Stories on the City

by Premchand

  The mother said, ‘Are we not paying for this? Have not lakhs of our men been jailed? Have we not been beaten up with staff? Have our properties not been confiscated?’

  Dharamvir said, ‘How are the English affected by this? They will leave India only when they are convinced that henceforth they cannot afford to stay in this country. If today, thousands of them are killed, today itself we will get Swaraj. Russia won its freedom this way, Ireland is another such example and India too will win its freedom. There is no other way out. We have to finish them. One thousand demonstrations cannot strike fear in their hearts in the same degree that the murder of a white officer can.’

  The mother’s whole body shivered. She had been a widow these ten years and this boy was her only support. She eked out her livelihood by labouring and working for others. She was happy with the thought that the boy would earn some money and bring a daughter-in-law to the house. She wished to have a meagre meal without care, and simply live a peaceful life. With these tiny straws of wishes, she had built a boat. She sat on it and was sailing through the river of life. Now this boat was swaying and being tossed around by waves of change. She felt as if the boat was drowning. She clutched her chest and said, ‘Son, what are you talking about? Do you think by killing the English we will get freedom? We don’t have enmity with the Englishmen; we are against the policy of their government. Even if our countrymen rule with such a policy, we would raise our voice in protest. Russia was under no foreign rule, yet its citizens uprooted the government. The reason behind this was that the czar would not take care of his subjects. The noblemen lived in luxury. The poor were at the receiving end. You know these things better than me. The same applies in our context. Every single officer here gobbles up the share of a thousand poor men. Under one pretext or the other, the money is spent but we are getting poorer and poorer, day by day. We want to bring a change to this unconstitutional government. I fall at your feet, leave this group. Don’t jump into the fire for no reason at all. I cannot imagine seeing you brought to court accused of murder.’

  Dharamvir was least affected by her pleadings. He said, ‘I have no fear of this. We are very cautious. To offer oneself up for arrest is foolishness. We wish to adopt such strategies that no one gets arrested.’

  The fear reflected on the face of the mother was now replaced with shame. She said, ‘This is even worse. The innocent will be punished and the murderers roam scot-free. This is shameful! I consider it meanness. To murder someone secretly is an act of betrayal. To make your harmless brethren suffer for your crimes is like putting your community up for sale. You will be held responsible for the death of every innocent man.’

  A little amused, Dharamvir dismissed his mother’s distress. ‘Mother! You don’t understand these things. You organize your demonstrations and take out public protestations. Leave us to our work. Sin and reward, virtue and vice, right and wrong—these words have got no meaning. What you consider a sin is to me very much a rightful deed. How should I tell you that these are relative terms! You have read the Bhagavadgita, haven’t you? Krishna says it very clearly—I am the one who kills, I am the one who gives life. Man cannot kill anybody or give life to anybody. Then what sin are you talking about? Why should I feel ashamed for the one who is accused in my place? This is not an individual fight we are engaged in. We are fighting against the authority of England. Whether I die or someone else in my place, it hardly makes a difference. The one who serves the community better has a greater right to live.’

  The mother looked at the boy, astonishment writ large on her face. There was no use debating with him. She could not convince him through arguments. Having finished his meal, he got up but she sat there listless. A thought crossed her mind. Is it likely that he has murdered somebody or was planning to do so? The very thought made a tremor run through her body. Like all common men, she too considered killing and murdering highly disgusting, and hated it from the very core of her heart. Her own son a murderer! What could be more shameful, mean and deplorable? She was ready to lay down her life for the cause of the people who upheld the ideals of selfless service, sacrifice, purity of intentions and noble deeds. In her eye, the true servant of the community was one who would not hurt the lowest of the low from among the creatures in this world. Rather, one should be ready to shed one’s life gladly for the country. In the making of her moral being, non-violence constituted the greatest part. If Dharamvir had been shot dead defending a poor soul, she would have wept but with her head held high. She would have suffered spiritual sorrow. Maybe she would never have come out of such a grief. But a sense of pride would have been attached to it. Now, to imagine him having killed someone! That would be a curse, a divine punishment. How could she stop the boy? The question vexed her. She would never let a situation arise where her son would be arrested on a murder charge, nor would she tolerate that the innocent be punished for his crime. How had this insanity gripped the boy? She sat down to eat but it was hard for her to swallow even a morsel. There was a cruel hand somewhere which was hell-bent on snatching away her son from her. She wanted to remove that hand. She would not separate the boy from herself for a second. She would follow the boy like a shadow. Who could dare pull the boy away from her lap?

  Dharamvir used to sleep in the outer room. She had a feeling he might have gone somewhere. She rushed into his room. The taper was burning on the stand before him. He seemed to have fallen asleep while reading a book which was still open and lay on his chest. She sat there and with utter helplessness earnestly prayed to God to bring a change of heart in him. His face showed the same innocence and childlike harmlessness that one could witness twenty years ago. There was no trace of harshness or arrogance there. For a moment, her motherly affections overshadowed the principles that she was so particular about. She tried to assess the deeply felt emotions of her son with an open heart. How much this young man was driven with the zeal to serve his countrymen! What compassion he had for them! Such sympathy for the oppressed! If he is far-sighted, patient and measured like experienced old men, what makes him so? Is there a way one could imagine the restlessness and agony of a man who is ready to sacrifice his dear life for a cause? I wish this zeal and enthusiasm could unshackle itself from violence, then the pace of his awareness would be swifter.

