
everything for them; and at her nobility you would cast such a slur! Pity! I have
come to realize that you are ignorant, bereft of humanity and vile! You are fit
only to have your necks cut with a blunt knife, you should be trampled beneath
the feet of—’
Before Nadir could even finish speaking the rebels screamed in one voice,
‘Laila . . . Laila is our enemy, we cannot tolerate her as our empress.’
 Nadir shouted aloud, ‘You heartless people, just be silent; look here at this
farman which Laila has now forced me to sign. From today the tax on the
harvest has been reduced to half and the burden of tax upon your heads is now
five million less.’
Thousands of people cried out, ‘This tax should have been done away with
completely a long time back. We can’t give even a penny. Laila, Laila, we
cannot bear to see her as our empress.’
Now the emperor trembled with anger. Laila said with brimming eyes, ‘If it is
indeed the people’s wish that I once again roam around playing my tambourine,
then I have no objections. I am quite sure that I will again rule their hearts with
my singing.’
Enraged, Nadir said, ‘Laila, I am not a slave to the empire’s frivolous
temperament. Before I let you be separated from my life, the lanes of Tehran
will become red with blood. Let me make these wicked people taste the just
deserts of their cunning.’
Nadir climbed the minar and tolled the danger bell. All of Tehran resounded
with its ringing but not a single soldier from the royal army could be seen.
Nadir tolled the bell again, the heavens shook with its clanging, the
constellations trembled, but not one soldier emerged.
Nadir then tolled the bell a third time but this too was answered by an
exhausted echo, like a dying man’s last words of prayer.
Nadir beat his forehead. He understood that bad days had befallen him. Even
now he could sacrifice Laila to the mean demands of the public and safeguard
his throne but Laila was more precious to him than life. He went to the rooftop
and clasping Laila’s hand left with her through the main gate. The rebels greeted
them with a victory cry, but then inspired by some unknown force all of them
cleared the way.
Both of them silently walked away through the alleys of Tehran. There was
darkness all around. Shops were shut. Silence hung upon the markets. No one
stirred out of their houses. Even the fakirs had taken shelter in the masjids. But
there was no refuge for these two souls. Nadir had a sword at his waist, Laila had
a tambourine in her hand. These alone were the symbols of their immense but
now lost wealth.

7
 7

A whole year went by. Laila and Nadir wearily trudged through many lands.
Samarkand and Bukhara, Baghdad and Haleb, Cairo and Aden—all these lands
they explored. Laila’s tambourine again began to do magic. There would be
restlessness in the city on hearing her voice, men would mill around, receptions
would be given, but these two travellers never stopped anywhere for more than a
day. They would neither ask anyone for anything nor would they knock at any
door. They had only the most frugal food. They would spend the night
sometimes under a tree, sometimes in a cave and sometimes by the roadside. The
harshness of the world had alienated them; they fled miles away from its
temptations. They had realized that here, the one to whom you dedicate your life
becomes your enemy; the one for whom you do good descends into evil. Here
you should not build any bonds. They would receive invitations from the
aristocracy. People would beg a thousand times to have them as a day’s guest
but Laila would respond to none. Now and then Nadir would be struck by the
pangs of kingship. In disguise he would want to wage a mighty war against
Tehran, inflict a crushing defeat on the rebels and become its absolute ruler. But
seeing Laila’s indifference he did not have the courage to meet anyone. Laila
was his soulmate, he danced to her tune.
Back in Tehran there was widespread misrule. Fed up with the people, the
aristocracy too had raised armies and every other day the two sides would
engage in battle. A whole year went by with fields unsown, a terrible famine
striking the land, feeble business and an empty treasury. Day by day the power
of the people weakened and the might of the aristocracy increased. Finally
matters reached a head when the people surrendered their arms and the
aristocracy established their control over the royal palace. The leaders of the
people were hung; many were imprisoned and democracy came to an end. The
people in power now remembered Nadir. Experience had proved that the country
lacked the ability to sustain a democracy. No evidence was needed for this
perception. At this stage, only the royalty could redeem the country. It was
understood that Laila and Nadir would no longer particularly care for public
opinion. They would sit on the throne but remain puppets in the hands of the
aristocracy who would have the opportunity to inflict whatever atrocities suited
their whims. So they consulted each other and representatives set out to persuade
Nadir to return.
Nadir to return.

It was evening. Laila and Nadir were sitting under a tree in Damascus. The sky
was tinged with red and the silhouette of the encircling mountains that mingled
with it made it seem like a host of wilted lotuses. Laila was looking at this
splendour of nature with joyful eyes. Nadir was lying despondent and worried,
looking at the province in the distance with thirsty eyes, weary of this life.
Suddenly a cloud of dust could be seen and in a moment it appeared that some
men on horseback were approaching. Nadir sat up and began to carefully scan
the people. Startled, he stood up. His features lit up like a lamp, and an unusual
energy seemed to flow through his worn out body. Eagerly he said, ‘Laila, these
men are from Iran, I can swear by the Holy Book, these men are from Iran. It is
clearly evident from their attire.’
Laila too looked at the travellers and becoming alert said, ‘Keep your sword
ready, you might need it.’
‘No, Laila, the people of Iran have not fallen so low as to raise their swords
upon their emperor.’
‘I thought the same earlier.’
The riders came close, reigned in their horses and with great respect saluted
Nadir. Even though he tried to control himself Nadir could not check his
emotions. He ran and embraced them. He was no longer an emperor but a
wayfarer of Iran.
Royalty was erased; he was Iranian to the core. Those three men appeared to
him like divinities from Iran. He recognized them. He had often put their
loyalties to the test. He wanted them to sit on his sackcloth but they sat on the
ground. In their eyes, that sackcloth was the throne upon which they could not
tread before their master. Conversation began. The condition of Iran was
extremely lamentable. Looting and plundering were rampant; there were neither
laws nor the people to implement them. If such conditions prevailed then
perhaps very soon the yoke of subjugation would be around its neck. The
country was now looking to Nadir for support. There was no one else but him
who could see it sail through this distress. It was with this hope that they had
come to him.
Nadir said nonchalantly, ‘You took away my dignity, do you plan to take my
 Nadir said nonchalantly, ‘You took away my dignity, do you plan to take my
life this time? I am living in great comfort! Don’t trouble me.’
The representatives began entreating now. ‘We will not leave Your Majesty’s
side, we will slit our throats with our knives and lay down our lives at your feet.
Those wicked people who troubled you, there’s not a trace of them now! We
will never again allow them to raise their heads. We only need your protection.’
Cutting them short Nadir said, ‘Gentlemen, if you wish to make me the
emperor of Iran with this intention, then pardon me. During my sojourns I have
carefully observed the empire’s condition and reached the conclusion that its
state is far worse than other kingdoms. They deserve pity. In Iran I never had
such opportunities. I would survey my kingdom through the eyes of my
courtiers. Don’t expect me to rob the people to line your pockets. This I cannot
take upon my head. I will balance the scales of justice and on this condition
alone will I be ready to go to Iran.’
Laila smiled and said, ‘You can forgive the people their trespasses because
they do not have any enmity with you. Their teeth were into me. How can I
forgive that?’
Nadir said gravely, ‘Laila, I cannot believe that I am hearing such words from
your mouth.’
The visitors thought, ‘What is the use of inciting him now? This can be dealt
with after reaching Iran. A couple of spies can in the name of the people create
such turbulence that all his beliefs will be overturned in no time.’ One of the
spokesmen said, ‘Praise be to the lord! What is Your Majesty suggesting? Are
we so naive that we will make Your Grace stray from the path of righteousness?
Justice alone is an emperor’s gem and it is our heartfelt desire that your justice
puts even the just emperor Nausherawan to shame. Our sole intention was to
ensure that we never allow the empire to offend Your Majesty’s dignity in
future. We will be ready to lay down our lives for Your Majesty.’
All at once it seemed as if nature had become entirely melodious. Mountains
and trees, the stars and the moon, air and water, all began to sing the same note.
In the pure lustre of the moonlight, in the force of the wind, strains of music
wafted forth. Laila beat upon her tambourine and sang. That day it dawned that
melody alone was the essence of creation. Goddesses emerged to twirl on the
mountaintops, the gods danced in the skies. Music designed a whole new world.
From the day the people had created that uproar at the palace doors and urged
that Laila be banished, there had been a radical change in her thoughts. She had
learnt to sympathize with people from the moment of her birth itself. Whenever
she would see the royal officials committing atrocities on the poor people her
tender heart would be filled with agony. She began to loathe wealth, fame and
luxury, for which people had to undergo so much pain. She wanted to summon
such inner strength that it would pierce the tyrants’ hearts with compassion and
the hearts of the people with fearlessness. Her innocent imagination would place
her on a throne where her liberal policies would establish a new era. How many
nights she had spent dreaming of this! How many times had she wept sitting
beside the victims of injustice. But just when she imagined that her golden
dreams were becoming a reality, she was subjected to a new, cruel experience.
She perceived that people were not as tolerant, needy or frail as she had thought.
On the contrary, superficiality, inconsideration and incivility were present in
them in far greater measure. They did not value goodness, did not know how to
put power to good use. That day her heart turned against the people.
The day Nadir and Laila once again stepped into Tehran, the entire city came
out to welcome them. Terror loomed large over the city; from every corner the
sound of piteous cries was heard. In the neighbourhood of the rich, fair fortune
cavorted around, while the quarter of the poor was desolate. It was heartbreaking
to see them. Nadir burst into tears, but on Laila’s lips a cynical smile could be
glimpsed.
There was now a formidable problem before Nadir. He always saw that
whatever he wanted to do never happened, and what he did not wish for
occurred. The reason for that was Laila, but he could not utter a word. Laila
would interfere in everything he did. Whatever he designed for the benefit and
benediction of the people was hindered by some obstacle put up by Laila and he
was left with no option but to remain silent. Once he had renounced the throne
for Laila. Thereafter strife had put Laila to the test. In those days of distress,
what he had experienced of Laila’s personality had been so pleasing, so
charming that he had become enslaved to Laila. She alone was his paradise; to
be engrossed in her love alone was his prime desire. For this Laila he could do
anything. People and the empire were of no significance before Laila.
In this way three years passed, and the people’s condition worsened every
day.
 9

One day Nadir went hunting. Separated from his partners, he wandered about the
jungle till it became night. There was still no sign of his companions. He didn’t
know the way home. Finally he took the Lord’s name and started off in one
direction, thinking that somewhere there would be some signs of a village or
settlement. He would stay there the whole night and return in the morning. As he
was walking, he glimpsed a village with barely three or four houses at the other
end of the jungle. Oh yes, there was a masjid there as well. A lamp flickered in
the masjid, but there was no sign of human habitation. It was well past midnight
and it wasn’t right to disturb anyone. Nadir tied his horse to a tree and decided to
spend the night in the masjid. A ragged mat lay there, and he dropped down on
it. Exhausted by the day, he fell asleep the moment he lay down. Who knows
how long he slept. Suddenly, startled by a sound, he woke up to find an old man
sitting near him and offering namaz. Nadir was astonished to see someone
offering namaz so late into the night. He had no idea that the night had passed by
and it was the namaz of dawn. He continued to lie down and watch. The old man
completed the namaz, then raised his hands in invocation. Listening to those
words, Nadir’s blood ran cold. It was a sharp, genuine, constructive criticism of
his reign, one that he had never heard before. He had been given the opportunity
of hearing of his disrepute in his own lifetime. He knew that his reign was not
exemplary but he had not imagined that the problems had become so intolerable.
The invocation went like this:
‘Oh God! You alone are the saviour of the poor and the support of the needy.
You can see this cruel emperor’s tyranny but your wrath has not struck him
down. This faithless kafir is so enamoured by a beautiful woman that he has
forgotten himself; he neither sees with his eyes nor hears with his ears. When he
sees, it is through the eyes of that woman, when he hears it is through her ears.
This hardship can no longer be borne. Either you send this bully to hell or take
us needy people away from this world. Iran is fed up of this oppression and you
alone can save her from this calamity.’
The old man picked up his staff and walked away but Nadir lay there like a
dead man, as if he’d been struck by lightning.

