by Ruth Vanita
Premchand has a somewhat excessive predilection for suicide as a way of resolving problems as well as stories. This perhaps exercised an influence on Hindi cinema’s similar preference. On the other hand, it could be argued that he is here tapping into a cultural pattern of protest, for newspapers even today frequently report suicides not only by despairing farmers but also by socially disapproved lovers.6 I selected ‘Two Graves’ (‘Do Qabrein’) from this group; it portrays suicide as a tormented and inexperienced young woman’s impulsive response to social humiliation and to her husband’s cruelty. This story also scrutinizes Hindu–Muslim relations through the lens of gender.
In his stories set in colonial India, Premchand takes a fairly simple Gandhian view of Hindu–Muslim relations. But in his historical fiction, generally set in pre-colonial India (a couple of stories are set outside of India too), which is almost completely neglected today, he tends to celebrate the exploits of Hindu kings and warriors against Muslim rulers. I have translated ‘Rani Sarandha’, in which Premchand makes an imaginative foray into the childhood of the great Bundela warrior Maharaja Chhatrasal (1649–1732), whose successful rebellions against the Mughals were sung by poet Bhushan. The story of Champat Rai aiding Aurangzeb’s armies against those of Dara in the decisive battle of Samugarh is historically attested as is that of Chhatrasal’s separation from his parents in his childhood, but Premchand changes the name of Chhatrasal’s mother from Lal Kunwari to Sarandha, and imagines for her a leading role in her husband’s affairs.
Another minor category consists of first-person narratives of lower-middle or middle-class life, often from the point-of-view of an educated man—a schoolteacher, writer, journalist or student. Themes in these stories include contention between husband and wife (some stories narrate these in the husband’s voice and others in the wife’s), the naïve narrator’s troubles arising from male friends who flatter and take monetary advantage of him, and the narrator’s internal conflicts. Two examples I include are ‘Intoxication’ (‘Nasha’) and ‘The Child’, both of which are noteworthy for their self-critical humour.
Idylls of rural childhood or the remembered village generally work to affirm the innate goodness of human beings who have not been brutalized by power relations. Of the childhood stories, I have chosen the less pious ‘Theft’ (‘Chori’) rather than the much-anthologized ‘The Fair’ (‘Idgaah’), about the little boy who spends his money at the fair on tongs for his grandmother rather than toys or sweets for himself. The eponymous ‘Kazaki’, a tribute to the village postman’s relationship with the child narrator, is in the vein of William Wordsworth’s poetic sketches of rustic characters.
These stories may be read as a high Romantic declaration of faith in human nature’s implicit divinity, and they also derive from an Indic tradition that influenced European Romanticism—the Vedanta idea that God resides in living beings, and that humans have the potential to realize themselves as God. This is clearest in ‘The Voice of God’, where Muslim and Hindu come to a common realization of this truth through the language not of religious doctrine but of everyday action. This many-layered story may be read as a comment, despairing and hopeful in equal measure, on the present and past of India, on Hindu–Muslim friendship with its tenuousness, conflicts and reconciliations, on the under-layer of oppression of women and animals (consider the moving vignette in this story of a bullock’s torture and death), culminating in a Gandhian faith in human ability to draw out the best in others.
This story also belongs to a parabolic group that assert the Gandhian belief in trusteeship, the idea that people who are entrusted with responsibility will rise to the occasion and act unselfishly. ‘The Voice of God’ and ‘The Salt Superintendent’ (‘Namak ka Daroga’) are the two most famous examples; others include ‘Divine Justice’ (‘Ishwariya Nyaya’), in which a clerk who cheats his employer’s widow of her property and wins a lawsuit against her, confesses the truth at the last moment when she confronts him in the courtroom. ‘A Daughter’s Wealth’ (‘Beti ka Dhan’) is another, in which a miserly moneylender pays a fellow villager’s debts, refusing to take the debtor’s daughter’s jewellery as security, because he cannot bear the thought of a father being forced to besmirch his honour by accepting anything from a married daughter.
