The Complete Short Stories

by Premchand

  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.

  4

  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 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.

  Trans
lated from the Urdu by Shaheen Saba

  The Problem

  1

  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 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.

  2

  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.

  3

  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 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.

  4

  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 affected his temperament. Self-ass
urance 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.