The Complete Short Stories

by Premchand

  5

  When I saw him yesterday I couldn’t recognize him. How bright his face was earlier, how well-endowed his body, he was the very embodiment of health. Everything has changed in these three years—his face has become pale and the body has shrunk to become like a thorn. His meal has reduced by half and he always seems to be absorbed in some thought. He hardly goes out. He has so many servants and the place is so beautiful. All objects of entertainment are there, but he considers his life now enveloped in darkness. A curse on this disease! If it had such hunger, why didn’t it prey on me? I would have welcomed it eagerly. If there were some means by which the disease left him and caught me! How he would brighten up and begin to smile at the sight of me! Every pore of his body would be thrilled. And now, this is my second day here, but I have not seen him smile even once. When I stepped on to the veranda, he did smile for a moment but it was a wan smile. Babuji could not stop his tears; he went to another room and kept crying for a long time. People enter the council to earn fame and prestige, their only aim is to build a reputation for themselves. This is such a cruel allegation on them. What ingratitude! One has to spoil one’s health in the service of the nation. One has to burn one’s blood. And this is the reward one gets in return! The servants here are absolutely careless. Babuji mentioned his ailment to some of his acquaintances, but they did not pay any attention. Such were his friends and their sympathy for him! Everyone was busy with their own affairs with no concern for anyone else. I felt that he is only imagining that he has tuberculosis. I can’t see any symptoms. I pray to God that what I think is right and I feel that he is afflicted with some other disease. I took his temperature a couple of times. It was normal with no sudden fluctuation. If it really is tuberculosis it must be in its initial stage. There is no reason it can’t be cured if treated properly. From tomorrow I will take him out for a walk. There is no need for the car; a phaeton will be more suitable for him. He appears to me to be somewhat careless. I have seen patients of this disease taking utmost precautions. They take their temperature at least twenty times a day. They take great care about their diet. They take fruits, milk and other nutritious minerals. They don’t eat whatever is presented to them by the cook. I feel that he’s afflicted with some other disease. If I get time I’ll try to find out. Is he under some stress? Does the estate have the burden of a big loan? Of course, there might be small loans. This is common in the case of all aristocrats. If it is a loan, it must be a huge one.

  6

  My mind is distracted by so many worries that I don’t feel like writing anything. All my desires have come to an end. How lucky I considered myself to be! Now there will be no one in the world as unfortunate as me. I could not obtain the invaluable pearl despite my continued earnest devotion and meditation, and this deer-eyed beauty has got it so effortlessly! Sharda has seen her only recently. They hardly had any opportunity for conversation. But he is showing such infatuation for her. He has become crazy for her. God has given man only eyes, not heart. They do not know how to value the heart; they are sold on external beauty. If I am somehow convinced that Sushila would make him happier than I can, I would have no objection to her entry into his life. She is so vain and cruel that I fear Sharda will regret his decision.

  But it is my self-interest that is speaking. Sushila may be vain, cruel, given to luxury, etc. but Sharda has expressed his love for her. He is intelligent, clever and far-sighted. He knows very well what is good for him. He must have taken the decision after weighing all the pros and cons. Now when he has already taken the decision, I do not have the right to be a stumbling block in the way of his happiness. I must exercise patience, self–restraint, and leave this place broken-hearted, depressed and frustrated. I pray that God makes him happier. I do not have a trace of jealousy or pride. I’d like to act according to his wishes. If it pleases him to give me poison, I will drink that with pleasure. Love is life. We want to live for it. If I have to die for it I would consider it my good fortune. If things work out for him when I leave this place then I have no objection to it. It must be God’s will, but how can a human being of flesh and blood be free of the wiles of the world? My heart aches to abandon the long nurtured and burning love that I feel. The paper is wet with my tears which I cannot control. I will be separated from the one I had thought to be my own, at whose feet I dedicated myself and whom I had made the deity of the temple of my heart. Ah! To whom should I complain; on whose shoulder shall I cry? To whom shall I tell the tale of my sorrows? My weak heart cannot bear this final blow. It will end up taking my life. Good for me. For a loveless heart the world is like a dungeon; it is dark and filled with despair. I know even today if Babuji insists that he should marry me, he is sure to agree. He will risk his life just to please me. He is one of those noble men who have not learned to say no. Till now he has not talked about Sushila with Diwan Sahib. He is probably observing me. This indecision has reduced him to this state. He will always try to please me. He will never hurt me, and he will not talk about Sushila even by mistake. I know his nature. He is a gem of a man. But I don’t want to be the chains on his feet. Whatever happens should happen to me. How can I save him? If I have to sink, let me not drown him.