A closely related group of stories are those that partake of the quality of folk tales. These have the flavour of real-life village episodes that acquire the status of legends from being told and retold over time; they thus combine realism with a mythic element. In ‘Sujaan the Devotee’ (‘Sujaan Bhagat’), for example, a pious father has to demonstrate that he can still work harder than his sons, in order to retain control over his land and house. ‘Atmaram’, translated here, ingeniously inverts the folk-tale prototype of those who count their chickens before they are hatched. The old man’s change of heart is compromised by his participation in theft, and yet is genuine, because his newfound wealth undoes the bitterness generated by poverty, and makes him generous. The moha–maya (delusion and attachment) metaphor invoked by Premchand as a figure for the old man and his parrot suggests a peculiarly Hindu answer to the problem of desire. Rather than renouncing desire to achieve liberation, it is only when one’s desire for wealth is fulfilled that liberation from attachment becomes possible.
‘The Grinding Woman’s Well’ (Pisanhari ka Kuan) also belongs to this group of stories about ordinary people’s wishes and transformations. Although it evokes the supernatural through the old woman’s ghost and the idea that she is reborn as her little granddaughter, the concluding image of the child who builds the well against all odds is not necessarily altogether removed from reality. For instance, newspapers recently carried an account of a Bihari villager, Dashrath Manjhi, who spent twenty-two years digging a passage through a three-hundred-foot-high hill, to create a shortcut from his village to the town. For ten years, other villagers called him mad, but after that, they began to help him.7
Finally, there are the stories that cannot be placed in any category, because they create their own categories. Such is ‘A Winter Night’, in which moods shift like the flickering fire that the peasant lights as he goes from frozen misery to elated leaping over the fire, from depression at his poverty to the joy of camaraderie with his dog. Running through these moving pictures (moving in two senses) is the theme of the peasantry’s losing battle to make agriculture a paying proposition, still relevant today, and sadly reflected in the suicides of farmers in Karnataka and Maharashtra that are reported every year.
Most of these great stories were written towards the end of Premchand’s short life. His evolution as a writer can be seen in two stories with the same title: ‘The Co-wife’. The first is a conventional narrative of jealousy between co-wives leading to the first wife’s suicide, while the second, more mature, story unfolds a love–hate relationship amongst the three people involved in the triangle. Premchand famously remarked that he did not write about himself because his life was ordinary, like the lives of millions of others. Yet many of the stories seem to draw on his experience—as a motherless child suddenly burdened with the responsibility of supporting a stepmother and siblings, as a struggling writer, and as a lower-middle-class householder whose Gandhian commitment was at odds with domesticity.
Premchand is often called the greatest fiction writer in Hindi. Although such claims are hard to sustain because greatness, like love, is not, to borrow E.M. Forster’s metaphor, a sack of potatoes that can be weighed, it is still worth asking what accounts for his immense popularity and longevity. Is it because of the nationalist or socialist or Gandhian content of his stories? No, because hundreds of writers with the same views are no longer read, while dozens are read much less often.
His popularity is often ascribed to his writing in non-Sanskritized Hindi, and it is assumed that his Hindi or Hindustani is more colloquial because it is closer to Urdu, especially since his early work was written in the Urdu script. However, his language is in fact replete with Sanskritic wor
ds, yet is very easy to understand. Here is a typical example of Sanskritized Hindi, chosen at random from numerous examples in almost every story. In this celebrated and celebratory comment on collective namaz offered in the mosque at Eid, every noun is from the Sanskrit:
Kai baar yahi kriya hoti hai, jaise bijli ki lakhon battiyaan ek saath pradipt hon aur ek saath bujh jaaye aur yahi kram chalta rahey. Kitna apurv drishya tha, jiski samuhik kriyaein, vistaar aur anantata hriday ko shraddha, garv aur atmanand se bhar deti thi, mano bhratritva ka ek sutra in samast atmaon ko ek lari mein piroey huey hai. (‘Idgaah’)
The colloquialism of Premchand’s language arises not primarily from the use of Urdu but from the easy mix of Brajbhasha, Sanskrit, Prakrit, Urdu and English words. In particular, he uses Brajbhasha a great deal, including many words that do not appear in standard dictionaries. The opening lines of ‘Idgaah’ provide an example of this vibrant, mixed speech:
Ramzan ke purey tees rozon ke baad Eid aati hai. Kitna manohar, kitna suhavana prabhat hai. Vrikshon par kuch ajib hariyali hai, kheton mein kuch ajib raunak hai, aasmaan par kuch ajib lalima hai. Aaj ka surya dekho, kitna pyara, kitna sheetal hai, mano sansar ko Id ki badhai de raha hai … Kisi ke kurtey mein button nahin hai, paros ke ghar mein sui taga leney daura ja raha hai.
