The Complete Short Stories

by Premchand

  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 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.’

  ‘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 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

  1

  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 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 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.

  2

  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 wro
te 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.’

  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.