10
 10

For one week Nadir did not go to the durbar, nor did he allow any official to
come near him. Day after day he stayed inside and wondered what he could do.
Just as a token he would eat something. Laila would go to him every now and
then and, sometimes with his head upon her lap or her arms clasped about his
neck, ask, ‘Why are you so sad and worried?’ Nadir would look at her and weep
but would not utter a word. The people’s respect or Laila, this was the tough
choice before him.
A fierce battle raged in his heart and he could resolve nothing. Fame was
sweet but Laila sweeter. He could live with infamy but he could not imagine life
without Laila. Laila pervaded every pore of his being.
Finally he decided—Laila is mine, I am Laila’s. Neither of us can bear to be
separated from the other. Whatever she does I own, whatever I do she owns. Is
there any difference between what is mine and what is hers? Monarchy is
mortal, love, immortal. We will be together till eternity and experience the bliss
of paradise. Our love will remain like a star in the sky till the end of time.
Nadir arose with happiness. His face was aglow with the light of triumph. His
eyes brimmed over with valour. He was going to drink from the cup of love for
Laila, the cup he had not brought to his lips for a week. His heart leapt with the
same joy that had bubbled five years ago. The flowers of love never wilt, the
elation never fades.
But the doors of Laila’s sleeping chamber were shut and her tambourine that
always hung on a nail outside her door was missing. Nadir’s heart skipped a
beat. The closed doors probably meant that Laila was in the garden, but where
had the tambourine gone? Maybe she had taken the tambourine along to the
garden, but why was there a pall of gloom? Why does this yearning overwhelm
me?
Nadir opened the doors with trembling hands. Laila was not there. The bed
had been made, tapers had been lit, the water for ablutions was there. Nadir’s
legs shook. Had Laila not even slept there at night? Each and every object in the
room carried Laila’s memory, her stamp, her fragrance, but Laila was not there.
The house seemed desolate, like unseeing eyes.
Nadir’s heart brimmed over. He could not muster the courage to question
anyone. His heart was torn apart. Like an insensate he sat on the floor and wept
inconsolably. When his tears stopped he sniffed the bed so that perhaps some
inconsolably. When his tears stopped he sniffed the bed so that perhaps some
palpable smell of Laila would arise, but save for the odour of musk and rose,
there was no other fragrance.
Suddenly he saw a fragment of paper sticking out from beneath the pillow.
With one hand on his breast he drew out the fragment and looked at it with wary
eyes. At a glance he understood everything. It was the verdict of Nadir’s destiny.
Nadir cried aloud, ‘Oh Laila!’ And he fell upon the floor senseless. Laila had
written—

My beloved Nadir, your Laila is going away from you forever. Don’t try to look for me, you will find
no clue. I was a slave of your love, not hungry for your crown. For the last one week I have observed
that your gaze looks elsewhere. You don’t talk to me, don’t lift up your eyes to look at me. You seem
to have tired of me—you cannot imagine the desires with which I go to you, and how forlorn I return.
I have done nothing to deserve such a punishment. Whatever I have done is only with your welfare in
mind. I have spent an entire week weeping. I have begun to feel that I have now fallen in your eyes,
been banished from your heart. Aah! These five years will always be remembered, will always
torment me! I brought this tambourine with me when I came, I’m now taking it away with me. After
enjoying the pleasures of love for five years, I now leave branded with a yearning for life. Laila was
a slave to love; when love no longer remains, then why should Laila? Farewell!

Translated from the Hindi by Swati Pal

1
By Umashankar Joshi, himself a Jnanpith Award–winning Gujarati writer and
then president of the Sahitya Akademi, in a speech delivered on 31 July 1980
at the FICCI Auditorium, New Delhi.
2
Namwar Singh, Premchand aur Bharatiya Samaj [in Hindi: Premchand and
Indian Society] (New Delhi: Rajkamal Prakashan, 2010), p.113. (My
translation) 3 See Amrit Rai, Premchand: A Life, tr. from the Hindi by Harish
Trivedi (New Delhi: People’s Publishing House, 1982).
4
Quoted in Rai, Premchand, p. 74.
5
Quoted in Rai, Premchand, p. 104. For a fuller discussion, see Harish Trivedi,
‘The Urdu Premchand, the Hindi Premchand’ (1984); reprinted in Literary
Culture and Translation: New Aspects of Comparative Literature, eds.
Dorothy M. Figueira and Chandra Mohan (New Delhi: Primus, 2017).
6
For dates and titles of Urdu and Hindi publications of Premchand I have
throughout followed Kamal Kishore Goyanka, Premchand ki Kahaniyon ka
Kalkramaanusar Adhyayan [in Hindi; Premchand’s Short Stories: A
Chronological Study], (Delhi: Nataraj Prakashan, 2012), pp. 108–94.
7
John Keats to Benjamin Bailey, 22 November 1817, www.john-
keats.com/briefe/221117.htm, accessed 8 November 2017.
8
Premchand, ‘Kahani-1’ (The Short Story-1) and ‘Upanyas’ (The Novel), both
in Kuchh Vichar: Sahitya aur Bhasha Sambandhi [in Hindi: Some Thoughts
on Literature and Language] (Allahabad: Saraswati Press, 1973), pp. 38–50.
9
Edward Said, On Late Style: Music and Literature against the Grain (New
York: Pantheon Books, 2006).
10
Both the stories are collected in Premchand, Kafan [in Hindi: The Shroud]
(Allahabad: Hans Prakashan, 1973), pp. 32–47, 79–95.
11
M. Asaduddin, ‘Premchand in English Translation: The Story of an
“Afterlife”’, in Premchand in World Languages: Translation, Reception and
Cinematic Representations, ed. M. Asaduddin (New Delhi: Routledge, 2016),
pp. 40–41.
12
Harish Trivedi, ‘Premchand in English: One Translation, Two Originals’, in
Premchand in World Languages, ed. M. Asaduddin (New Delhi: Routledge,
2016), pp. 15–39.
1
Harish Trivedi, ‘Premchand’s Art, the Purpose of Literature, and the Urdu–
Hindi Middle Ground’, the Sixth Munshi Premchand Memorial Lecture
delivered under the aegis of the Premchand Archive and Literary Centre,
Jamia Millia Islamia, 26 August 2015 (New Delhi: Jamia Millia Islamia
Premchand Archive and Literary Centre, 2016), p. 7.
2
The Urdu journals include Zamana, Hamdard, Tahzeeb-e Niswaan,
Kahkashan, Azad, Khateeb, Adeeb, Subh-e Ummeed, Baharistan, Shabab-e
Urdu, Nuqqad, and Al-Nazeer, among others. The Hindi journals include
Madhuri, Navnidhi, Saraswati, Bharatendu, Vishal Bharat, Mansarovar,
Chand, Jagaran, Hans, Prema, Prabha, Swadesh, Srisharda, Luxmi,
Maryada, Aaj, Veena, Matwala, Usha, Gyanshakti Patrika and Sahitya
Samalochak, among others.
3
In establishing chronology, I have benefited from the works of four Premchand
scholars: Madan Gopal, Jafar Raza, Kamal Kishore Goyanka and
Azimushshan Siddiqui. In addition, the Zamana archive at the Zakir Husain
Library, Jamia Millia Islamia, was of great help. Unlike Tagore, who dated
each of his manuscripts meticulously, Premchand was not very particular
about either dating or preserving his manuscripts. In the absence of original
manuscripts, it is very difficult to establish the date of first composition and
the version—Hindi or Urdu—unless there is reliable corroborative evidence
available, as it is with a story like ‘Kafan’. What, however, can be established
from different sources is the first date of publication, which does not
accurately indicate the date of composition. Thus, the chronology that has
been worked out for this anthology indicates the date of publication and the
version, Hindi or Urdu, in which the story was first published.
4
‘Premchand ki Afsana Nigari’, Zamana: Premchand Issue, February 1938; rpt.
National Council for Promotion of Urdu (New Delhi, 2002), p. 173.
5
‘. . . He was also one of those who almost always took up social and political
issues as central themes in his novels, stories, and plays. He was extremely
sensitive to the political and social movements of his times and considered
literature to be a potent medium for carrying, critiquing and analyzing
prevalent ideas.’ Shashi Bhushan Upadhyay, ‘Representing the Underdogs:
Dalits in the Literature of Premchand’, Studies in History, Vol. 18, No. 1
(Sage Publications, 2002).
6
‘In a letter, he told Nigam that sometimes he followed the style of Bankim
Chandra Chatterjee, and at others, that of Shams-ul-Ulema Azad Dehlavi.
These days, Premchand added, “I have been reading the stories of Count
Tolstoy, and I must admit that I have been deeply influenced by them.”’
Madan Gopal, Munshi Premchand: A Literary Biography (Bombay: Asia
Publishing House, 1964), p. 98.
7
Gordon C. Roadarmel, The Gift of a Cow: A Translation of the Classic Novel
Godaan (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2002), p. vi.
8
Amrit Rai (ed.), Vividh Prasang, Vol. III (Allahabad, 1978), pp. 249–50.
9
Geetanjali Pandey deals with Premchand’s complex response to women’s
status in his fiction and non-fiction in her article, ‘How Equal? Women in
Premchand’s Writings’, Economic and Political Weekly, Vol. 21, No. 50
(Delhi: 13 December 1986), pp. 2183–2187. For additional insights, see Charu
Gupta, ‘Portrayal of Women in Premchand’s Stories: A Critique’, Social
Scientist, Vol. 19, No. 5/6 (May–June, 1991), pp. 88–113.
10
‘I am Chitra. No goddess to be worshipped/Nor yet the object of common
pity/to be brushed aside like a moth with indifference/If you deign to keep me
by your side/in the path of danger and daring/If you allow me to share the
great duties/of your life/Then you will know my true self.’ Sisir Kumar Das
(ed), English Writings of Rabindranath Tagore (New Delhi: Sahitya Akademi,
2004), cited in Malashri Lal, Tagore and the Feminine: A Journey in
Translations (New Delhi: Sage, 2015), 181.
11
‘Dhikkar’ and ‘Naagpooja’. In ‘Family Break-up’, ‘Mistress of the House’ and
‘Subhagi’ there is just the hint of a widow marriage at the end of the story.
12
Shailendra Kumar Singh, ‘Premchand’s Prose of Counter-Insurgency in
Colonial North India’, South Asia: Journal of South Asian Studies, 2016.
13
A trenchant critique of this idyll has been provided in postcolonial India by
Srilal Shukla in his Hindi novel, Raag Darbari (1968).
14
First published in the Hindi journal Pratap (December 1925); reprinted in
India Today Sahitya Varshiki (India Today Literary Annual, 1995).
15
Alok Rai and Mushtaq Ali (eds.), Samaksh: Premchand ki Bees Urdu–Hindi
Kahaniyon ka Samantar Paath (op cit.) and Kamal Kishore Goyanka in
Premchand ki Hindi–Urdu Kahaniyaan, second edition, (Delhi: Prabhat
Prakashan, 2017) have drawn attention to this aspect by reading several stories
in both the versions. However, this is still a work in progress. They have left
out several stories from the ambit of discussions, as has been demonstrated in
the Notes sections in the four volumes of this anthology. This anthology seeks
to fill that gap. Now that the raw data has been made available, a new impetus
in research in this area is expected.
16
Amrit Rai (ed.) (in Hindi: ‘Prastutkarta’ [Presenter], ‘Gupt Dhan’ [Hidden
Treasure]; Premchand (Allahabad: Hans Prakashan, 1962), p. 6.
17
I am indebted to Harish Trivedi for this idea expressed in his essay, ‘The Urdu
Premchand, The Hindi Premchand’, The Jadavpur Journal of Comparative
Literature (1984), pp. 22–115.
18
Letter to Imtiaz Ali Taj, 25 December 1919.
19
The Hindi original is as follows: ‘Aisa lagta hai ke kai baatein Hindi mein
zyada swabhavik dhang se kahi ja sakti hai, aur koi Urdu mein. Is pratyaksh
anubhav ki jad mein kya kya chhupa hua hai—itihaas, sanskritik-samajik
purvagraha, sahityik parampara—ye shod ka vishay ho sakta hai.’ Alok Rai
and Mushtaq Ali (eds), Samaksh: Premchand ki Bees Urdu–Hindi Kahaniyon
ka Samantar Paath (Allahabad: Hans Prakashan, 2002), p. ii.
20
The following table shows such changes in ‘Hajj-e Akbar/Maha Teerth’ (‘The
Greater Pilgrimage’)

