The Complete Short Stories

by Premchand

  It was summer, the season of marriages. Munshiji had to go for a wedding. He got a long pipe made for his hookah, bought a well-oiled chillum and pointed-toe salimshahi shoes, and borrowed a rug from his lawyer sahib and a gold ring and buttons from his friend. He didn’t have much difficulty procuring all these things. But he was embarrassed to borrow clothes for the wedding. There was no scope for getting new ones stitched. It was no easy matter to get made-to-order breast-pocketed kurtas, silk achkans, tight-ringed chunnatdaar nainsukh pyjamas and a Benarasi turban. These items would cost a handsome amount. Buying silk-bordered dhotis and a shawl of Kashi silk was also no trivial matter. He kept worrying about all this for days. In the end, he could think of no one other than Bechu to bail him out.

  When Bechu came and sat by him in the evening, Munshiji humbly said, ‘Bechu, I have to attend a wedding. I have managed to collect everything else I need, but getting new clothes made is a problem. Money is not a concern; by your good wishes these hands are never empty. The profession is also such that no matter what fee you ask for, it is less; some poor fool or another with a fat purse is always there to fleece. But you know the rush of weddings these days—tailors don’t have a moment’s respite, they charge twice the normal rates, and even then they make you wait for months. If you have any clothes suitable for me, I’ll just borrow them for two or three days and somehow get it over and done with. What does it cost anyone to give an invitation? At the most, they might get it printed. But why don’t people ever consider the fact that the invitees too have to make preparations, overcome so many difficulties? If there was a custom in one’s community that he who sends an invitation must also be the one who arranges for everything necessary for the invitees to attend, then people wouldn’t send out these marriage invitations so thoughtlessly. So tell me, you’ll help me out, won’t you, Bechu?’

  Out of obligation, Bechu said, ‘Munshiji, how can I ever refuse you? But the thing is that there are so many weddings these days that customers are also getting impatient for their clothes and sending for them two or three times a day. It shouldn’t happen that while I give you the clothes here, the owner shows up at the door asking for them.’

  Munshiji answered, ‘What’s the big deal in delaying delivery for two or three days? You could easily delay them for weeks if you wished—not put them through the furnace yet, not ironed them yet, the washing ghats are shut—you don’t have any dearth of excuses. Won’t you even do this much for your neighbour?’

  ‘No, Munshiji, I would give my life for you. Come and choose your clothes so I can run the iron over them once more and make them fresh. At worst, I’ll have to hear the abuses of my customers. So even if I do lose a couple, that’s nothing to mope about.’

  4

  Munshiji reached the wedding in style. His Benarasi turban, silk achkan, long coat and shawl created such an impression that people thought he was some wealthy nobleman. Munshiji took Bechu along with him, and made sure he was taken care of. He got him a bottle of liquor and a plate of food when he went in to eat. He would keep calling him Choudhury instead of Bechu. After all, this pomp and show was all thanks to him.

  It was past midnight. The revelry and celebrations were over, and people were preparing to retire for the night. Bechu was lying next to Munshiji’s cot under a sheet. Munshiji took off his clothes and carefully hung them on a line. The hookah was ready. As he lay down and began to smoke, an atai from the troupe of musicians accompanying the wedding party suddenly came and stood before him, and asked, ‘May I ask you where you got this achkan and turban from, sir?’

  Munshiji looked at him suspiciously and said, ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means that both of these belong to me.’

  Munshiji then somewhat recklessly ventured to say, ‘So in your opinion, no one can possess a silk coat and turban other than you?’

  ‘Why not? He whom Allah gives to wears it. There are so many of them here, each greater than the last. I hardly come in that reckoning. But both these things are mine. If you can find another man in this city who possesses the same achkan, I’ll pay you whatever you ask. There’s no other craftsman in the whole city like him. He cuts clothes with such finesse that one could kiss his hands. My insignia is on the turban—I can show you if you bring it here. All I want to ask is where did you procure these garments from.’