Premchand’s work provides strong evidence that spoken Urdu and Hindi are in fact the same language, and that the rift between them has been created by politicians. The living language even today can be written in either script and incorporates many words from other languages, including English. Yet the power and beauty of Premchand’s work cannot be reduced to its colloquial language. It arises as much from its literate and literary quality. Consider, for example, the way the play of light and dark running through ‘A Winter Night’ illuminates the link between man, dog and universe. The warmth of the fire, which makes darkness appear joyful instead of fearful (‘The light floated and bobbed like a boat in the joyful ocean of darkness’), is mirrored in the warmth of intimacy between mortals (man and dog) that makes the chill of mortality bearable: ‘… this unusual friendship seemed to open all the doors of his soul, so that its every atom grew radiant and shone.’
Energy, Blake wrote, is eternal delight, and the delight of Premchand’s stories certainly lies in the boundless energy with which they are written. Suffering, penury, grief—he writes of all these, but with energy that transmutes them into joy for the reader. An example is the elderly father’s wonderful description, in ‘The Shroud’, of the feast he remembers enjoying decades earlier, a description that makes not only his son’s mouth but even the reader’s mouth water, with its synaesthesia, its sounds that evoke taste and smell.
I hope that something of that feast of reading pleasure comes through in this translation.
Ruth Vanita
The Grinding Woman’s Well
LYING ON HER DEATHBED, GOMTI SAID TO CHAUDHURI VINAYAK Singh, ‘Chaudhuri, this was the only wish I had in life.’
The Chaudhuri said, ‘Don’t worry, Kaki, God will fulfil your wish. I will call the labourers today itself and get the work started. If fate so wills, you will drink water from your own well. You must have counted the money?’
Gomti shut her eyes for a moment, gathered her scattered memories, and said, ‘Bhaiya, how do I know how much money there is? All of it is in this pot. Manage with whatever there is. Whom can you ask for more?’
The Chaudhuri picked up the closed pot, weighed it in his hands and said, ‘I’ll manage with this, Kaki. Who else will donate money? People are not willing to give even a few coins in alms; who will bother to donate money for a well to be dug? You are blessed because you are donating your life’s earnings for this work of dharma.’
Gomti said with pride, ‘Bhaiya, you were very small when your Kaka died and I had not a paisa in hand. I went hungry for days. Whatever money he had was used up during his sickness. He was a great devotee of God and so God called him away soon. You have seen how I have lived from then till now. I have ground as much as a maund of flour a night. Beta! Everyone was amazed at how hard I worked. I don’t know how I acquired such strength. My only wish was to build a small well in his name in the village. One’s name should survive. That is why people are so anxious to have sons and daughters.’
Thus, having made Chaudhuri Vinayak Singh the executor of her will, the old woman Gomti went to the next world that very night. Before she died, her last words were, ‘Don’t delay making the well.’ People had guessed that she had money, but no one imagined that she had two thousand rupees. The old woman hid her riches as people hide a vice. The Chaudhuri was the headman of the village and an honest man. That is why the old woman had given him her last instructions.
2
The Chaudhuri did not spend a lot of money on Gomti’s last rites. As soon as the rites were over, he sent for his son Harnath Singh and began to discuss arrangements for buying bricks, lime, stones, and so on. Harnath was a trader in grain. He listened for a while, and then said, ‘Will any great harm be done if the well is not built for a few months?’
The Chaudhuri grunted and then said, ‘No, no harm, but why delay it? She has given the money, and we will be praised for free. As she was dying, Gomti told me to build the well as soon as possible.’