Hindi Version Urdu Version

Title of the story Maha Teerth Hajj-e Akbar
Husband Munshi Indramani Munshi Sabir Husain
Wife Sukhada Shakira
Child Rudramani Nasir
Maidservant Kailasi Abbasi
Place of pilgrimage the family intends to visit Badrinath Hajj (to Mecca)
Name for God Khuda, Allah Parmeshwar, Narayan
 Apart from Hajj-e Akbar, similar changes can also be seen in stories like ‘The
Call of Dawn’ (‘Shankhnaad’) and ‘The Correction’ (‘Pashu se Manushya’).
21
The Hindi original is as follows: ‘Adhdhyan hi ye bataayega ke kis parampara
mein kaun si baat kahna zaroori samjha gaya, aur kaun ghair zaroori; kaun si
baat kahi ja sakti thi, aur kaun si baat ankahi hi samajh li gayi. Us
prarambhik daur mein ubharti mansikataon ke sanket in rupbhedaon mein
luke chhipe hain, dekhe ja sakte hain.’ Alok Rai and Mushtaq Ali (eds.),
Samaksh: Premchand ki Bees Urdu–Hindi Kahaniyon ka Samantar Paath, p.
ii.
22
In a recent article in Wasafiri, Boyd Tonkin, former literary editor of the
Independent and someone who has worked to give translation a place of
honour in several international awards, reinforces this argument when he
points out how translated works were profoundly transformative for him even
though he did not know the original languages: ‘I can recall the late teen-age
and early twenties frenzy of excitement inspired by my discovery of writers
such as Kafka and Proust, Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky. Except, of course, that
what I discovered were the standard English translations they circulated by
Penguin Classics and a couple of other publishers.’ Boyd Tonkin, ‘Labours of
Love: Literary Translation Inside and Outside the Market Place’, Wasafiri,
Vol. 32, No. 1, (March 2017), p. 9.
23
Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, ‘The Politics of Translation’, in Lawrence Venuti
(ed.), The Translation Studies Reader, second edition (New York & London:
Routledge, 2002), p. 372.
24
The recent works of Amitav Ghosh (particularly his Ibis trilogy), Amitabha
Bagchi, Chandrahas Choudhury, Hansda Sowvendra Shekhar and others
reveal how Indian words of cultural import and regional specificity have been
normalized in the English that is being written in India, which embolden
translators in English to be innovative and mould the English idiom to their
own advantage.
25
‘Premchand in English: The Story of an “Afterlife”’ in M. Asaduddin (ed.),
Premchand in World Languages: Translation, Reception and Cinematic
Representations, (New Delhi: Routledge, 2016).
26
Here, the case of Kamal Kishore Goyanka, a lifelong Premchand researcher
who has written close to thirty books on different aspects of Premchand’s life
and art, is salutary. Goyanka unearthed a hitherto unavailable story in the
Urdu version with the title ‘Roo-e Siyaah’ (Black Face), but he read it as
‘Rooh-e Siyah’ (Black Soul) and translated it in Hindi as ‘Kalooshit Atma’.
This story was first compiled in the collection, Premchand ki Aprapya
Kahaniyaan (Delhi: Anil Prakashan, 2005), pp. 152–60. On the facing page
the Urdu title page is given where the title ‘Roo-e Siyah’ is written in bold,
clear Persian script. One cannot attribute this error to any other cause except
for the inability to read the Persian script correctly. Now, how this error will
impact the readers’ response to the story and falsify the intent of the author is
anybody’s guess. This is not intended to undervalue the work of Goyanka, an
assiduous researcher, but to underline the fact that we should spare no efforts
to eliminate avoidable errors, understand our own inadequacy and seek help
where it is needed. Many scholars, including Premchand’s son Amrit Rai,
have rendered the Urdu versions of Premchand’s stories into Hindi, as indeed
some have rendered some Hindi versions into Urdu. It will be a valid subject
of research to examine how accurately these versions have been rendered.
1
A geographical and cultural region, and also a mountain range in central India.
It is now divided between the states of Uttar Pradesh and Madhya Pradesh.
1
The complete mantra appears later and is translated thus: ‘The eternal, the
utmost, the fulfiller of all desires/It is for Ram’s grace that the heart aspires.’
The centrality of this mantra is emphasized in the Urdu version when the
narrator refers to it as the only sign of life in Mahadev, who is otherwise
described as a ‘moving statue’. He even tries zealously to teach this mantra to
the parrot. A few more lines are added in the Urdu version, mildly
caricaturing Mahadev as a toothless, bent-backed ‘lone warrior in the
battlefield of life’.
1
Hindu school of philosophy that foregrounds logic.
1
The God of rain.
1
During the Indian independence movement, the extremists were known as
‘garam dal’, implying ‘hot heads’, and the moderates were known as ‘naram
dal’, meaning ‘softies’.
2
Part of the story only makes sense if one follows all the ways that gaurav
(which means pride, honour, dignity, prestige) is used, both as the title of
Ishwarchandra’s newspaper and also as a metonym for all his
accomplishments. I’ve left the title of the newspaper untranslated, but have
translated gaurav in its other instances in the narration. [Translator]
1
Traditional worship of serpents on the fifth day of the bright half of the lunar
month of Sravana observed by Hindus throughout India, Nepal and other
countries.
1
Refers to both, the fifteenth century saint poet Kabir and his bhajans.
2
Songs sung during Holi.
1
Angel of Death.
1
The phrase refers to a type of protest in which protesters would go unshaven to
depict the despicable double-crossing nature of those against whom they were
protesting. There is possibly also a Hindu–Muslim communal connotation in
the reference to the growing of the beard in the sense that the bearded
Congressists (now posing as Muslims) would be a constant eyesore to the
Hindu bania (trader) community.
2
Rai, Raja and Khanbahadur are empty honorific titles given during the Raj to
the erstwhile ruling upper-caste and upper-class males who would agree to
serve their British masters as a result of which the people in their principality
or province would automatically be colonized.
3
The phrase ‘dharma aur niti’ refers to a range of attributes whose meanings
sometimes overlap. Dharma has all these meanings: social/caste/religious
custom, right behaviour, law, justice, duty, and virtue. And niti might mean all
these: guidance, moral conduct, public and private morality, and ethics.
4
The name Moteram is used as a pun; ‘mota’ in Hindi means one who is obese.
1
One of the gods of the Hindu trinity (Brahma, Vishnu and Mahavir), often
invoked for protection.
1
In the Hindi story, Mirza Sajjad Ali’s maid is named Hariya while in the Urdu
story, she is named Abbasi.
2
In the name of Imam Husain, who was killed by the forces of Yezid in the
battle of Karbala. Shias are accustomed to taking oaths in his name.
 Notes

Premonition

First published in Urdu with the title ‘Khwab-e-Pareshan’ in Kahkashan (August

1919), and later collected in Prem Batteesi 2 (1920). Now available in Kulliyaat-
e Premchand 10 (2001). It was published in Hindi with the title ‘Anisht Shanka’
in Aaj (June 1921), and later collected in Mansarovar 8 (1950).
The Urdu version is larger than the Hindi version. In Urdu there are five
sections indicated by the Arabic numbers 1 to 5. In Hindi, there are no section
breaks. What is Section 2 in Urdu has been left out entirely in Hindi. The
following is the English translation from Urdu:

Kunwar Amarnath was a bundle of contradictions. He was independent but

restrained, a man of wealth but enlightened, an aristocrat but humble, influential
but a friend of the poor. His parents had died when he was still a child and he
was brought up by officials. He was deprived of parental love. He got whatever
he asked for, he didn’t have to cry and howl. Indeed, seeing his peers crying he
would often want to do just that. He sometimes yearned to be reprimanded, even
beaten. In his mind, a beating was just another form of love. He longed for the
kind of love which also involved getting beaten. He saw children trailing their
mothers even after getting beaten by them. And when mothers picked up the
children on to their laps after finishing their chores, how happy the children felt!
How they felt totally secure in their mothers’ laps and how they hid their faces in
their mothers’ aanchal. But for him, there was no mother’s lap or aanchal. If he
had no occasion to cry, he had no opportunity to laugh either. His childhood was
cheerless and devoid of any sweet memories.
When he came of age, he began to receive proposals of marriage from the
families of rajas and aristocrats. As dowry, he was offered land estates and huge
amounts of money. But Kunwar Sahib’s heart was hungry for love. He had been
looking for this fruit of paradise for years. He got to know beautiful women,
became familiar with their bewitching ways. He also met women who were
enterprising and had a sense of humour. But he didn’t find love.
Having despaired of women from palaces he turned his attention towards poor
men’s huts, and here he got what he was looking for. Manorama was the
daughter of a poor Brahmin. Her father was an attendant at the court of Kunwar
Sahib. She used to play with Kunwar Sahib from early childhood. Even the gods
didn’t know that one day she would become Kunwar Sahib’s wife. Kunwar
Sahib chose her to be his wife. His relatives and friends objected to the alliance.
But Kunwar Sahib had a mind of his own. He married her and made her a queen.

Extract translated from the Urdu by M. Asaduddin

The Murder of Honour

First published in Urdu with the title ‘Khoon-e Hurmat’ in Subh-e Ummeed
(September 1919), and later collected in Prem Batteesi 2 (1920). Now available
in Kulliyaat-e Premchand 10 (2001). It was published in Hindi with the title
‘Izzat ka Khoon’ in Gupt Dhan 2 (1962).

The Bookbinder

First published in Urdu with the title ‘Daftari’ in Kahkashan (October 1919), and
later collected in Prem Batteesi 1 (1920). Now available in Kulliyaat-e
Premchand 10 (2001). It was published in Hindi with the same title in Aaj
(1921), and later collected in Mansarovar 8 (1950).
The Urdu version is more expansive, fluent and rich in detail. The Hindi
version is comparatively stark, and less fluent, shorn of interesting details that
make the story in Urdu much more enjoyable. The aphoristic statement—‘A
person who endures family conflicts is in no way less brave than a soldier who
fights in battlefields’—with which the Hindi story ends is missing in the Urdu
story.
In the Urdu story, the reader gets to know that the bookbinder’s colleagues in
his office contributed a sum of money to meet the domestic expenses of Rafaqat,
the protagonist, for a month. The Hindi version is silent about this. It seems that
the Hindi story is an abridged version of the Urdu story. As the details are woven
into each paragraph, they cannot be extracted in a coherent way. The full
extracts that have been left out in the Hindi version are as follows:

Although Rafaqat had retained his outspokenness, no one now appreciated it. It
was now treated as a waffle, like the harangue of a helpless widow. An insecure
person is quick to take offence. One day, when some of his neighbours made
some funny remarks about his new wife, he lost his temper. He was bare in his
upper body and was wearing tattered pyjamas. He was in a rage, the veins in his
throat dilated and his ankles aflutter. His addressees were sitting and playing
cards, scarcely paying him any attention. It was as though a dog was barking. He
had reached the lowest state of degradation where people treated even his anger
with contempt.
. . . Once, at my initiative, the office colleagues, out of sympathy, contributed
money and bought him provisions for a month. But the provisions meant to last a
month disappeared in a week. The rice was bartered for mango, dal for jamun.
The oven was lit three times a day, and then . . . the same story of starvation and
want. Eventually, people lost all sympathy for him, so no one lent him even a
paisa now. He stood there praying and blessing people, but no one even cared to
look at him.
. . . ‘Spend less than you earn, however compelling the circumstances. And
why do you start borrowing from the first day of the month? Thinking of you,
once I had arranged for a month’s provisions for you. But you have gone back to
your old ways. You were a reasonable person. You know very well that people
do not always have ready money in their hands. Everyone has his own needs to
take care of. And even if someone has money, why should he lend and thus
invite trouble for himself? You have to go begging to ten persons to get one
favourable response. How embarrassing is all this! What is the matter with you,
after all? You have been reduced to this condition for the last two-and-a-half
years. Earlier, you looked so contented.’

Extract translated from the Urdu by M. Asaduddin

Atmaram

First published in Urdu with the title ‘Atmaram’ in Zamana (January 1920), and
later collected in Prem Batteesi 2 (1920). Now available in Kulliyaat-e
Premchand 10 (2001). It was published in Hindi with the same title in Aaj (May
1921), and later collected in Mansarovar 7 (1947).
The Urdu story is longer by two pages, but as the lines do not occur in one
place but are interspersed in different paragraphs in the story, they cannot be
extracted without creating confusion. The Urdu version fleshes out Mahadev’s
character and his philosophical bent of mind in a more substantial way than the
Hindi version.
It is only in the Urdu version, which is more expansive, that the reader gets to
know that Mahadev and his sons fight over liquor. The Hindi version remains
non-committal. There is only one line towards the end that says that Mahadev
had quit drinking.
The conclusion in the Hindi version is far more ambivalent than in the Urdu
version. The narrator in the Urdu version extols Mahadev’s transformation from
an ordinary sinner to a divinely inspired man, whereas the Hindi version seems
cynical about it.