  Munshiji realized that this was not the place to argue. If things got out of hand, it could be humiliating. Diplomacy wouldn’t work here. So he said humbly, ‘Bhai, do not ask me that; this is not the time or place to tell you these things. Your honour and mine are one and the same. Just think that this is the way the world goes around. If I had to get such clothes made, I would have spent thousands right now. I just had to attend the wedding somehow, that is all. Your clothes will not get spoiled, I take full responsibility. I’ll take better care of them than if they were mine.’

  ‘I’m not concerned about the clothes. By your grace, Allah has given me plenty. May He protect the rich; thanks be to Him, all five fingers are immersed in ghee. And neither do I wish to malign your good name. I am a slave at your feet. All I want to know is who gave you these clothes. I had given them to Bechu Dhobi to wash. So is it that some thief whisked them away from Bechu’s house, or did some other dhobi steal them from him and give them to you? Because Bechu certainly would not have given these clothes to you with his own hands. He does not do such things. In fact, I too had wanted to make such an arrangement with him once. I even put money into his hands. But, sahib, he picked up the money and threw it away, and he gave me such a talking-to that I was stunned out of my wits. I don’t know what the understanding is here, because thereafter I’ve never even mentioned something like that to him. But I find it hard to believe he has stooped so low. That is why I ask you again and again, from where did you get these clothes?’

  ‘Your surmise about Bechu is absolutely right. He is indeed a selfless man. But neighbours also have some rights. He lives in my neighbourhood, we are part of each other’s lives. He saw my need, and gave in. Bas. That is all. And I would do the same for him.’

  The atai had neither put money into Bechu’s hands, nor had Bechu given him a talking-to. The atai had exaggerated Bechu’s selflessness. But this little exaggeration had a far greater impact on Bechu than if he had merely spoken the truth. Bechu was not asleep. He had heard every word the atai had spoken. He felt as if his soul had just awoken from a deep sleep. The world sees me as such an honest, true and deceitless man. And I . . . I am such a fraud and a cheat. It was on this false charge that I left the village of my forefathers. But after coming here, I’ve got ruined running after liquor, ghee and sugar.

  5

  Six months passed by. It was evening. Some guests had arrived to discuss Bechu’s son Malkhan’s marriage. When Bechu came in to talk to his wife about something, she said, ‘Where will the liquor come from? Do you have some money?’

  Bechu: ‘Didn’t I already give you whatever I had?’

  Wife: ‘But I bought rice, dal, and ghee with that. I’ve cooked for seven people. All of it got used up.’

  Bechu: ‘So what do I do then?’

  Wife: ‘They will hardly eat without drinking first. It will be so embarrassing.’

  Bechu: ‘Whether it is embarrassing or disgraceful, it is not possible for me to get liquor now. At the most what will happen? The marriage will not be fixed. So let it not.’

  Wife: ‘Hasn’t that shawl come in for washing? Go pawn it at a bania’s shop and get back four or five rupees. You can retrieve it in two or three days. We must keep our honour. Or else, everyone will say, “All talk, and nothing to show. He couldn’t even serve us liquor.”’

  Bechu: ‘What are you saying? Is this dushala mine to pawn?’

  Wife: ‘Whosoever’s it may be, at this moment, just use it. No one will come to know.’

  Bechu: ‘No, this I cannot do, whether we get liquor or not.’

  And he walked out. When he came in again, he saw h
is wife digging up something from a hole in the ground. Seeing him, she quickly covered the hole with the end of her sari.

  Bechu went out again smiling to himself.

  Translated from the Hindi by Moyna Mazumdar

  Hoodwinked

  1

  Seth Chandumal would heave a sigh whenever he saw his shop and godowns filled with goods. How would all this get sold? The bank interest was going up, the shop rental was due, and so were the wages of the employees. All this would have to be paid off from the savings. It seemed that all of it had to be paid with his own money. If this situation continued for a few more days, he would go totally bankrupt. Even then, the protesters kept pestering like a devil on one’s head.