Harnath: ‘Yes, she did, but these days the market is good. If I buy grain for two or three thousand rupees, we can sell it for a quarter more by winter. I’ll pay you interest.’
The Chaudhuri’s heart filled with doubts and fears; he was in a quandary. If two thousand became two and a half thousand, it would be great. He could get some flowers and creepers carved on the plinth round the well. But he was worried lest a loss be incurred. He could not hide this anxiety, so he said, ‘What if we suffer a loss?’
Harnath said crossly, ‘Why should we? That’s ridiculous.’
‘But if we do?’
Harnath said excitedly, ‘Why don’t you admit you don’t want to give the money because you want to be seen as overly pious.’
Like most old people, the Chaudhuri too generally gave in to his son. He said timidly, ‘I didn’t say I wouldn’t give the money. But it’s someone else’s money, so one should be very careful with it. Who knows the ways of the market? What if the price suddenly falls? Weevils could appear in the grain, some enemy could set fire to the house. Think carefully about all the possibilities.’
Harnath said sarcastically, ‘For that matter, why don’t you wonder whether a thief could steal the money or the well wall could collapse? These things also happen.’
The Chaudhuri now had no more arguments to put forward. Like a weak warrior, he had issued a challenge and walked into the arena, but when he saw the glint of a sword, he took fright. Averting his eyes in embarrassment, he said, ‘How much do you want?’
Like a skilled warrior who sees the foe retreating, Harnath said arrogantly, ‘Give me all of it. What’s the point of giving fifty or a hundred rupees?’
They had no fear of losing face. Harnath bought grain. Sacks of grain were heaped up. The Chaudhuri, who always slept soundly, now guarded the grain all night. No mouse dared get into a sack. The Chaudhuri would pounce on it more fiercely than a cat. In this way, six months passed. The grain was sold in winter, at a profit of five hundred rupees.
Harnath said, ‘You take fifty rupees of the profit.’
The Chaudhuri grew annoyed. ‘Are you giving me fifty rupees as charity? If you had borrowed the money from a moneylender, you would have paid an interest of at least two hundred rupees; give me a little less, what else?’
Harnath did not argue. He gave the Chaudhuri one hundred and fifty rupees. The Chaudhuri had never felt so pleased. That night, when he lay down to sleep in his room, his heart began to beat fast. He was not dreaming nor was he intoxicated. Gomti was standing before him, smiling. There was a strange vigour on her withered face.
3
Several years passed. The Chaudhuri constantly tried to get the money back from Harnath, but Harnath would always fin
d a pretext to postpone returning it. He would pay a little interest annually, but he would make a thousand excuses regarding the principal. Sometimes he had to pay the harvesters and at other times he had not balanced his account books. Yet his business kept expanding. Finally, one day, the Chaudhuri plainly told him that whether his business floated or sank he must return the money that month. Harnath tried many deceptive arguments, but the Chaudhuri was not to be moved.
Harnath said irritably, ‘I’m asking you to wait just two months. I’ll return the money as soon as the goods are sold.’
The Chaudhuri said firmly, ‘Your goods will never be sold nor will your two months ever be up. I will take the money today.’
Harnath got up in a rage, brought two thousand rupees, and threw them down in front of the Chaudhuri.
The Chaudhuri said hesitantly, ‘You have the money with you …’
‘Of course, do you think trade runs on words alone?’
‘Then give me five hundred right now, and the rest after two months. All of it won’t be spent at one time.’
Harnath said haughtily, ‘You can spend it or save it as you please, I don’t want it. Are all the moneylenders in the world dead? I don’t want to put up with your bullying.’
The Chaudhuri picked up the money and put it in a niche in the wall. His enthusiasm for laying the foundations of the well turned cold.
Harnath had returned the money, but he had other ideas in mind. At midnight, when the house was silent, Harnath slid aside the bolt of the Chaudhuri’s room and slipped inside. The Chaudhuri was fast asleep. Harnath wanted to pick up both bags of money and slip out, but as he put out his hand, he saw Gomti standing before him. She was holding both bags with her hands. Harnath was terrified, and backed away.