  I also know that if this shock takes my life, he will never be able to forgive himself. His entire life will be one of guilt and regret. He will never find peace. What a terrible situation! I do not have the freedom to die. To keep him happy, I have to keep myself happy. I have to be cruel to him. I have to play womanly wiles with him. I have to pretend that because of his ailment this marriage cannot take place. I have to blame myself for breaking the promise. There is no other way. I pray to God for strength in this trial.

  7

  Sharda Charan

  Only one glance had done the trick. Lajjawati had won me over. Sushila had also won me with a single glance. There was strong attraction in that glance, a fascinating simplicity, a wellspring of joy that could not be hidden anywhere. There was a childish thrill, as though she had got a new toy. Lajjawati’s heart had forgiveness and pity, despair and pain. She was sacrificing her desires for me. She knew herself well. She was intelligent enough to understand the situation and took the decision promptly. She didn’t want to come in the way of my happiness. Along with this she wanted to make it clear that she didn’t care for me. If you go away from me by an inch I will draw away from you by a foot. But feelings are like a fragrance that can’t be hidden. Her apparent cruelty expressed pain and tears trickled from her smile. Why did she run away from my presence to the kitchen and cook some dish that she knew I liked? Why did she want to keep my servants in comfort? Why did she keep the newspapers away from my eyes? Why did she compel me to go with her for evening walks? Every act of hers lifted a veil off her heart. Perhaps she didn’t know that self-knowledge is not one of the special qualities of women. One day, Professor Bhatia made a jibe at me during conversation, and said that I was a slave to prosperity and wealth and made fun of my socialist ideology. She deftly turned away the conversation. I don’t know what she told him behind my back, but sitting on the veranda, I could listen to the debate that was going on between father and daughter. Is there a heartless person who can’t be conquered by selfless service? I have known Lajjawati for a long time but I realize that I saw her real nature during this meeting. Initially I was attracted by her beauty, high values and gentle temperament. The heavenly flame that burnt within her was hidden from my eyes. Now I realized the depth of her love, so pure and infinite! In her place any other woman would have gone crazy with jealousy. She could have taken out her anger on Sushila if not on me, and would have made her a target of her mockery. She could have called me a hypocrite, stone-hearted and cruel, but the candidness with which Lajjawati welcomed Sushila was something I would never forget. She had no trace of meanness, jealousy or cruelty. She took her around with such joy as though she was her younger sister. Sushila was touched by this. Ah! That scene was so memorable when Lajjawati came to bid me goodbye. Professor Bhatia w
as sitting in the car. He was annoyed with me and wanted to run away as soon as he could. Wearing a bright sari Lajjawati came and stood before me. She was an ascetic who had sacrificed her life at the altar of love. She was a garland of white flowers lying at the feet of some deity. She said to me with a smile, ‘Please do write letters from time to time, I think I have this much right on you.’

  I said eagerly, ‘Of course.’

  Lajjawati said again, ‘Probably this is our last meeting. I have no idea where I will go and stay and whether I’ll be able to come here again. Don’t forget me entirely. Forgive me if I have said anything that hurt you. And do take care of your health.’

  Saying this she held her hands towards me, shaking. Her eyes were moist. She wanted to run away from the room quickly. She had no control over her emotions. She looked at me from the corner of her eye. There was a strong tumult going on within her which did not leave me unmoved. Her glance won for her the bet she had lost. I held her hand and said tearfully, ‘No, Lajja, there will be no separation between you and me anymore.’