  Chandumal’s shop was in Chandni Chowk, Delhi. In the suburbs, too, he had many shops. When the Congress Committee of the city wanted him to stop the import and sale of foreign cloth, he did not pay heed. Seeing him, several other traders refused to sign the pledge paper. The kind of leadership he assumed following this was totally unprecedented without him having done much. He was a well-wisher of the government. From time to time, he would send gifts to appease the sahib bahadur. He was close to the police, too. He was also a member of the municipality. By opposing the Congress programme, he had even become the treasurer of the Peace Committee. All these benefits were the result of his support. To welcome the prince, the officials bought from him cloth worth twenty-five thousand rupees. Why should such a powerful man fear the Congress? What was the Congress anyway?

  The police also backed him—‘Don’t sign the contract. Let’s see what these people can do. Just watch us send them to jail one by one.’

  Chandumal’s courage was bolstered. He resolved to fight the Congress. The result was that for the past three months from early morning till nine in the night volunteers were posted in front of his shop to keep vigil. Several times the police hauled up the volunteers, abused them, and even beat them up. Chandumal too aimed a volley of angry words at them but their vigil was not lifted. He became unpopular because of all the ill treatment meted out to the volunteers, and his business suffered. The bookkeepers of the shops in the suburbs plied him with further bad news. It was really a difficult situation. There seemed to be no way out. He saw that those who had signed the contract kept buying foreign goods on the sly. There was no vigilance on their shops. All these hassles assailed only him.

  What benefit did I get from my friendship with the police and the administration, he thought. No matter what they do, they cannot dislodge the surveillants. The sipahis did not inspire customers to visit him! If they could be removed somehow, then things would be resolved.

  Meanwhile, the bookkeeper called out, ‘See, Lalaji. Some traders were coming to our shop. But these vigil-keepers have told them something. They are all going back.’

  Chandumal answered, ‘If somebody could shoot these sinners, I would be most happy. They will only rest after ruining me.’

  ‘It’s your ego. You could have signed the pledge and got these surveillants removed. We too could have sold off our goods somehow then.’

  ‘I’ve thought about this too; but imagine how insulting it would be for me. After acting so stubborn, one cannot simply bend over. I will fall in the eyes of the administrators. People will mock me and say, look at that fellow, he thought he could fight the Congress! So browbeaten have I been that I have come to my senses. Those whom I had beaten or got beaten, those whom I mocked, those whom I abused . . . with what face can I go in their refuge? There is one way out, though. If the trick works, things will be okay. As the saying goes, kill the snake, but save the stick. I can get the vigil lifted, but without appeasing anyone.’

  2

  It was past nine. Chandumal had come back from a dip in the Ganges and was seated on a bolster, reading his letters. The bookkeepers from his other shops had written about their difficulties. His anger grew with each letter he read. Meanwhile, two volunteers came holding banners in their hands and stopped in front of his shop.

  Chandumal said angrily, ‘Move away from my shop.’

  One volunteer replied, ‘Sir, I am on the road. Should I move from here too?’

  ‘I don’t want to see your face.’

  ‘Then you write to the Congress Committee. We have been ordered by them to stand guard here.’

  One constable came forward and said, ‘What is it, Sethji? What is this lad croaking about?’

  Chandumal said, ‘I am telling him to move away from my shop, but he is saying that he will not. Such impertinence!’

  The constable threatened the volunteers, ‘Are you two going from here or should I use force?’

  ‘We are standing on the road and not in the shop.’

  The constable wanted to display his sense of duty. He wanted to please the seth so he could be rewarded. He abused the volunteers, but when they ignored him, he pushed one of them so hard that he fell on his face. A few volunteers from here and there gathered around the place. Some sipahis too came in. Onlookers usually enjoy such incidents. They crowded around as well. Somebody shouted, ‘Mahatma Gandhi ki jai!’ Others joined in the sloganeering, and in no time, the place was filled with a sea of people.