The Correction

First published in Hindi with the title ‘Pashu se Manushya’ in Prabha (February
1920), and later collected in Prem Pacheesi (1923), and Mansarovar 8 (1950). It
was published in Urdu with the title ‘Islaah’ in Kahkashan (April 1920), and
later collected in Prem Batteesi 2 (1920). Now available in Kulliyaat-e
Premchand 10 (2001).
The Urdu title is neutral but the Hindi title has strong moral and ideological
implications. This is also reflected in the text. About a dozen sentences from the
third section of the story in Urdu are missing in Hindi, making the Urdu story
longer by half a page. Moreover, while the Urdu version refers only to farmers,
the Hindi version mentions farmers, weavers, carpenters, blacksmiths, tanners
and bricklayers thus expanding the ambit of professions encompassing the moral
and ideological issue that is the central theme of the story. The ideological slant
in the Hindi version gets more intense when the narrator suggests that any
dispute among the people of these professions should be resolved through
‘panchayat’ and not law courts. The narrator drives the point home by asking
why a farmer should be paid five rupees for his wages while a doctor or a lawyer
five thousand! Several paragraphs are the ‘rewriting’ of the other version, with
five thousand! Several paragraphs are the ‘rewriting’ of the other version, with
differing inflections, rather than plain translation or transliteration. Dr Mehra,
the employer of the gardener Durga, has been changed to Dr Irfan Ali in the
Urdu version.

The Prime Dharma of Man

First published in Hindi with the title ‘Manushya ka Param Dharma’ in Swadesh
(March 1920), and later collected in Prem Pratima (1926), and Mansarovar 3
(1938). It was published in Urdu with the title ‘Insaan ka Muqaddas Farz’ in
Prem Batteesi 1 (1920). Now available in Kulliyaat-e Premchand 10 (2001).

Black Face

First published in Hindi with the title ‘Pratigya’ in Shree Sharda (March 1920),
and not compiled in any volume for a long time. It was first compiled in
Premchand ka Aprapya Sahitya 1 (1988). It was published in Urdu with the title
‘Roo-e Siyah’ in Subh-e Ummeed (November 1920), and collected much later in
Kulliyaat-e Premchand 10 (2001).

Banter

First published in Hindi with the title, ‘Brahm ka Swang’ in Prabha (May 1920)
and later collected in Prem Pacheesi (1923) and Mansarovar 8 (1950). It was
published in Urdu with the title ‘Nok-Jhonk’ in Zamana (December 1920), and
later collected in Khwab-o Khayal (1928). Now available in Kulliyaat-e
Premchand 10 (2001).
The endings of the stories in Hindi and Urdu are somewhat different. One
version seems to be a rewriting rather than an exact translation of the other.
Also, the tone of the Hindi version seems morally more strident than the Urdu
version.

The Old Aunt

First published in Hindi with the title ‘Budhi Kaaki’ in Shree Sharda (January
1920), and later collected in Prem Pacheesi (Hindi 1923), and Mansarovar 8
(1950). It was published in Urdu with the same title in Kahkashan (July 1920),
and later collected in Prem Batteesi 2 (1920). Now available in Kulliyaat-e
Premchand 10 (2001).
The Urdu story is divided into three sections whereas the Hindi story is in five
sections, though the content is the same in both. In the Urdu story, the old aunt is
said to have seven sons who died. The Hindi story simply says all her sons died
young, without specifying the number of sons.

A Father’s Love

First published in Hindi with the title ‘Putra Prem’ in Saraswati (June 1920), and
later collected in Gupt Dhan 2 (1963). It was published in Urdu with the title
‘Mehr-e-Pidar’ in Zamana (July 1920), and collected much later in Kulliyaat-e
Premchand 10 (2001).
In the Hindi story the protagonist is named Babu Chaitanya Das, whereas in
the Urdu story his name is Munshi Ulfat Rai, though the names of other
members of their families are the same.

After Death

First published in Urdu with the title ‘Ba’d az Marg’ in Subh-e Ummeed
(August–September 1920), but not included in any Urdu collection. Now
available in Kulliyaat-e Premchand 10 (2001). It was published in Hindi with
the title ‘Mrityu ke Peechey’ in Prem Prasoon (1924), and later collected in
Mansarovar 6 (1946). It has been transliterated from Hindi to Urdu for
Kulliyaat-e Premchand 10 (2001).

The Blessed Illness

First published in Urdu with the title ‘Marz-i Mubarak’ in Prem Batteesi 1
(1920). Now available in Kulliyaat-e Premchand 10 (2001). It was published in
Hindi with the title ‘Mubarak Bimari’ in Gupt Dhan 1 (1962).
Life Force

First published in Urdu with the title ‘Rooh-e Hayat’ in Zamana (January 1921),
and not collected in any volume for a long time. Now available in Kulliyaat-e
Premchand 10 (2001). It was published in Hindi with the title ‘Rooh-e
Hayat/Jeevan ki Pran Shakti’ in Premchand ka Aprapya Sahitya 1 (1988).

The Problem

First published in Hindi with the title ‘Bhisham Samasya’ in Prabha (January
1921), and later collected in Prem Pacheesi (1923) and Mansarovar 8 (1950). It
was published in Urdu with the title ‘Muamma’ in Zamana (March 1921), and
collected much later in Kulliyaat-e Premchand 10 (2001).

A Special Holi

First published in Hindi with the title ‘Vichitra Holi’ in Swadesh (March 1921),
and later collected in Prem Pratima (1926) and Mansarovar 3 (1938). It was
published in Urdu with the title ‘Ajeeb Holi’ in Khaak-e Parwana (1928) and
collected much later in Kulliyaat-e Premchand 10 (2001).
The English translation was first published in Literature and Nation: Britain
and India 1800–1990, ed. Richard Allen and Harish Trivedi, London:
Routledge/Open University, 2000, 310–14. It has been extensively revised by
the translator for this anthology.

The Hidden Hand

First published in Urdu with the title ‘Dast-e Ghaib’ in Zamana (April 1921) and
later collected in Khwab-o Khayal (1928). Now available in Kulliyaat-e
Premchand 10 (2001). It was published in Hindi with the title ‘Prarabdha’ in
Shree Sharda (April 1921), and later collected in Prem Pacheesi (Hindi edition;
1923), and Mansarovar 7 (1947).

An Audacious Act
First published in Urdu with the title ‘Bazm-e Parishaan’ in Zamana (April
1922), and collected much later in Kulliyaat-e Premchand 10 (2001). It was
published in Hindi with the title ‘Dussahas’ in Aaj (June 1921), and later
collected in Prem Pacheesi (1923) and Mansarovar 8 (1950).

The Red Ribbon

First published in Urdu with the title ‘Laal Feeta’ in Zamana (July 1921), and
later collected in Khwab-o Khayal (1928). It is now available in Kulliyaat-e
Premchand 10 (2001). It was published in Hindi with the title ‘Laal Feeta ya
Magistrate ka Isteefa’ in Pustak (April 1921), and later collected in Prem
Chaturthi (1928). Now available in Premchand: Kahani Rachanavali 2 (2010).

When Rivals Became Friends

First published in Hindi with the title ‘Laag-Dant’ in Prabha (July 1921), and
later collected in Prem Prasoon (1924) and Mansarovar 6 (1946). It is not
available in the Urdu version and has been transliterated from Hindi to Urdu for
Kulliyaat-e Premchand 10 (2001).

A Positive Change

First published in Hindi with the title ‘Vidhwans’ in Aaj (July 1921), and later
collected in Prem Pacheesi (1923) and Mansarovar 8 (1950). It was published in
Urdu with the title ‘Tahreek-e Khair’ in Humayun (April 1922), and collected
much later in Kulliyaat-e Premchand 10 (2001).
This story has two radically different endings in the two versions. This is the
alternate ending in the Hindi version:

. . . He looked towards the oven of the old woman and his entire body rankled
with an anger that spread like fire. She did not even have an inkling of doubt that
she was doing something against the zamindar. She could not even imagine that
anger can have such an eternal life. A gifted man can have so much malice
against a poor, frail woman; she had no inkling of such a thing. Given her nature,
she considered human character much higher than that. But lo! Unfortunate one!
You’ve grown grey hair without gaining any wisdom!
You’ve grown grey hair without gaining any wisdom!
At once Thakur shouted at her, ‘Who gave you the order?’
Bhungi was taken aback to see the venerable zamindar standing in front.
Thakur demanded once again, ‘Who gave you the permission for this?’
Scared, Bhungi said, ‘Everybody desired that I should rebuild it.’
‘I will have it dug up again.’ Having said this, he kicked the oven. The wet
clay crumbled. The second kick was aimed at the trough but the old woman
came in between and it landed on her waist. Now she got angry. Patting her
waist, she said,
‘I serve you, where else should I look for food?’
‘Only if you stay in the village can you work for me.’
‘I can only perform my duties when I make the oven. Can’t I do my work to
stay in the village?’
‘Go, leave the village.’
Bhungi stood dejected near the oven and looked at its fiery remains, reminded
of the kingdom of Lanka after it was destroyed by fire.
Within moments her frail body became one with the fire. Just then the storm
blew in with great ferocity. The ascending flames ran towards the east. There
were many huts of the farmers near the oven; they were all devoured by the wild
flames. In this way, encouraged, the flames shot up further. Nearby there was
Thakur’s land, it also came under its grasp. Now there was commotion in the
village. Preparations were being made to put out the fire. But the splashes of
water acted as fuel to the fire. The flames flared up and Panditji’s great mansion
also came under its claws. And, in no time, the mansion, tossing like a ship in
tumultuous waves, was drowned in the huge sea of fire and the sound of
lamentation that became apparent with the remnants of the ashes was more
pitiful than Bhungi’s mournful wailing.

Extract translated from the Hindi by M. Asaduddin

A Battle of Ideals

First published in Hindi with the title ‘Adarsh Virodh’ in Shree Sharda (July
1921), and later collected in Prem Pacheesi (1923) and Mansarovar 8 (1950). It
was published in Urdu with the title ‘Taalif-e Qalb’ in Tehzeeb-e- Niswan
(September 1922). The Urdu version is no longer available. It has been
transliterated from Hindi to Urdu for Kulliyaat-e Premchand 10 (2001).

A Philosopher’s Love

First published in Hindi with the title ‘Tyagi ka Prem’ in Maryada (November
1921), and later collected in Prem Prasoon (1924) and Mansarovar 6 (1946). It
was published in Urdu with the title ‘Philsafi ki Muhabbat’ in Hazaar Daastan
(November 1921), and collected later in Khwab-o Khayal (1928). Now available
in Kulliyaat-e Premchand 10 (2001).

The Bridal Sari

First published in Hindi with the title ‘Suhaag ki Sari’ in Prabha (January 1922),
and later collected in Prem Pacheesi (1923) and Mansarovar 7 (1947). It is not
available in Urdu, and has been transliterated from Hindi to Urdu for Kulliyaat-e
Premchand 11 (2001).

Witchcraft

First published in Hindi with the title ‘Mooth’ in Maryada (January 1922), and
later collected in Prem Pacheesi (1923) and Mansarovar 8 (1950). It was
published in Urdu with the same title in Zamana (December 1922), and later
collected in Khwab-o Khayal (1928). Now available in Kulliyaat-e Premchand
11 (2001).

Victory of the Defeated

First published in Hindi with the title ‘Haar ki Jeet’ in Maryada (May 1922), and
later collected in Prem Pacheesi (1923) and Mansarovar 8 (1950). It was
published in Urdu with the title ‘Shikast ki Fateh’ in Hazaar Daastan (July
1922), and later collected in Khwab-o Khayal (1928). Now available in
Kulliyaat-e Premchand 11 (2001).

Defending One’s Liberty

Defending One’s Liberty

First published in Hindi as ‘Swatva Raksha’ in Madhuri (July 1922), and later
collected in Prem Pacheesi (1923) and in Mansarovar 8 (1950). In Urdu, it was
published in Naubahar (1924). Now available in Kulliyaat-e Premchand 11
(2001).

Cobra Worship

First published in Urdu with the title ‘Saanp ki Ma’shooqa’ in Tahzeeb-e

Niswaan (August 1922), and not collected in any Urdu anthology. It has been
transliterated from Hindi to Urdu much later for Kulliyaat-e Premchand 11
(2001). It was published in Hindi with the title ‘Naag Puja’ in Prem Pacheesi
(1923) and later in Mansarovar 7 (1947).

Turf War

First published in Hindi with the title ‘Adhikar Chinta’ in Madhuri (August
1922), and later collected in Prem Prasoon (1924) and Mansarovar 6 (1946). It
was published in Urdu with the title ‘Fikr-e Duniya’ in Khaak-e Pawana (1928).
Now available in Kulliyaat-e Premchand 11 (2001).

