by Premchand
Soon, it was monsoon, and the kiln was filled with water. There wasn’t any business. Magan had been absent for three days. Haridas was worried, and wondered if the boy had fallen sick or met with an accident. He asked the other workers about him but no one had any idea. On the fourth day, Haridas reached Magan’s home—a wreck of a formerly prosperous house. Magan came out when he heard Haridas’s voice.
Haridas asked, ‘Why haven’t you come to work for the last few days? How is your mother?’
Magan replied in a choked voice, ‘Mother is very sick and says she won’t survive. She asked me a number of times to call you but I hesitated to come. How fortunate that you’ve come on your own. Please come in and see her. She’ll be pleased to meet you.’
Haridas entered Magan’s home. The entire house reeked of loss and ruin. Heaps of brick dust and stone were scattered everywhere. It was a picture of destruction. Only two rooms were liveable. Magan signalled Haridas towards one of them. When Haridas entered, he saw an old woman groaning on a ramshackle cot.
She opened her eyes when she heard Haridas’s footsteps and inferred who he was.
She said, ‘You’ve come! So kind of you. I’ve been waiting to meet you; you are the benefactor of my child now. The way you have protected him so far . . . I hope you will always keep an eye on him and mould him into a fine man. The days of my distress are about to end. Once, this house was prosperous. When misfortune came knocking at our door, Laxmi abandoned us. Our ancestors had anticipated such a state and so they saved something for the earth’s custody. Its invoice was kept securely but for a long time it could not be traced. Magan’s father could not find it. If he had found the invoice, we would not have been in such a deplorable state. Three days ago I found the invoice in a stack of old files. Since then, I have been hiding it. Is Magan outside? The invoice is in the vault near the head of the cot. It has all the details . . . it contains information about the location. When the right moment comes, get it dug out and give it to Magan. I kept asking for you so that I could convey this message. I do not trust anyone else except you. There aren’t any morals left in this world. Whom can you trust . . .’
3
Haridas did not discuss the incident with anyone. His intentions wavered. The invoice had revealed that the wealth was below the platform of a temple some five hundred steps from the house towards the west.
Haridas wanted the wealth, but without anyone finding out how he had come across it. It was a difficult task. The fear of defamation was a source of constant anxiety. It was all terribly base. How could he betray someone he had protected and brought up as his own child!
For many days, Haridas was in turmoil. In the end, however, his evil intentions triumphed over his better judgement. He assured himself that he had never gone against his religion till now and would never do so. He reflected in his mind, Is there anyone in this world who has not gone astray at least once in his life? If there is anyone, then he is not human but a God. I am a human being. I do not claim to be equal to gods.
Self-deception is akin to consoling a child by making false promises.
Haridas would leave his house for a walk every evening. After confirming that there was no one around, he would go and sit on the platform and dig with a pickaxe. During the day, he checked if anyone was poking around the platform. In the stillness of the night, while he shifted those lonely bricks, he would be as frightened as a guilt-ridden Vaishnav eating meat.
The platform was quite long and wide. It took a month to dig it up and yet he could barely reach half the required level. His condition was like that of a man trying to invoke a mantra. His mind was agitated. His eyesight became sharp. He looked quiet, as if he were meditating. He did not talk to anyone, and if someone teased him, he snapped at them. He rarely went to the kiln. He was torn. Every day he would decide that he wouldn’t go to the platform, but by evening, a kind of intoxication would set in, and he’d lose his good sense. His condition was that of a dog who returns to the person who thrashed him, and waits greedily for another bone.
The second month passed as well.
It was a night of amavas. Haridas was settled on the platform like darkness settles on a tainted heart. Today the digging would be over. It would take a little more time and effort. No worries, things were under control. His family might create a little trouble if he got too late. But it would not take long now to find out what was beneath the platform. If I find a stone vault, then there would certainly be wealth. If there isn’t any vault then it would be nothing but a trick. If that happens . . . no, I won’t be able to bear it! I would have been fooled. But no, the pickaxe is making some sound. Yes, there is a rocky surface. He searched for it. There was no doubt now. It was a rock. The vault was found, but Haridas did not jump with joy.