  One onlooker said, ‘What is it, Lala Chandumal? You are getting this poor fellow harassed in front of your shop and you have no shame. Are you not afraid of God at all?’

  Chandumal said, ‘I swear I have not asked these sipahis to do anything. They just went after those poor fellows. I always get a bad name in the locality for no reason.’

  One constable countered him, ‘Lalaji, you told us that these two volunteers were teasing your customers. Now you are brushing everything aside.’

  ‘Lie! An utter lie! A total lie! In trying to demonstrate how dutiful you are, you guys just became insensible. These fellows were standing way beyond the shop. They were neither speaking to anyone nor causing any trouble. You started shoving them around for no reason. I need to sell my wares, not fight with people.’

  The other constable said, ‘Lalaji, you are very shrewd. You are the one who incited me, and now you have stepped away. If you had not spoken then was there any reason for me to push them around? Darogaji instructed me to keep an eye over your shop. No volunteers should come there, he said. That is why we came. If you had not complained, why would Darogaji give us this instruction?’

  ‘Darogaji had to show off how dutiful he was. Why should I take any complaint to him? Everybody is becoming an enemy of the Congress. Those in the police station seethe in resentment against them. Is it because of my complaint that he gave you such instructions?’

  By then someone had informed the police station that there was a scuffle between the volunteers and the constables in front of Chandumal’s shop. News reached the Congress office too. Shortly, a whole lot of armed police arrived with the station house officer and the inspector. The Congress activists, too, arrived quickly in large numbers. The size of the gathering increased further. Slogans rent the air repeatedly. Congress leaders and the police were locked in heated exchanges. The result was that the police arrested the two volunteers and marched them to the lock-up.

  After the police officers left the place, Sethji told the seniormost Congress leader, their pradhan, ‘Today I have come to learn how cruel these people are towards the volunteers of the Congress.’

  ‘Then those two volunteers were not arrested in vain. Do you have any further suspicion regarding this matter now? Do you now realize whether we’re really violent and disruptive of peace?’

  ‘Yes, sir, I do.’

  ‘Your evidence in our favour is now ensured.’

  ‘I am going to make it clear, no matter what the consequences. The high-handedness of the police cannot be tolerated any more. I have been under an illusion so far.’

  ‘The police will not go easy on you,’ the Congress secretary said.

  Chandumal said, ‘I will withstand a hundred pressures, but I will not lie. The administration may not support my appeal.’

 
; ‘Now our honour lies in your hands,’ said the secretary.

  Chandumal asserted, ‘You will not find me a traitor to the country.’

  While the office-bearers were leaving the place, the secretary said to the pradhan, ‘It seems the man is genuine.’

  The pradhan was not convinced. ‘By tomorrow, everything will be clear.’

  3

  In the evening, Chandumal was called to the police station. The inspector said, ‘You have to give evidence. We are counting on your support.’

  Chandumal said, ‘I am ready.’

  ‘Did the volunteers abuse the constables?’ the inspector asked.

  Chandumal replied, ‘I did not hear anything.’

  ‘Whether you have heard or not does not matter. You have to say that they were pushing the customers around in the shop, starting a scuffle, and then threatening to beat them up. You have to say all this. Darogaji, please get the evidence I have written out for Sethji.’

  ‘I can’t lie in an open court. Thousands who know me will be present there. Who all can I hide my face from? I need a way out of this somehow.’

  ‘All this is fine as far as personal dealings are concerned. In political dealings, lies, truth, shame and modesty . . . nothing matters.’

  ‘But my reputation is at stake.’

  ‘But in the eyes of the administration, you will earn four times the respect you already have.’

  ‘No, sir, I can’t testify. Get some other witness.’

  ‘Do remember that the respect you have now will be shattered.’

  ‘Let it all go; I have my compulsions.’

  ‘You will lose the post of treasurer in the Peace Committee.’