The Complete Short Stories

by Premchand

‘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

  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.

  5

  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 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 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

  1

  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.

  2

  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 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.

  3

  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 needle
ssly 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.’