Hidden Wealth

First published in Hindi as ‘Gupt Dhan’ in Sree Sharada (August 1922), and
later included in Prem Pacheesi (1928) and Mansarovar 8 (1950). In Urdu, it
was published as ‘Dafeena’ in the annual journal Adab-e-Lateef (1939). It has
been transliterated from Hindi to Urdu for Kulliyaat-e Premchand 11 (2001).

A Dhobi’s Honour

First published in Urdu as ‘Husn-e Zan’ in Zamana (October 1922), and

collected much later in Kulliyaat-e Premchand 11 (2001). In Hindi, it is included
in Mansarovar 7 (1947) as ‘Lokmat ka Samman’.

Hoodwinked
Hoodwinked

First published in Hindi as ‘Chakma’ in Prabha (November 1922), and later

included in Mansarovar 6. Not available in the Urdu version. Transliterated
from Hindi to Urdu for Kulliyaat-e Premchand 11 (2001).

Reincarnation

First published in Hindi as ‘Purva Samskara’ in Madhuri (December 1922), and

later included in Mansarovar 8 (1950). Not available in the Urdu version.
Transliterated from Hindi to Urdu for Kulliyaat-e Premchand 11 (2001).

Test

First published in Urdu as ‘Imtihaan’ in Chand (January 1923), and included

later in Prem Chaleesi 2 (1930). In Hindi, it is available in Mansarovar 3 (1938)
as ‘Pariksha’.

A Loyal Subject

First published in Hindi as ‘Rajya Bhakta’ in Madhuri (February 1923) and later
collected in Mansarovar 6. Not available in Urdu. Transliterated from Hindi to
Urdu for Kulliyaat-e Premchand 13 (2003) as ‘Rajya Bhagat’.

End of Enmity

First published in Hindi as ‘Vair ka Ant’ in Saraswati (April 1923), and later
included in Mansarovar 7 (1947). Not available in the Urdu version.
Transliterated from Hindi to Urdu for Kulliyaat-e Premchand 11 (2001).

The Fool

First published in Hindi as ‘Baudam’ in Prabha (April 1923), and later included
in Mansarovar 8 (1950). Not available in the Urdu version. Transliterated from
Hindi to Urdu for Kulliyaat-e Premchand 11 (2001).
Compulsion

First published in Hindi as ‘Majboori’ in Chand (April, 1923), and later included
in Prem Chaleesi 2 (1930). Now available in Kulliyaat-e Premchand 11 (2001).
In Hindi it is included in Mansarovar 3 (1938) as ‘Nerashya Leela’.
In the Hindi version, the story has been expanded to double its original length.
While the Urdu story is close to 2400 words, the Hindi story runs into more than
4500 words. The religious identity of the couple—Hridaynath and Jogeshwari—
is more sharply delineated, and the plight of widowhood and the transformation
in Kailashi’s character have been shown in greater detail in the Hindi story. The
missing extracts in Urdu are given below:

Pandit Hridaynath was a respected man of Ayodhya. Though not quite wealthy,
he could not be called too poor either. He owned several houses whose rent
served as a steady source of income. He even bought a carriage what with the
recent increase in rents. He was a very thoughtful person who had also received
quality education. Though quite well-versed with the ways of the world, he was
not really practical about it. In his opinion, society was like an intimidating
ghost, one that he should always be wary of. Displease it even a little bit, and
there is no saving your hide. His wife, Jogeshwari, was a pure carbon copy. Her
thoughts and aspirations were no different from those of her husband. There
were no disagreements between them. Jogeshwari was a devotee of Lord Shiva
while Hridaynath was a Vaishnav. And yet, both of them were equally inclined
when it came to observing fasts or distributing alms. They were a devout couple,
much more than what educated people often are. Perhaps this was so because
their only child was a daughter. She had been married at thirteen and her
parents’ only wish was for God to bless her with a child so that they could rest
assured after having bequeathed their entire assets to their grandson.
But man proposes while God disposes. Kailash Kumari had not even been
sent to her in-laws’, she did not even understand what marriage possibly meant
when her husband died. Widowhood dealt the ultimate blow to all her
aspirations.
Her parents wept, the entire house was in mourning, but Kailash Kumari just
stared dumbfounded at everyone’s faces. She simply could not understand why
everybody was crying. Being the only daughter of her parents, she never
considered any third person to be of any importance in her life. Her idea of
happiness had yet to make room for a husband. In her opinion, women only
lament their husbands’ deaths because husbands maintain and support them and
their kids. There’s nothing lacking on that score in this house. What do I have to
worry about when it comes to what to eat or what to wear? I’m sure my parents
will take care of everything that I need. So, why cry at all? Though she wept
whenever she saw her mother in mourning, it was not out of any sense of grief
over her husband’s death, rather out of her love for her mother. At times, she
thought, Perhaps my parents cry because they’re afraid I might ask for
something that they won’t be able to afford. But why on earth would I ever ask
for something like that? Even now, I make no demands whereas they keep
bringing me something or the other every day out of their own sweet will. Do
they really think that I’ll become someone else now?
Jogeshwari, on her part, would cry endlessly as soon as she saw her
daughter’s face. Her husband’s condition was even more pitiable. He even
stopped coming to the inner apartments of the house. He would sit alone in his
room, all sad and brooding. But what really hurt Kailash Kumari was that even
her friends stopped playing with her. So, when she asked her mother’s
permission to visit them, Jogeshwari burst into tears. Seeing her parents like this,
Kailash Kumari stopped bothering them, and kept herself busy reading tales and
short stories. But her solitude was interpreted quite differently. The very thought
that their daughter was wasting away because of her sorrows was enough to
break the couple’s hearts.
One day Hridaynath told his wife, ‘I feel like leaving this place forever. I
simply can’t bear to see her like this.’
Jogeshwari replied, ‘My only prayer to God is to grant me death. I mean, there
is a limit to patiently enduring something, after all.’
Hridaynath: ‘Somehow or the other, we’ll have to keep her diverted so that
she doesn’t give in to despair. Seeing us sad and grieving, her sorrows weigh
even heavier.’
Jogeshwari: ‘I simply don’t know what to do.’
Hridaynath: ‘Her life is in imminent danger if we keep on hurting like this.
Take her out sometimes on a trip or to the theatre. A bit of song and music every
now and then would also help. These things will keep her occupied.’
Jogeshwari: ‘The moment I see her, I can’t help crying. But I’ll try to restrain
 Jogeshwari: ‘The moment I see her, I can’t help crying. But I’ll try to restrain
my emotions from now on. Your idea is quite interesting. Her sorrows cannot be
mitigated without any diversions.’
Hridaynath: ‘I’ll also try to humour her. I’ll get a peep show tomorrow and
make a collection of some really good pictures. The gramophone can be ordered
today itself. Just make sure to keep her busy with something or the other.
Solitude fans the flames of grief.’
From that day on, Jogeshwari made every effort to make sure that Kailash
Kumari was kept happy and entertained. When Kailashi appeared before her
mother, she no longer found tears in those eyes, rather a beaming smile on the
lips. Jogeshwari would chuckle and say, ‘Beti, come, let’s go to the theatre.
They’ll be putting on quite a show today.’
Sometimes they would take a bath in the Ganga. There, the mother and
daughter frolicked during their excursions by boat. Gradually, all her friends too
started showing up. They sometimes played cards, while on other occasions they
sang or played some musical instruments. Hridaynath, on his part, arranged for
Kailashi’s means of entertainment. As soon as he saw her, he would delightfully
say, ‘Come, beti, I’ll show you pictures of Kashmir today.’ Sometimes, he said,
‘Come, we’ll see the excellent sights of Switzerland and the splendour of
waterfalls.’ On other occasions, he would play the gramophone. Kailashi would
thoroughly enjoy these diversions and outings. She had never spent her days so
happily until now.
Two years went by in this fashion. Kailashi was so used to amusements and
excursions that she got restless even if she could not go to the theatre for one
single day! Entertainment is a slave to modernity, and gives rise to disparities.
The passion for theatre was soon followed by cinema. Then came mesmerism
and hypnotism! New records for the gramophone were also ordered. She had
acquired a taste for music. If there was a cause for celebration within the
community, Jogeshwari and Kailashi made it a point not to miss that. Kailashi
was literally obsessed with these things. While walking, she always hummed
something or the other. Even when she talked to others, it was all about cinema
and theatre. She had lost touch with the material world and the only thing that
mattered now was the world of fantasy. She even lost her capacity to sympathize
with others. A new lack of restraint characterized her behaviour even as she
became quite arrogant about her good taste. She would unreservedly boast
before her friends, ‘People here are a foolish lot. They’ll never be able to
before her friends, ‘People here are a foolish lot. They’ll never be able to
appreciate movies. Only the ones in the West can. There, entertainment is as
important as the air that one breathes. And that is why they remain so happy as if
they don’t have a care in the world. Here no one has a taste for it. Even those
whom God has blessed with the wherewithal retire to their beds by evening. Her
friends would listen to all this and praise her even more. In a bid to ridicule
them, Kailashi herself would become a subject of ridicule.
Panditji assembled the girls of the neighbourhood and the pathshala was soon
up and running. He arranged for all kinds of pictures and toys. He also taught the
girls alongside Kailash Kumari. The students, on their part, would regularly
attend the classes. Here, studying was more like a pastime. Within a few days,
the pathshala gained popularity and even girls from the other localities began
flocking to the place.

Extract translated from the Hindi by Shailendra Kumar Singh

A Home for an Orphan

First published in Hindi as ‘Grihdaah’ in Sree Sharada (June 1923), and later
included in Mansarovar 6 (1946). Not available in the Urdu version.
Transliterated from Hindi to Urdu for Kulliyaat-e Premchand 11 (2001).

Purification

First published in Urdu as ‘Shuddhi’ in June, 1923, and later included in Khwab-
o Khayal (1928). Now available in Kulliyaat-e Premchand 11. It is available in
Hindi, transliterated from the Urdu, in Solah Aprapya Kahaniyan (1981) with
the same title.

Autobiography

First published in Hindi as ‘Aap Beeti’ in Madhuri (July 1923), and later
included in Mansarovar 6 (1946). Not available in the Urdu version.
Transliterated from Hindi to Urdu for Kulliyaat-e Premchand 11 (2001).

The Ornaments
The Ornaments

First published in Hindi as ‘Abhushan’ in Madhuri (August 1923), and later

included in Mansarovar 6 (1946). Not available in the Urdu version.
Transliterated from Hindi to Urdu for Kulliyaat-e Premchand 11 (2001).

Revenge

First published in Urdu as ‘Intiqaam’ in Zamana (October 1923), and included

later in Prem Chaleesi 2 (1930). Now available in Kulliyaat-e Premchand 11
(2001). In Hindi, it is available in Gupt Dhan 2 (1962) as ‘Pratishod’.

Trickery

First published in Hindi with the title ‘Kaushal’ in the monthly Chand (August
1923) and subsequently in Mansarovar 3 (1938). In Urdu, it is included in Prem
Chaleesi (1930) with the title ‘Chakma’.

Satyagraha

First published in Hindi as ‘Satyagrah’ in Madhuri (December 1923), and later

included in Mansarovar 3 (1938). In Urdu it was included in Khaak-e-Parwana
(1928). Now available in Kulliyaat-e Premchand 11 (2001).

The Roaming Monkey

First published in Hindi as ‘Sailani Bandar’ in Madhuri (January 1924), and later
included in Gupt Dhan 2 (1962). Not available in the Urdu version.
Transliterated from Hindi to Urdu for Kulliyaat-e Premchand 11 (2001).

The Prophet’s Justice

First published in Hindi with the title ‘Nabi ka Niti Nirvaah’ in Saraswati
(March 1924), and later included in Gupt Dhan 2 (1962) with the same title, and
in Mansarovar 2 (1936) with the title ‘Nyay’. Not available in Urdu.
Transliterated from Hindi to Urdu for Kulliyaat-e Premchand 11 (2001).

Sudden Downfall

First published in Hindi with the title ‘Vajrapat’ in Madhuri (March 1924), and
later included in Mansarovar 3 (1938). In Urdu, it was included in the collection
Firdaus-e Khayaal (1929). Now available in Kulliyaat-e Premchand 11 (2001).

Road to Salvation

First published in Hindi as ‘Mukti Marg’ in the monthly Vishal Bharat (April
1924), and later included in Mansarovar 3 (1938). In Urdu, it was included in
Firdaus-e Khayaal (1929) as ‘Raah-e Najaat’. Now available in Kulliyaat-e
Premchand 11 (2001).