  The servant came in and handed him a letter from Sushila. It ran thus:

  Dear Shri Sharda Charanji,

  Tomorrow we will leave this place. I have to wrap up so many things and will not be able to see you. I have taken the final decision tonight. I don’t want to destroy Lajjawati’s life and family. I didn’t know about her earlier. If I did, our relationship would not have been so close. My request to you is that you don’t let Lajja slip through your fingers. She is a gem. I know that my looks are somewhat better than hers, and you may have been infatuated with them. But I do not possess the same sense of sacrifice and devotion as she does. I can keep you pleased, but I cannot uplift your life. I cannot make it pure and ennobling. Lajja is a Devi, and she will transform you into a deity. I don’t consider myself equal to her. Don’t think of meeting me tomorrow. What’s the point in lamenting and shedding tears? Do forgive me.

  Yours

  Sushila

  I handed over the letter to Lajjawati. She read through it and said, ‘I’ll go to meet her today.’

  Guessing her intent, I said, ‘You must forgive me. I don’t want to test your generosity a second time.’

  Saying this, I went up to Professor Bhatia. He was sitting in the car and sulking. If Lajjawati had returned without me, he would have shouted at her.

  I touched his feet and said, ‘You’ve always treated me as your son. Please strengthen this relationship now.’

  Professor Bhatia first looked at me with unbelieving eyes and then said with a smile, ‘This was the deepest desire of my life.’

  Translated from the Hindi by M. Asaduddin

  Defending One’s Liberty

  1

  Mir Dilawar Ali had a pedigree bay horse. Though he would often claim to have spent half his life’s earnings on it, it was really just an easy bargain from a regiment. Better still, you could say that it had practically been forced out of there. Perhaps the officers of the regiment did not feel like keeping it any more, and for that reason had decided to auction it.

  Mir Sahib was a court clerk. He lived outside the city and had to travel three miles just to reach the court. This had him worried about a means of conveyance. The horse was a timely convenience, and so he bought it. Mir Sahib had been riding it for the past three years. Though it had no faults whatsoever, the animal seemed to bear perhaps an excessive measure of self-respect. Engaging it against its will or securing its services for demeaning tasks was simply out of the question. Anyway, Mir Sahib was unable to contain his joy because he had got a pedigree horse for a nominal amount. He brought it with him and tied it at his door. Now, finding a horse keeper was tricky. So, the poor fellow would himself stroke it gently for a while in the mornings and evenings. The horse probably felt pleased by such a gesture. It was because of this that it never seemed discontented despite the exceptionally meagre amounts of food it would get. It had developed a sense of sympathy for Mir Sahib. This devotion to its master had made the horse quite weak. But it would happily carry him to the court at the appointed hour. Its leisurely gait indicated spiritual contentment, since galloping had always been against its natural sense of solemnity. There was a certain kind of wilfulness in its eyes. In its devotion to the master, it had sacrificed so many of its long-standing rights. The only privilege it was fond of now was its guaranteed Sunday rest.

  Mir Sahib did not go to the court on Sundays. Rather, he would rub down his horse, give it a bath, and allow it to swim on Sundays. And this really delighted the horse. Otherwise, outside the court, it was tied to a tree and had to make do with dry grass. The hot winds scorched its entire body. But on Sundays, it would feast on fresh grass in the cool shelter of its shed. It thus considered resting on Sundays a prerogative, and it was quite impossible to deprive the horse of it. Sometimes, Mir Sahib would try mounting the horse to go to the market on Sundays, only to be utterly unsuccessful in such an enterprise. The horse would even refuse to wear its harness. Eventually, Mir Sahib made peace with his pet’s obstinacy. He did not want to risk his limbs by hurting the horse’s sense of self-respect.