He returned home with a headache. He thought it was because of tiredness, but even sleep did not bring any relief. By night, he had a high fever. For three days, the fever persisted. No medicine brought him any relief.
Haridas was almost convinced that his condition was a punishment for his greed. He wanted to give the invoice to Magan and ask his forgiveness, but the fear of exposure stopped him. He wondered how the followers of Jesus confessed their sins before a priest.
4
After Haridas’s death, the invoice passed into the hands of his son, Prabhudas. It was beyond doubt that the invoice had been drawn by Magan’s ancestors. But Prabhudas thought, Father must have deliberated enough before venturing on this path. He was an upright and honest man. Nobody ever doubted his intentions. So if he did not think this conduct reprehensible why should I have any misgivings? If this treasure comes my way my life would be completely different! I can show the rich how to spend money. I can even make them bend down before me. Nobody would then dare look me in the eye! He decided to go ahead with his father’s plan.
Come evening, and he would leave the house. It was the same time, the same alert eyes, and the same pickaxe. It seemed as if Haridas’s spirit was working in a different form.
The base of the platform had been dug up. Now there was the vault itself, the joints of which were difficult to loosen. The material was old and strong; even the pickaxe bounced back. It took some days for the crack to open but the rock did not budge. Then Prabhudas began to work with an iron rod, but despite using all his force, the rock did not move. He had to manage everything alone. It was out of the question to ask anyone for help.
Once again, it was amavas. It was about midnight but Prabhudas’s effort still hadn’t borne fruit.
But today, it was absolutely essential to find a solution. If anyone looked into the basement the game would be up.
Sitting on the rock, he began to think. His brain just didn’t seem to work. Suddenly something clicked . . . why not make use of explosives? He didn’t want to leave the task for the next day, so he went straight to the market, covering the distance of two miles in no time! But when he reached, he found that the shops were closed. The fireworks-maker refused to entertain him: ‘Explosives cannot be sold at this time. It is not a government order. Who are you? What will you do with the explosives? No, if something happens we will be held responsible.’
Prabhudas’s patience had never been tested this way before. He kept pleading with the shopkeeper, and eventually, the sweet music of coins won him over. As Prabhudas left the market, he found it difficult to control his excitement.
At two in the morning, Prabhudas reached the temple. He placed the explosives in the crack of the vault, ignited the wick and quickly got out of the way. The next moment, there was a big explosion. The rock flew up. A dark cave appeared, as if some demon was waiting with his mouth open to swallow him.
5
It was morning. Prabhudas was resting in his room. In front of him, there was an iron vault with ten thousand old coins inside it. His mother was sitting beside him with a fan.
Prabhudas was suffering from a fever. He would toss about, moan, throw up his hands and legs, but his eyes never left
the iron vault. All his hopes were imprisoned there.
Magan was a munshi at the kiln now. He lived in Prabhudas’s house.
Magan entered Prabhudas’s room and said, ‘Will you come to the kiln? Should I ask for the carriage?’
Prabhudas looked at him, his face full of regret, and said, ‘No, I won’t come today, I am sick. You too stay back.’
Magan went out to call a doctor.
By ten o’clock, Prabhudas’s face had gone completely pale and his eyes were red. When his mother looked at him, she was overwhelmed with grief. It was as if Haridas’s condition was flashing before her eyes. It felt as if the tragic event was repeating itself. While she was praying, Prabhudas’s eyes were still stuck to that same vault to which he seemed to have offered his life.
His wife sat nearby and began sobbing uncontrollably. Tears fell from Prabhudas’s eyes too, but they were still hopelessly fixed on the vault.
The doctor arrived, gave him some medication and left. But the medicines had an adverse effect. Prabhudas’s hands and legs became cold, his face became dull and his heartbeat, sluggish; and yet his eyes did not leave the vault.