Money for Deliverance

First published in Hindi as ‘Muktidhan’ in Madhuri (May, 1924), and later

included in Mansarovar 2 (1936). Not available in Urdu. Transliterated from
Hindi to Urdu for Kulliyaat-e Premchand 11 (2001).

Forgiveness

Published in Urdu as ‘Wa’fu’ in Zamana (June 1924), and later included in Prem
Chaleesi (1930). In Hindi, it is available with the title ‘Kshama’ in Mansarovar
3 (1938).

The Lashes of Good Fortune

First published in Hindi as ‘Saubhagya ke Kodey’ in Prabha (June 1924), and

later included in Mansarovar 3 (1938). In Urdu, it was included as ‘Nekbakhti
ke Tazianey’ in Firdaus-e Khayaal (1929). Now available in Kulliyaat-e
Premchand 11 (2001).
Banishment

First published in Hindi as ‘Niraswan’ in Chand (June 1924), later included in

Mansarovar 3 (1938). In Urdu, it was included in Prem Chaleesi (1930) as
‘Abhagin’. Now available in Kulliyaat-e Premchand 11 (2001).

Despair

First published in Hindi as ‘Nerashya’ in Chand (July 1924), and later included
in Mansarovar 3 (1938). Not available in Urdu. Transliterated from Hindi to
Urdu for Kulliyaat-e Premchand 11 (2001).

Ghost

First published in Hindi as ‘Bhoot’ in Madhuri (August 1924), and later included
in Mansarovar 4 (1939). In Urdu, it was included in the volume Firdaus-e
Khayaal (1929) with the same title. Now available in Kulliyaat-e Premchand 11
(2001).

By a Whisker!

First published in Hindi as ‘Ik Aanch ki Kasar’ in Chand (August 1924), and
later included in Mansarovar 3 (1938). Not available in the Urdu version.
Transliterated from Hindi to Urdu for Kulliyaat-e Premchand 11 (2001).

Initiation

First published in Hindi as ‘Deeksha’ in Madhuri (September, 1924), and later

included in Mansarovar 3 (1938). In Urdu, it was included in the collection
Firdaus-e Khayaal (1929). Now available in Kulliyaat-e Premchand 11 (2001).

Rescue

Published in Hindi as ‘Uddhar’ in Chand (September 1924), and later included

in Mansarovar 3 (1938). Not available in the Urdu version. Transliterated from
Hindi to Urdu for Kulliyaat-e Premchand 11 (2001).

The Game of Chess

Published in Hindi as ‘Shatranj ke Khiladi’ in Madhuri (October 1924), and later

included in Mansarovar 3 (1938). In Urdu, it was published as ‘Shatranj ki
Baazi’ in Zamana (December 1924), and included later in the collection, Khwab-
o Khayal (1928). Now available in Kulliyaat-e Premchand 11 (2001).
The Urdu story is longer and different from the Hindi one in tone and tenor.
Whole sentences appear in the Urdu version that do not appear at all in Hindi.
This is particularly true in the case of the narrative rather than dialogue passages,
and in places where Premchand expresses his disapproval of Lucknow’s
decadence. Moreover, in the Hindi story, the writer uses a lot of Sanskrit
vocabulary that leads to a distancing effect and an effective use of irony. The
Urdu story is more elaborate and detailed, and more strident in the denunciation
of the royalty for its failure to arrest the rot that had set in. Moral indignation is
clear and unequivocal in the Urdu story, while in the Hindi story it is suggestive.
Some facts have been reversed when the story was rendered into the other
version. For example, in Hindi we have the following: ‘Mirza was losing the
game. Mir Sahib was checkmating him again and again.’ In the Urdu version, we
have the exact opposite: ‘Mir Sahib was losing the game. Mirza Sahib was
checkmating him again and again.’ Similar discrepancies are there at several
places.

One and a Quarter Ser of Wheat

First published in Urdu as ‘Sawa Ser Gehun’ in Chand (November, 1924), and
later included in Firdaus-e Khayaal (1929). Now available in Kulliyaat-e
Premchand 11 (2001). It is available in Hindi in Mansarovar 4 (1939).

Pleasures of College Life

First published in Hindi with the title ‘Vinod’ in Madhuri (November 1924), and
later collected in Mansarovar 3 (1938). In Urdu it was published in Zamana
(February 1925) under the title ‘Maya-e Tafrih’, and later included in Khwab-o
Khayal (1928). Now available in Kulliyaat-e Premchand 11 (2001).

The Malevolent Baby

First published in Hindi as ‘Tentar’ in Chand (December 1924), and later

included in Mansarovar 3 (1938). Not available in the Urdu version.
Transliterated from Hindi to Urdu for Kulliyaat-e Premchand 11 (2001).

Money for the Decree

Published in Hindi as ‘Decree ke Rupaye’ in Madhuri (January 1925), and later

included in Mansarovar 3 (1938). In Urdu, it was included in Firdaus-e Khayaal
(1929). Now available in Kulliyaat-e Premchand 11 (2001).

The Condemned

First published as ‘Dhikkar’ in Chand (February 1925), and later included in

Mansarovar 1 (1936) . Not available in the Urdu version. Transliterated from
Hindi to Urdu for Kulliyaat-e Premchand 11 (2001).

The Path to Hell

First published in Hindi as ‘Nark ka Marg’ in Chand (May 1925), and later
included in Mansarovar 3 (1938). In Urdu, it was included in Prem Chaleesi
(1930) as ‘Hasrat’. Now available in Kulliyaat-e Premchand 11 (2001).

The Secret of Culture

First published as ‘Sabyata ka Rahasya’ in Madhuri (March 1925), and later

included in Mansarovar 4 (1939). In Urdu, it was included in the volume
Firdaus-e Khayaal (1929). Now available in Kulliyaat-e Premchand 11 (2001).

Temple and Mosque

First published in Hindi as ‘Mandir aur Masjid’ in Madhuri (April 1925), and
later included in Gupt Dhan II (1962). In Urdu it was published in Zamana
(December 1925). Not available in Urdu now. Transliterated from Hindi to Urdu
for Kulliyaat-e Premchand 11 (2001).

Faith

First published in Hindi as ‘Vishwas’ in Chand (April,1925), and later included

in Mansarovar 3 (1938). Not available in the Urdu version. Transliterated from
Hindi to Urdu for Kulliyaat-e Premchand 11 (2001).

Man and Woman

First published as ‘Stree aur Purush’ in Chand (May–June, 1925), and later
included in Mansarovar 3 (1938). In Urdu, it was published in Prem Chaleesi 2
(1930) as ‘Devi’. Now available in Kulliyaat-e Premchand 12 (2003).

A Hired Pony

First published as ‘Bhaadey ka Tattu’ in Madhuri (July, 1925), and later

included in Mansarovar 3 (1938). In Urdu, it was published in the collection
Firdaus-e Khayaal (1929). Now available in Kulliyaat-e Premchand 11 (2001).

A Mother’s Heart

First published as ‘Maata ka Hriday’ in Madhuri (July 1925), and later included
in Mansarovar 3 (1938). Not available in Urdu. Transliterated from Hindi to
Urdu for Kulliyaat-e Premchand 11 (2001).

Theft

First published in Hindi as ‘Chori’ in Madhuri (September, 1925), and later

included in Mansarovar 5 (1946). In Urdu, it was published in Prem Chaleesi
(1930) with the same title. Now available in Kulliyaat-e Premchand 11 (2001).
The Goddess from Heaven

First published in Hindi as ‘Swarg ki Devi’ in Chand (November, 1925), and

later included in Mansarovar 3 (1938). In Urdu it was included in the collection
Prem Chaleesi (1930) as ‘Jannat ki Devi’. Now available in Kulliyaat-e
Premchand 11 (2001).

Punishment

First published in Hindi as ‘Dand’ in Chand (October 1925), and later collected
in Mansarovar 3 (1938). In Urdu it was published as ‘Saza’ in Prem Chaleesi 2
(1930). Now available in Kulliyaat-e Premchand 11 (2001).

The Outcaste

First published in Urdu as ‘Neech Zaat ki Ladki’ in Zamana (December 1925).

Not collected in any known Urdu anthology. Now, it is available in Kulliyaat-e
Premchand 12 (2003). Published in Hindi as ‘Shudra’ in Chand (January 1926),
and later included in Mansarovar 2 (1936).

Laila

First published in Hindi as ‘Laila’ in Saraswati (January, 1926), and later

included in Mansarovar 3 (1938). In Urdu, it was included in both Firdaus-e
Khayaal (1929) and Prem Chaleesi (1930) with the same title. Now available in
Kulliyaat-e Premchand 12 (2003).
 Glossary

aanchal end or corner of a sari

aarti part of the ceremony of worship when the sacred flame is circled round the holy image
abeer/gulal liquid colour
adharma opposite of dharma; anti-religion
aerund castor plant
Aghan winter month in the Indian calendar corresponding to November–December
ahir cowherd
akhada wrestling ring
amama special big and heavy turban
amavas the night of the new moon
angeethi stove that works on coal
angochha shoulder cloth
angrakhan buttoned-up coats and kurtas with delicate embroidery
Asarh farming month in the rainy season corresponding to June–July
Ashtami eighth day of the lunar fortnight
Ashwin autumn month corresponding to September–October
atai self-taught singer; tutor
atal inflexible; unchangeable
auliya protector, a person who has achieved sainthood
baari maker of leaf plates
bahli two-wheeled covered cart pulled by oxen
bahu daughter-in-law
Baisakh first Indian month, corresponding to April–May
bal kaand part of the Ramayana dealing with the boyhood of Lord Rama
balushahi sweetmeat
banjara nomad
baraat marriage party of the bridegroom, comprising family and friends
a structure with twelve gateways
baradari a structure with twelve gateways

bara maasa poetic form describing the feelings of a beloved separated from her lover through all
twelve months of the year
Bargada deity
bhabhi older brother’s wife
bhabhoot sacred ash
Bhadon rainy month corresponding to August–September
Bhagat person who abstains from meat and alcohol
biwi wife
Brahmani wife of a brahmin
brahmbhoj ritualistic feeding of Brahmins to get their blessings
brata religious practice to carry out certain obligations so one can achieve divine blessings for
the fulfilment of one or several desires
chabutara raised platform
Chait hot and dry month corresponding to March–April
Chamar tanner, cobbler
chamarin tanner woman
charnamrita literally, foot nectar; a mixture of milk, curd, ghee, sugar and honey, considered sacred,
and used in the tending of idols and sacred objects
chatty container
Chaudhuri high-caste person
chaudhurain wife of a chaudhuri
chaugan polo
chauki wooden stool or plank; bench
chaupai quatrain
chaupal village square; meeting place
chautal ‘four claps’, a particular style of singing
chela disciple
chhakda ramshackle cart
chopad a game
chulha earthen oven
chunri dupatta; stole
churan digestive
form of musical composition
dadra form of musical composition