  2

  Mir Sahib had a neighbour called Munshi Saudagar Lal. He, too, was somehow related to the court, though he did not hold a position there. No one had ever seen him reading or writing anything, but he was still highly respected in the company of lawyers and solicitors. He and Mir Sahib were close friends.

  It was the month of June and the mania for weddings was at an all-time high. The obsessed ones went around the fireworks shops like Catherine wheels. The jesters and storytellers had their own way with people. The ones who carried palanquins acted like the stone gods—even presents and offerings did not melt their hearts. It was during this auspicious period, amidst this uproar, that Munshiji too decided to arrange for his son’s wedding. After all, he was an influential person. He gradually made arrangements for everything that was needed, except for a palanquin. The Kahars had returned his advance deposits at the eleventh hour. Munshiji was furious. He even threatened them, but to no avail. So he helplessly decided that his son would ride a horse for the ceremony involving the groom’s journey to the bride. The marriage party was scheduled to proceed at six. Around four o’clock, Munshiji went to Mir Sahib’s place and said, ‘Dear friend, why don’t you lend me your horse so that it can carry the groom to the station? I can’t seem to find a palanquin anywhere.’

  Mir Sahib said, ‘But don’t you realize that it’s Sunday today?’

  Munshiji responded, ‘Well, why won’t I? But it’s only a horse after all. Some way or the other, it can obviously manage a trip to the station. And it’s not as if it’s far off from here.’

  ‘Be my guest, for what’s mine is also yours. But I doubt if the horse will even be approachable today.’

  ‘Oh, come on! A sound beating can even drive away demons. You’re just afraid of it, and for that reason it behaves wickedly towards you. Once I mount it, it won’t be able to shake me off no matter how hard it tries.’

  ‘All right, suit yourself. And I’ll owe you one if you can bend it to your will.’

  3

  The horse grew suspicious the moment Munshiji entered the stable. It neighed once as if to say he had no business spoiling its peaceful Sunday. The distant cacophony of the wedding’s musical instruments made it even more anxious. When Munshiji tried to untie the horse, it got vigilant and began devouring the fresh grass with characteristic pride.

  But Munshiji was also a shrewd one. He immediately ordered some straight corn from his house and put it before the horse. It had been days since the animal had had such food. It began eating with joy and looked gratefully at Munshiji as if implying its consent.

  At Munshiji’s house, the band was playing in full flow. The groom was elegantly dressed, waiting for the horse. The women of the suburb stood there, with the plates for the aarti ritual in their hands, waiting to see him off on his way to the bride’s house. It was five in the evening. Sudd
enly, they saw Munshiji coming their way, along with the horse. The band members marched forward while someone got the rider’s equipment from Mir Sahib’s place.

  It was decided that the horse should be strapped into its harness. But the very sight of its bridle made it turn away. Munshiji coaxed and urged the horse. He even patted its back and served it straight corn again. But the horse did not seem remotely interested and it was then that Munshiji lost his cool. He immediately whipped it several times. But when it still refused to be bridled, he unleashed the whip baton relentlessly on its nostrils. The beast started bleeding. It looked around helplessly with abject eyes. The problem was indeed a tricky one. It had never received such a thrashing before, and had always been Mir Sahib’s favourite. He had never been so merciless towards it. Realizing that things would get even worse if it were to resist any further, the horse simply gave up. And that was all that Munshiji had hoped for. He quickly saddled the horse while the groom hopped on to it.

  4

  The horse woke up to its situation the moment the groom mounted it. It realized that to forfeit one’s liberty for a small amount of straight corn would be like giving up one’s birthright over mere trifles. Why should I do unpaid work today when all this time I have been resting on Sundays? And there’s no telling where these people will take me. The lad, too, seems like an expert rider. He’ll spur me on, make me run, and whip me half-dead. And who knows if I’ll even be given food or not? Thinking thus, it decided not to take even a step further. At worst, they’ll beat me, but I’ll throw myself down and roll over with the rider. They’ll spare me then. And my master, too, must be somewhere around this place. He’ll never want me beaten so much that I won’t even be able to carry him to the court tomorrow.