The neighbours gathered. They talked about the gentle nature and good qualities of both the father and the son. Both were seen as embodiments of virtue and modesty. They’d never uttered, even by mistake, a foul word to anyone. Prabhudas’s entire body had become cold now. If there was life anywhere, it was only in his eyes. And they were looking at the iron vault unrelentingly.
The house was now in pandemonium. Prabhudas’s mother, and his wife were both wailing and weeping. Women from the neighbourhood tried in vain to console them. His friends stood by with handkerchiefs pressed to their eyes. Death at a young age is one of the most heart-breaking, unnatural and fearful sights one can behold—a thunderbolt, a cruel comedy played out by the creator. Life seemed to have taken on the aspect of an unquenchable thirst. The life breath might ebb out but the longing remains.
In the meantime, Magan came and stood beside him. Prabhudas turned his eyes away from the vault and looked at him. It seemed as if his blood had begun to flow again. There were momentary signs of revival. He called out to Magan, whispered into his ears and pointed towards the iron vault. As Prabhudas did this, his eyes turned away, and he breathed his last.
Translated from the Hindi by M. Asaduddin
A Dhobi’s Honour
1
Bechu Dhobi loved his home and village as much as every man did. He ate simply, often barely half his fill, but his village was still far more precious to him than the whole world. Though he had to suffer the abuses of the old peasant women, the honour of being called Bechu Dada by the young wives was also his. He was always invited to every occasion of joy or grief; especially at weddings, his presence was no less essential than that of the bride and the groom themselves. His wife would be ceremonially worshipped inside the house; he would be welcomed graciously at the doorstep. Wearing peshwaz, bells tied to his waist, one hand beating the mridang, one hand on his ear, when he would lustily sing the traditional viraha and bol extempore, along with the troupe of singers and musicians, his eyes would glaze over with pride. Yes, Bechu was quite content with his lot as a washerman. But sometimes, when the atrocities of the zamindar’s men became unbearable, he would long to run away from the village.
Karinda Sahib had four or five peons. Each of them had large families. Bechu had to wash all their clothes for free. He did not have an iron. To iron their clothes he had to beg and plead with the dhobis of other villages. If he ever took back the clothes unironed, he would have to face hell for it. He would be thrashed, have to stand for hours in front of the chaupal, and such abuses would rain down on him that passers-by would cover their ears and women would lower their heads in shame.
It was the month of Jeth. All the nearby ponds and lakes had dried up. Bechu would have to leave for a distant lake while it was still dark. Even there, the dhobis already had their slots fixed. Bechu’s slot fell on the fifth day. He would load his bundle of washing and arrive there long before dawn. But it was not possible to stand in that scorching Jeth sun beyond nine or ten. Even half the load wouldn’t get washed. He would bundle up the unwashed clothes and return home. The simple village folk would listen to his story of woe and quieten down; they would neither abuse him nor beat him up. They too had to work the plough and hoe the fields in that fierce Jeth sun. The soles of their feet, too, were cracked and sore; they knew his pain. But it wasn’t so easy to please Karinda Sahib. His men would forever be standing on Bechu’s head. ‘You don’t bring the clothes for eight-eight days on end,’ they would say grimly. ‘Is this winter or what? Clothes get grimy and smelly with sweat in a day here, and it makes no difference to you.’ Bechu would fold over himself, beg, plead and somehow manage to pacify them.
Once, nine days passed, and their clothes were still not ready. They had been washed but not yet ironed. Finally, helpless, Bechu reached the zamindar’s chaupal with the clothes on the tenth day. Fear had frozen his limbs. As soon as Karinda Sahib saw him, he went red with rage. ‘Why, you rascal, do you want to live in this village or not?’
Bechu put the bundle of clothes down on the wooden platform and said, ‘What to do, Sarkar, there’s no water anywhere—and neither do I have an iron.’
Karinda: ‘Everyone in the world has water except you. There’s no cure left for you except to throw you out of the village. Scoundrel! Fooling the midwife with a bloated stomach—no water, no iron indeed!’