Darbar-e Aam court of public audience

Darbar-e court of private audience
Khaas
daroga police inspector or superintendent of tolls or of municipal or government departments
dastarkhwan cloth spread on the ground or a raised structure for laying out food
dhaam pilgrimage site
Dhanvantari physician of the gods
dharmatma man of religion; spiritual guru
dharmayudh holy war; crusade
dholi bundle of about two hundred paan leaves
Diwan-e Aam hall of public audience
Diwan-e hall of private audience
Khaas
doli palanquin, litter
dom cremation worker; scavenger
domni woman singer or dancer belonging to a caste that converted to Islam from the Hindu dom
caste
dona cup made of dried leaves
Drupad also known as Yajnasena, the king of southern Panchal
Durga Path recitation of the holy book of Durga. Chanting her name is known to ward off evil spirits
and ghosts
Ekadashi eleventh day of the lunar fortnight; some pious Hindus observe a fast on that day
gajra flower garland worn by women on festive occasions
garach medicinal herb
garib poor
gathborna medicinal herb
gauna the ceremony of a wife being taken to her husband’s home
Gayatri A hymn of twenty-four syllables chanted in the name of Goddess Savitri or Durga
Mantra
ghunghat veil
gilli-danda Indian tip-cat
godaan the Hindu practice of offering a cow to a Brahmin after the death of a family member. It
was believed that by doing that the soul of the departed would find peace and go to
heaven
 heaven
gopis maidens of Vrindavan in love with Krishna

griha pravesh house-warming

gurumata wife of a teacher, treated like a mother
halvai sweet vendor; confectioner
Hanuman forty verses in praise of Lord Hanuman
Chalisa
harira concoction made from several ingredients such as ghee, jaggery, cumin, nuts, turmeric
powder and dry ginger powder. It is part of the postnatal diet of a woman which provides
her wholesome nutrition
havan kund sacred pit where sacrificial fires are lit
Ibn-e-Sina Avicenna, a Persian polymath
idgah prayer ground where Muslims gather for the Eid congregation
ilaka region; estate
imarti sweetmeat
Ism-e Aazam Muslim prayer to ward off evil
jagir feudal land grant under the jagirdari system to officials during the Mughal period.
Tenants were supposed to be under the servitude of the jagirdar
jagirdar holder of a jagir
janaab sir
janeyu sacred thread worn from adolescence by Hindu males of the upper three community
groups
Janmashtami festival that celebrates the birth of Krishna
janwasa temporary dwelling for a marriage party
Jauhar custom of collective self-immolation by Rajput women to save themselves from
dishonour
Jeth, Jaishta second month of the Hindu calendar corresponding to May–June
Kaachhi community of market gardeners, a member of the Kaachhi community
kaans Saccharum spontaneum, a perennial grass growing up to three metres in height with
spreading rhizomatous roots
kachcha raw
kachnar a tree, also known as orchid tree, camel’s foot tree and mountain ebony
Kahar member of Hindu sub-caste whose duties include carrying palanquins and drawing water
kaharin woman Kahar
kaka uncle; near-and-dear acquaintance
Kaala Paani lit. black water; Cellular Jail
kamandal an oblong water pot made of a dry gourd, metal, wood or clay, usually with a handle and
sometimes with a spout. Hindu ascetics often use it for storing drinking water
kanthi ornament like choker
kanyadaan ritual of giving away a daughter in marriage
karha bangle
karhai pan
Kayastha members of the scribe caste, traditionally known as keepers of public records and
accounts, writers, and administrators of the state
kesar saffron plant
khaddar homespun cloth, popularized by Mahatma Gandhi
khangar member of a semi-tribal community who earned livelihood by carpentry
kharau clogs; wooden footwear
khasdaan portmanteau, betel dish or box with cover
khudkasht land cultivated by owner
khus fragrant grass; khus coolers made of sweet-smelling herbs and hung like a screen or mat
over windows and doors for the natural cooling of air used in India
kolhu oil press drawn by bullocks
kos length of approximately three miles
Kshatriya warrior caste
kulvadhu housewife
kundan fine gold
Kunwar honorary title traditionally associated with feudal Rajputs, such as the son of a rana or
thakur
Kunwar month of Kartik in the Hindu calendar roughly corresponding to October–November
Kurmi Hindu agricultural caste in India
lagaan rent payable or accruing on land
lagan auspicious moment for performing a sacred task; horoscope
lambardar village headman who collects revenue and acts as a link between the government and the
people
leela inscrutable ways of God
lota small round metal pot
Maagh tenth month of the Hindu calendar roughly corresponding to January–February
maata mother; goddess
mahtab special kind of firecrackers
makoh Solanum nigrrum
maktab school
malida sweets
malin gardener’s wife
malkin mistress
mamu maternal uncle (mother’s brother)
mandap temporary pavilion erected to conduct the marriage ceremony
mansabdar member of the imperial bureaucracy of the Mughal empire in India. The mansabdars
governed the empire and commanded its armies in the emperor’s name
marsiya an elegy
maryada honour
mauza site, place or village
Meghdoot variation of Meghadutam, a play by Kalidasa
mehfil lively assembly of people, get-together; musical soirée
mirzai jacket of coarse cloth
mem white woman
mistri worker, generally a fitter
moha longing for worldly attachments
mujra nautch performance
mukhtar pleader
mukhtar-e representative who holds a general power of attorney of the zamindar
aam
mundan tonsure
munim accountant
munna little darling, children are commonly addressed as ‘munna’ (for a boy) or ‘munni’ (for a
girl)
munn precious gem found inside a snake. According to popular belief, a snake possessing the
gem takes it out and goes sniffing around for food. On returning, it swallows the gem.
Picking up the gem, which is a risky endeavour that might cost a person his life, will lead
to being blessed with untold wealth
nagin female cobra
nainsukh fine muslin
na-mehram a stranger before whom a Muslim woman is forbidden to appear unveiled
offering
nazrana offering

neochchawar ward off evil

ojha sorcerer
ood aloe wood; emits fragrance when it burns
paanigrahan marriage
pakwaan special kind of fried sweets prepared on festivals
Panch long live the panchayat
Parameshwar
ki jai
panditayin female counterpart of a pandit; wife of a pandit
papiha brain fever bird
pativrata wife who attains spiritual status through devotion to her husband
pattal leaf plate
Parvez emperor of Persia
pasi toddy extractors
patwari village recorder
payis measure of land
peshkaar officer in the court
Phagun eleventh month in the Hindu calendar roughly corresponding to February–March
phulka plain roti
pind daan religious ritual performed to bring salvation to the departed soul. Offering the ashes of
the deceased into the Ganges and feeding the poor constitute essential components of this
ceremony
pitambar lit., yellow garment; used as another name of the Hindu gods Krishna and Vishnu
because of their yellow clothing
pitra-paksha when rites are performed in honour of ancestors
pooranmasi full moon
Poos winter month in the Hindu calendar corresponding to December–January
prakriti raw nature
purohit Hindu priest
purush man
qurbani ritual sacrifice of animals during Eid
Raghubansa a variation of Raghubansam, a play by Kalidasa
Rathyatra Hindu festival celebrating the life of Lord Rama
rukhsati send-off of the bride from her parents’ house to her husband’s; bringing a wife to her
husband’s house when she hits puberty
Safeda variety of mango
samdhi father of a son-in-law or daughter-in-law; fem: samdhan
sandhya ritual of worship and meditation performed three times a day by Hindus of the higher
castes
sanjivani lit. life-giving; the herb used to revive Lakshman when he fell unconscious in the
Ramayana
sankranti the day when the sun enters a new zodiac sign
sanyas renunciation
sanskar good upbringing
sarai inn
Saraswati the goddess of learning
sattu gram powder
Satyanarayan religious ritual recounting the story of the acts of kindness of a particular deity,
katha Satyanarayan, representing a form of Lord Vishnu
satyug the era of justice
saubhagyawati status of being married and having a husband
saut co-wife
sejgarhi wagon often used for carrying small children
sendh break-in
ser measure of weight, approximately one kilogram
sethani wife of a seth
sewaiyaan sweets; Indian vermicelli
shaligram sacred stone representing Lord Vishnu
shastras Hindu holy books
shehnai musical instrument played during weddings and other occasions
shodashi(n) a girl of sixteen years, funeral ritual
shradh in Hinduism, it is the ritual one performs to pay homage to ancestors, especially to dead
parents
shuddhi purification; part of worship in Hinduism; also refers to conversion to Hinduism
sipahi soldier; constable
somwari night of the new moon that falls on a Monday
amavas
auspicious state of being married
suhaag auspicious state of being married

surma kohl
swang dramatic performance; jest, farce
taat sackcloth
tehsildar administrative officer in charge of a tehsil, i.e., subdivision.
talukdar holder of a taluk, i.e., land estate; zamindar
tam-tam one-horse carriage, meant to seat two people in front and two in the rear
tanzeb muslin
tapasvini female ascetic
tapasya asceticism
tasmai roasted vermicelli cooked in milk
Teej festival where married women keep fasts for the long lives of their husbands
thakurain wife of a thakur
tibbi Greek system of medicine
Tiwari sub-caste of Brahmins in north India
udan khatola flying saucer
vakula Mimusops elengi; tree with rich foliage
var raksha engagement
vilayat the West; Europe
wah-wah bravo!
yagyopobit ritual pertaining to sacred thread
 Acknowledgements

An extensive project that has gone on for more than a dozen years owes its
completion to many. I thank all my colleagues and students in the Department of
English, Jamia Millia Islamia, who participated enthusiastically in the project
and were co-travellers with me in this long journey. Thanks are also due to
Professor Sabiha A. Zaidi, director, Jamia’s Premchand Archives and Literary
Centre, who placed the entire holding of the archives at my disposal and lent me
some very valuable books. Shazia Alvi and Umaima at Zakir Husain library,
Jamia Millia Islamia, were particularly helpful in tracking rare journals,
newspapers and manuscripts. I would also like to place on record my thanks to
the staff members of the Sahitya Akademi library and the Nehru Memorial
Museum library for their help. Moazzam Sheikh, librarian at San Francisco
public library, gave me important information about the holdings of Urdu
journals in Pakistan and the USA.
Among the experts associated with the project, I recall with gratitude the
advice given me by Professor Alok Bhalla and Professor Malasri Lal. Several
writers-in-residence at Jamia interacted with the translators and advised them.
Some of them also translated a couple of Premchand stories at my request. I
would like to specially mention Anjum Hasan, Robert Rosenberg, Farzana
Doctor, Annie Zaidi, Lakshmi Holmström and Mini Krishnan. The editorial
team at Penguin led by Ambar Sahil Chatterjee and consisting of Arpita, Paloma,
Shreya and Shanuj is thanked for its patience, rigour and painstaking attention to
detail. And finally, a big ‘thank you’ to my ardent foot soldiers—Shailendra,
Sarfaraz, Kalyanee, Sarah and Naseeb—who helped me in reading the proofs
most diligently and meeting the punishing deadline that Penguin Books had set
for me.
 Note on Translators

A. Naseeb Khan holds an MPhil and a PhD in translation studies. His

publications include Rip Not the Sore, a collection of poetry. The Evolution of
Ghalib includes his translation of Ghalib’s Urdu poetry. He teaches at Jamia
Millia Islamia, New Delhi.

Abbasuddin Tapadar is associate professor of English at Shyam Lal College,

Delhi University.

Adeel Mehdi teaches English at Jamia Millia Islamia.

Afroz Taj is professor of South Asian studies at the University of North

Carolina, Chapel Hill, USA. His published works include The Court of Indar
and the Rebirth of Indian Drama (2007).

Alpana Neogy is former assistant professor of English at Ram Lal Anand

College. She has worked on the effects of Partition and the notions of identity in
regional and Indian English literature.

Anand Prakash was associate professor of English at Hansraj College, Delhi

University.

Anindya Das has done his MPhil from Jamia Millia Islamia.

Anirudh Karnick is a doctoral candidate in comparative literature at the

University of Pennsylvania, USA. At present, he is translating Prashant Bagad’s
short fiction into Hindi and English.

Anjum Hasan is the author of the novels The Cosmopolitans, Neti, Neti and
Lunatic in My Head. She has also published a collection of stories, Difficult
Pleasures, and a book of poems, Street on the Hill. Her books have been
nominated for various awards.

Annie Zaidi is the author of Known Turf: Bantering with Bandits and Other
True Tales, and several novels and collections of short stories. She has also
edited Unbound: 2,000 Years of Indian Women’s Writing, and Equal Halves.
She is also a film-maker.

Anuradha Ghosh teaches in the Department of English at Jamia Millia Islamia,

New Delhi. Her specialization is in the area of literature, cinema and culture
studies. Presently, she is working on an Indian Council of Social Science
Research project on the Muslim question in Bengali and Malayalam cinema.

Asmat Jahan teaches in the Department of English at Jamia Millia Islamia,

New Delhi. She translates from Hindi and Urdu into English. Her papers have
appeared in Prison Writing in India (2014), and Looking Back: The 1947
Partition of India, 70 Years On (2017).

Ayesha Abrar is an MPhil student in English at Jamia Millia Islamia.

Baran Farooqi is a critic and a translator. She is a professor of English at Jamia

Millia Islamia, New Delhi. Her latest publication is a collection of Faiz Ahmad
Faiz’s poetry in English titled The Colours of My Heart (2017).

Bharti Arora has completed her PhD from the Department of English at Jamia
Millia Islamia, New Delhi. She teaches at Janki Devi Memorial College, Delhi
University.

Binish Aqil has done her MPhil in English from Jamia Millia Islamia, New
Delhi.

Chandana Dutta is an editor and translator based in Delhi. She translates from
Hindi and Bangla into English and was the recipient of the Katha Award for
Translation for Bangla in 1999. She holds a PhD from Jawaharlal Nehru
University, New Delhi.
Christina Oesterheld is a specialist in Urdu literature in the University of
Heidelberg, Germany.

Deeba Zafir teaches in the Department of English at Lakshmibai College, Delhi

University. She has translated essays on literary criticism and fiction from Urdu
and Hindi into English. She has also written on and reviewed works of Urdu and
Hindi literature. Her other research interests include Partition, Dalit studies and
disability studies.