  Dharamvir was startled by the footsteps of his mother, and grabbing the book, he said, ‘When did you come, Mother? I did not know when sleep overtook me.’

  Drawing the taper stand aside, she said, ‘Don’t sleep with the taper so close to your cot. Sometimes it may cause an accident. Will you keep reading the whole night? It is already midnight. Just sleep comfortably. I will also lie down here. I don’t know why, but it frightens me to sleep inside.’

  Dharamvir replied, ‘Then, let me bring a cot for you to lie down.’

  ‘No, let me lie on the floor itself.’

  ‘Oh, no! I lie on a cot and you on the ground! Come on to the cot.’

  ‘Oh, boy, shut up. I take the cot and throw you to the floor. Impossible!’

  ‘I will bring the cot or I will sleep inside. But tell me, what are you afraid of?’

  ‘Your words frightened me. Why don’t you include me in your group?’

  Dharamvir did not reply. He took his cot and bed sheet and moved to the inner room. The mother took the taper and showed him the way. He put the cot in the room and lying down on it, said, ‘If you join my group, what more can I ask for. The poor fellow members keep falling sick after eating half-cooked meals. They will get good food, at least. And there are a lot many things an old woman can easily do which the young find impossible for themselves. For example, to spy on something or to disseminate our views among women. But I know you are kidding.’

  The mother said in a serious tone, ‘No, son. I am not kidding. I mean it. You can’t realize how delicate a mother’s heart is! I can’t leave my son surrounded by danger, and sit comfortably at home. As long as I did not know things, it was not an issue. But now that I am familiar with
the circumstances, I can’t bear to be away from you. I will always be by your side. And, if ever a chance comes, I will prefer to sacrifice myself before you. My greatest joy in life would be to see you before my eyes as I die. Don’t assume that I will prove myself a coward during challenging occasions. I will not cry, I will not complain. Even the deadliest of dangers will not make me let out a shriek of pain. In order to protect her young one, even a cow turns into a lioness.’

  With great devotion, Dharamvir kissed the feet of his mother. He never found her so venerable and worthy to be loved.

  The very next day, an occasion came to test her spirits. She spent two days practising firing with a revolver. The woman who was a worshipper of non-violence and truth and who would shut off her ears at the sound of crackers was now seen opening fire with such fearlessness. She had such perfect and faultless aim that even the youth were full of wonder.

  The highest officer of the police was their target, and Dharamvir was assigned the job.

  When they reached home, she asked, ‘Son, I don’t think the officer has committed any mistake. Then why has the group singled him out?’

  Smiling at the simplicity of his mother, Dharamvir said, ‘You think that our constables, sub-inspector and the superintendents do things by their own will? That officer is responsible for the atrocities that they perpetrate. And for us it suffices that he is an important tool of the machinery which is ruthlessly crushing our community. In this fight, racism is not a fact to reckon with. Your greatest sin here is that you belong to the opponent’s group.’

  The mother was silent. She paused for a moment and said timidly, ‘Son, I never demanded anything from you. Now I ask you for one thing. Will you grant it?’

  Dharamvir said, ‘You need not ask me. Mother, you know, I cannot refuse you anything.’

  She replied, ‘Yes, I do know my son. This is why I have mustered up courage to ask you. Separate yourself from the group. See, your old mother is pleading with her folded hands.’ And she stood before her son with hands folded together in the manner of a beggar.

  Dharamvir laughed and said, ‘You are asking for a very irrelevant thing. You know what this will lead to? I will not return alive. If I run away from here, the members of the group will be after me, thirsty for my blood, and their bullets will find me. You have given me this life. I can shed it at your feet. But the motherland has given life to both of us and her right is greater. If the occasion demands that I may have to kill you for the sake of the country, I will not shirk from this unpleasant duty. My eyes will be streaming with tears but my sword will fall at your neck. Our religion teaches us to place the country above everything. There is no way I can ever leave the group. Yes! If you have any fear, don’t come with me. I will devise a pretext and take some other comrade along. If you feel weak in your heart, just tell me right now.’

  Strengthening herself, the mother said, ‘It is for you that I was worried. Otherwise what fear should I have?

  The mission was to be accomplished in the dark of the night. It was decided that the moment the target returned from the club in the night, he should be seized and finished off. Dharamvir had already inspected the surroundings. He had chosen the spot where he would sit and aim at the prey. Close to the bungalow of the officer were bitter gourd and cranberry shrubs. This was the place of his hiding. To the left of the bushes, the ground was low. There were guava and plum orchards down there.

  The officer would go to the club between seven and eight in the evening. He came back around eleven or twelve. The timings were confirmed. Dharamvir decided to go near the bushes around nine and sit there in hiding. Just at the spot was a turn. The vehicle would naturally slow down at the turn and right then he would open fire.