Bechu: ‘Malik, the whole village is yours; if it pleases you, let me stay, if it pleases you, throw me out, but don’t taint me with this accusation. That is a custom common to city dhobis. I have spent a lifetime serving you. But whatever the mistakes and lapses may have been on my part, my intentions have never been bad. If anyone in the village says that I have done such a thing, I will accept my fault.’
It is futile to try and reason with a tyrant. Karinda Sahib abused and cursed him some more. Bechu too pleaded and swore in the name of justice and mercy. The result was that he had to consume turmeric and jaggery for eight days to relieve the pain of the thrashing he received. On the ninth day, somehow or the other, he washed the remaining clothes, collected his belongings and, without a word to anyone, left for Patna in the night. He was deprived of the fortitude necessary to take leave of one’s old customers.
2
When Bechu arrived in the city, it was as if there was already an empty space waiting for him. He only had to take up a room on rent, and things started falling into place. At first he nearly fainted on hearing how much the rent was. In the village, he wouldn’t even get this much for a month’s washing. But when he learnt the rates for washing here, the rent didn’t bite so much. In just one month he had more customers than he could count. There was no dearth of water. He was true to his word, and still free of the ills of city life. Sometimes, the earnings of a single day would exceed what he’d earn in a year back home in the village.
But in just three or four months, the ways of the city began to influence him. Earlier, he used to drink coconut water. Now, he got a bubbly hookah. His feet, once bare, were attired in shoes, and the unpolished grain he was accustomed to began to cause indigestion. Earlier, once in a while, on some festive occasion, he would have a little liquor. Now, to beat exhaustion, he started drinking every day. His wife acquired a taste for ornaments—‘The other dhobins go about all dressed up here, am I any less than them?’ she would say. His boys would get excited every time a peddler came by hawking his wares and run out as soon as they heard ‘Moongfali! Halva!’
Meanwhile, the landlord raised the rent. Even straw and oil cakes were as dear as pearls here. A good bit of his earnings went into feeding the two bulls that carried his load of dirty clothes for washing. So whatever he would have managed to save over several months earlier now vanished. Sometimes, the expenses would mount higher than his earnings, but no means of thrift would come to mind. Eventually, his wife started whisking awa
y his customers’ clothes and renting them out to others on the sly. When Bechu came to know, he was furious. ‘If I hear one more complaint, there’ll be no one worse than me! It was this accusation that forced me to leave the village of my forefathers. Do you want us to be banished from here as well?’
His wife answered, ‘But it is you who can’t do without liquor for even a day. Do I get the money to blow up on myself? And yes, leave something for household expenses before you go, I’m not getting any sweets out of this.’
But gradually, the matter of ethics began to bow its head before necessity. Once, Bechu lay ill with fever for many days. His wife took him to the vaid in a palanquin. The vaid wrote down a prescription. There was no money in the house. Bechu looked at his wife with desperate eyes and asked, ‘What now? Must the medicine be bought?’
‘I’ll do as you say.’
‘Can’t you borrow from someone?’
‘I’ve borrowed from everyone I could; it’s become difficult to walk in the mohalla nowadays. Whom to ask now? What work I can do myself, I do. I can’t cut myself up into pieces and die, can I? A little extra money used to come in, but you put a stop to that too. So what say do I have then? The bulls have been hungry for two days. If I get two rupees, I could feed them.’
‘Fine, do what you wish, but make do somehow. I have now learnt—an honest man cannot make a living in the city.’
From that day on, the ways of other city washermen were followed in his house.
3
A lawyer’s cleric, Munshi Dataram, lived in Bechu’s neighbourhood. Sometimes, during a break, Bechu would go sit with him. It was a matter between neighbours, so no accounts were kept for his washing. Munshiji would always receive Bechu graciously, hand him his chillum to smoke, and if some delicacy had been made at his place, he would have it sent for Bechu’s boys. But yes, he would make sure that these little gestures did not exceed the cost of the washing.