Diamond Oberoi is associate professor of English at Ambedkar University,

New Delhi.

Faizullah Khan is associate professor of French at Jamia Millia Islamia, New

Delhi.

Fatima Rizvi is associate professor in the Department of English and Modern

European Languages at the University of Lucknow. Her areas of interest include
postcolonial literature and literature in translation. She is the recipient of the Ali
Jawwad Zaidi Award for translation.

G.J.V. Prasad is a poet and novelist. He is professor of English at Jawaharlal

Nehru University, New Delhi.

Ghazala Siddiqui is a poet and teacher-trainer. She works at Jamia Millia

Islamia.

Gillian Wright is a well-known translator and reviewer based in Delhi. She has
translated Srilal Shukla’s classic novel Raag Darbari from Hindi to English.

Harish Trivedi is India’s foremost critic and commentator on literary studies.

He was professor of English at Delhi University.

Ivy Imogene Hansdak is a poet. She works in the department of English, Jamia
Millia Islamia.
John Caldwell is assistant professor at the University of North Carolina, Chapel
Hill, USA.

Kalyanee Rajan teaches English at Shaheed Bhagat Singh Evening College,

New Delhi. Her areas of interest are Indian writing in English and translation.

Madhu Singh is professor in the Department of English and Modern European

Languages at the University of Lucknow. Her areas of interest include South
Asian literature and culture, contemporary women’s writing in India, literature
for social change and archival history.

Meenakshi F. Paul is a faculty member in the Department of English at

Himachal Pradesh University. She is a translator and poet. She has published
several articles and books, including a volume on bilingual poetry, Kindling
from the Terraced Fields, and a book of translation, Short Stories of Himachal
Pradesh.

Mini Krishnan edits literary translations for Oxford University Press and has a
column on translation in The Hindu. She is consulting editor of the Malayalam
University translation programme (Malayalam into English) and works with
multiple publishers like Orient Blackswan, Yoda Books, Navayana, Juggernaut,
Women Unlimited, Niyogi and Oxford University Press.

Moyna Mazumdar has worked with several publishing houses as editor. She
also translates from Hindi and Bengali into English.

Nandini Chandra teaches English in Delhi University.

Neerja M. Chand is reader of English at Ram Lal Anand College, Delhi

University. She completed her MA in English from the University of Wisconsin,
USA, and has a PhD in African literature.

Nibir K. Ghosh is University Grants Commission emeritus professor in the

Department of English Studies and Research at Agra College, Agra. He was
senior Fulbright fellow 2003–04 at the University of Washington, Seattle, USA.
An author and editor of fourteen acclaimed books and over 170 research essays
and articles, he is the founder-chief editor of Re-Markings, an international
biannual journal of research in English.

Nishat Zaidi is professor in the Department of English at Jamia Millia Islamia,

New Delhi. Her research interests include postcolonial writing, Indian literature
in English translation, comparative literature and feminist studies. Her
publications include Between Worlds: The Travels of Yusuf Kambalposh (2014;
with Mushirul Hasan) and A Voyage to Modernism: Syed Ahmed Khan (2011;
with Mushirul Hasan).

Payal Agarwal teaches English at Delhi University. Her primary areas of

research interest include translation studies, film studies, Dalit literature and
Renaissance literature.

Payal Nagpal is assistant professor in the Department of English at Janki Devi

Memorial College, Delhi University. Her areas of interest are literary theory and
modern drama.

Preeti G. Dewan teaches English at Deshbandhu College, Delhi University.

Rajendra Parihar teaches English at Ramjas College, Delhi University. His

interests are Indian writing, black narratives, translation, sports and popular
culture.

Ranjeeta Dutta has completed an MPhil in English from Jamia Millia Islamia,
New Delhi.

Rashmi C.P. is a PhD student in the Department of English at Jamia Millia

Islamia, New Delhi. Her areas of interest are English studies and urban studies.

Richa Bajaj works in a college in Delhi University.

Saba Mahmood Bashir is assistant professor of English at Jamia Millia Islamia,

New Delhi. Her publications include I Swallowed the Moon: The Poetry of
Gulzar (2013).
Sabiha A. Zaidi is director at the Premchand Archives and Literary Centre at
Jamia Millia Islamia, New Delhi. She is currently engaged in collecting and
preserving the literary effects of Indian writers and disseminating them among
scholars and researchers.

Sanjay Mukherjee is professor in the Department of English and CLS at

Saurashtra University, Rajkot. His interest lies in cultural studies, poetry and
translation.

Sarah Mariam is a PhD student of English at Jamia Millia Islamia, New Delhi.
She is working on the plays of Habib Tanvir.

Sarfaraz Nawaz hails from Anjanshaheed in Azamgarh, Uttar Pradesh. He is

associate professor in the Department of English at Shibli National College,
Azamgarh. He has published a poetry collection titled Poems at Work (2015).

Saroj Kumar Mahananda is a multilingual researcher, writer and translator. He

teaches English at Jamia Millia Islamia, New Delhi. His areas of interest include
Dalit studies, Indian literature in translation, postcolonial literature and
Australian literature.

Satish C. Aikant is former professor of English at HNB Garhwal University and

a former fellow of the Indian Institute of Advanced Study, Shimla. He has been a
visiting professor at Ecole des Hautes Etudes en Sciences Sociales, Paris, and the
editor of Summerhill: IIAS Review.

Shaheen Saba is a PhD student of English at Jamia Millia Islamia, New Delhi.

Shaifta Ayoub is assistant professor of English at Government Degree College,

Nawa Kadal, Srinagar, Jammu and Kashmir. Her areas of interest include
translation studies, comparative literature and postcolonial studies.

Shailendra Kumar Singh is pursuing his PhD from Jamia Millia Islamia, New
Delhi. He has a master’s in English literature from Hindu College, Delhi
University. His research interests include peasant narratives, gender studies and
Premchand’s literary corpus.
Shalim M. Hussain is a writer, translator and film-maker. He is currently a
doctoral candidate in the Department of English at Jamia Millia Islamia, New
Delhi, and assistant professor of English at the University of Science and
Technology in Meghalaya.

Shradha Kabra is a PhD student of English at Jamia Millia Islamia, New Delhi.
Her areas of interest are English studies and cultural studies.

Shirin Bismillah is an MPhil student of English at Jamia Millia Islamia, New

Delhi.

Shuby Abidi is assistant professor of English at Jamia Millia Islamia, New

Delhi. She did her doctoral dissertation on the novelists of the Indian diaspora.
Her areas of interest include diaspora studies, feminist literary theory, Indian
writing in English and translation.

Snehal Shingavi is associate professor of English at the University of Texas,

Austin, USA. He is the author of The Mahatma Misunderstood: The Politics and
Forms of South Asian Literary Nationalism, and the translator of Premchand’s
Sevasadan, the Angaaray short story collection, and Bhisham Sahni’s Today’s
Pasts.

Sunil Kumar is assistant professor of English at Dyal Singh College, Delhi

University. He completed his PhD from Jamia Millia Islamia, New Delhi, where
he worked on the Frankfurt school and postmodernism. His areas of interest
include aesthetics, literary theory and translation studies.

Sunita Rani Ghosh is associate professor in the Department of Hindi Studies

and Research at Agra College, Agra. She was visiting scholar in the Department
of Asian Languages at the University of Washington, Seattle, USA, in 2003–04.

Swati Pal teaches in the Department of English at Janki Devi Memorial College,
Delhi University. She is currently the officiating principal of the college. Her
areas of interest are modern drama, creative writing, education and translation.
Tasneem Shahnaaz is associate professor of English at Sri Aurobindo College,
Delhi University. She is interested in feminist and cultural studies, translation,
English language teaching and South Asian literature. Her most recent co-edited
book is Crossing Borders: Essays on Literature, Culture and Society (2017).

Urvashi Sabu has done her PhD from Jamia Millia Islamia. She teaches English
in Delhi University.

Uttara Bisht teaches English at Delhi University and is currently pursuing her
PhD from Jamia Millia Islamia, New Delhi.

Vandana R. Singh is an author, translator and editor. She has taught English
literature, language and communication skills, and authored books on these
subjects. Her literary translations from Hindi to English have been published by
Katha, the National Book Trust, Penguin and Juggernaut.

Vibha S. Chauhan is associate professor in the Department of English at Zakir

Husain Delhi College, Delhi University. She has to her credit seven books and
several research papers covering her research interests in English, Hindi,
Bhojpuri, translation and non-urban studies.

Vikas Jain teaches English at Zakir Husain Delhi College (Evening), Delhi
University.

Wafia Kissa has done her BA in English literature and MA in media governance
from Jamia Millia Islamia, New Delhi. She teaches English to speakers of
foreign languages in Australia. She is a language enthusiast and has a keen
interest in cultural history.
 Popular Editions

Hindi

1. Sapt Saroj, Calcutta: Hindi Pustak Agency, 1917

2. Nav-Nidhi, Bombay: Hindi Granth-Ratnakar, 1917
3. Prem Purnima, Calcutta: Hindi Pustak Agency, 1919
4. Bade Ghar ki Beti, Calcutta: Hindi Pustak Agency, 1921
5. Prem Pacheesi (1923)
6. Prem Prasun, Lucknow: Ganga Pustakmala, 1924
7. Prem Pratima, Benares: Saraswati Press, 1926
8. Prem Pramod, Allahabad: Chand Karyalay, 1926
9. Prem Dwadashi, Lucknow: Ganga Pustakmala, 1926
10. Prem Teerth, Benares: Saraswati Press, 1928
11. Prem Chaturthi, Calcutta: Hindi Pustak Agency, 1928
12. Paanch Phool, Benares: Saraswati Press, 1929
13. Sapt Suman, Benares: Saraswati Press, 1930
14. Prem Panchami, Lucknow: Ganga Pustakmala, 1930
15. Prerna Aur Anya Kahaniyaan, Benares: Saraswati Press, 1932
16. Premchand ki Sarvshrest Kahaniyaan, Lahore: Vishwa Sahitya
Granthmala, 1934
17. Mansarovar 1 & 2, Benares: Saraswati Press, 1936
18. Kafan Aur Shesh Rachnayen, Benares: Saraswati Press, 1937
19. Naari Jivan ki Kahaniyaan, Bombay: Hindi Granth-Ratnakar, 1938
20. Mansarovar 3, Benares: Saraswati Press, 1938
21. Mansarovar 4, Benares: Saraswati Press, 1939
22. Mansarovar 5, Benares: Saraswati Press, 1946
23. Mansarovar 5 and 6, Benares: Saraswati Press, 1936
24. Mansarovar 7, Benares: Saraswati Press, 1947
25. Mansarovar 8, Benares: Saraswati Press, 1950
26. Gupt Dhan 1 and 2, Allahabad: Hans Prakashan, 1962
27. Premchand ka Aprapya Sahitya, New Delhi: Bharatiya Gyanpeeth, 1988

Urdu

1. Soz-e Watan, Lucknow: Zamana Press, 1908

2. Prem Pacheesi 1, Lucknow: Zamana Press, 1914
3. Prem Pacheesi 2, Lucknow: Zamana Press, 1918
4. Prem Batteesi 1, Lucknow: Zamana Press, 1920
5. Prem Batteesi 2, Lahore: Darul Isha’at, 1920
6. Khwab-o Khayal, Lahore: Lajpat Rai & Sons, 1928
7. Khaak-e Parwana, Lucknow: Nigar Press, 1928
8. Firdaus-e Khayaal, Allahabad: Indian Press, 1929
9. Prem Chaleesi 1 and 2, Lahore: Jilani Electric Press Book Depot, 1930
10. Mere Behtareen Afsaaney, Lahore: Kitab Manzil, 1933
11. Akhiri Tohfa, Lahore: Narayan Dutt Sehgal & Sons, 1934
12. Zaad-e Raah, Delhi: Hali Publishing House, 1936
13. Doodh Ki Qeemat, Delhi: Ismat Book Depot, 1937
14. Vardaat, Delhi: Maktaba Jamia, 1938
15. Dehaat Ke Afsaaney, Lahore: Darul Isa’at, 1939
16. Kulliyaat-e Premchand vols. 9-14, Delhi: National Council for
Promotion of Urdu Language, 2000–2003
 THE BEGINNING

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This collection published 2017

Introduction copyright © M. Asaduddin 2017
Foreword copyright © Harish Trivedi 2017
The moral right of the author has been asserted Jacket images © Ahlawat Gunjan ISBN: 978-0-143-44129-
8
This digital edition published in 2017.
e-ISBN: 978-9-387-32651-4
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