  As the days passed, the heart of the old woman turned white with fear. But Dharamvir was least affected and did things as per his usual routine. He would get up at his fixed time, take his breakfast, spend his evening as usual, read for some time, play two or three rounds of chess with friends who would turn up by that time, eat his dinner in peace and then would lie down to sleep comfortably, and a little longer than the allocated time as if he had no worries. His mother’s heart lost interest in things. Eating was far from her mind; she could not sit peacefully at any place. Women from the neighbourhood came to see her but she was in no mood to talk. She paced restlessly to and fro like a mouse running away from a cat to find a hole. She felt the weight of a mountain falling upon her head. She had no respite. There was no escape. The philosophies of fate, rebirth and the will and scheme of the Creator seemed hollow and useless before this dreadful condition she was in. The shield and helmet could protect her against the arrows and spears of the enemy but this mountain would crush her with her armour of defence on her. Her mind and heart became numb and were failing her. The only feeling that overpowered her was that of terror. But by evening, gradually, a feeling of calm descended on her. She felt a power rising within her. One could call it the power of helplessness. The bird flutters its wings as long as it’s hopeful of escape by flying away. And then she prepared herself for the clutches of the hunter and the dagger of the killer. Extreme fear leads to fearlessness.

  She called out, ‘Son, come and eat something.’

  Dharamvir came inside. The whole day had passed and they had not exchanged a word. She found his face somewhat dull. The restraint that kept his inner restlessness veiled till now reflected itself on his countenance as the moment of fear drew closer.

  He got dressed, placed his revolver in his pocket, and said, ‘Now the time has come, Mother!’

  She did not say anything. There was no need to take care of the house. Things lay scattered. Even the taper was left burning. Both of them came walked out of the house silently. One took a manly stride and the other was weighed down with helplessness and worry. They did not exchange words even on the way. Both of them were silent, determined and active like the book of fate with its prose portion majestic, vigorous, and advocating the best of performances, and the poetry portion vibrating with agony, feeling and prayer.

  They reached the bushes and sat there silently. Half an hour later, the vehicle of the officer came to view. Dharamvir looked at the direction attentively. The vehicle was moving slowly. The officer and his wife sat together. Dharamvir took out his revolver. The mother caught his hand and the vehicle passed by.

  Dharamvir said, ‘What did you do, Mother? We would not get this golden opportunity again.’

  ‘Madam was also in the vehicle. What if she were shot?’

  ‘It would have made no difference. Our religion teaches us not to distinguish between the male serpent and the female and their child.’

  The mother said reproachfully, ‘Then your religion is the religion of beasts and barbarians which does not care for the basic principles of war. A woman is considered innocent in every religion. So much so, that even savages respect women.’

  ‘I will not let go the chance as he returns.’

  ‘As long as I am alive, you cannot harm the lady.’

  ‘I am not bound to follow your restrictions in this regard.’

  The mother did not say anything. The intent of such an unmanly assault had smashed her motherly affection to smithereens. Hardly twenty minutes had passed when the same vehicle rose to the view coming from the opposite direction. Dharamvir looked at it intently and said, jumping up, ‘Look, Mother, this time he is alone. You also take aim with me.’

  The mother seized Dharamvir’s hand and tried to frantically snatch his revolver. Dharamvir knocked her down, and taking a step back, positioned his revolver. In a second, the mother got up. Just then he opened fire and the vehicle went past. But the mother lay there, writhing about on the ground.

  Throwing away his revolver, Dharamvir rushed towards his mother, and said anxiously, ‘Mother, what happened to you?’

  Then, suddenly the reality of the accident dawned on him. He was the murderer of his dear mother. The crudeness, alacrity and the fire in him extinguishe
d. He bent down, feeling the onrush of tears that trembled in his eyes. He looked at the face of his mother with tearful eyes and said regretfully, ‘O! What did I do? Alas! Why don’t you utter a word? How did it happen? The darkness captures the vision to see anything. Where did the bullet hit you? Say something! You were destined to die at the hand of this wretched man! He is your murderer whom you raised and offered your lap on which to play. Who do I call? There is no one in sight.’

  The mother spoke in a dwindling voice, ‘I am blessed in my birth. You will carry my dead body. I am dying in your lap. My chest is wounded. As you fired the gun, I stood in its path. My voice fails me. God bless you! I pray for you. Tell me what else I should have done, son! Now I put my honour in your hands and leave.’

  After a moment, Dharamvir was seen walking towards his home with his half-dead mother in his arms. As he rubbed his tearful eyes on her cold soles, he felt an agony filled with a divine happiness.

  Translated from the Urdu by Sarfaraz Nawaz

  A Wife’s Testimony against Her Husband

  I’ve spent most of my life in this house, but I’ve never found any peace here. People might consider my husband to be a thorough gentleman––enlightened, good, courteous and generous. But only the wearer of a shoe knows where it pinches the most. The world is fond of praising those who are ready to ruin themselves for strangers while making their own homes a living hell. People do not praise a man who is ready to die for his family; they consider him selfish, stingy, narrow-minded, stupid and vain. So why should a man’s family praise him if he is ready to die for strangers?