by Premchand
In the afternoon, when the court was being dismissed, the emperor told Raja Sahib, ‘You have done a great favour to me and the state. I can’t reward you enough for your deed. My only request is that you take up the responsibilities of the prime minister and govern the state in the most suitable way. I shall not interfere in your work. Just allow me to stay in a quiet corner. I also hand over Raushan, the traitor, to you. You do with him as you see fit. I would’ve sent him to hell by now, but have spared him because I think you should be the one to deal with him.’
However, Bakhtaavar Singh was familiar with the unstable nature of the emperor’s temperament. He knew very well that all these good intentions might be short-lived. A person’s essential character does not really change. In a couple of months, the situation in the court would return to its earlier state. And so, he had to remain alert. He had done his duty towards the state. The service I can perform for the state selflessly by staying away from it can never be done if I remain a part of the court. A selfless friend always receives greater respect than a devoted servant.
He said with humility, ‘My lord, please allow me to stay away from taking any position. I am your servant, anyway. Please select a suitable person for this position. I am a stubborn Rajput. What do I now about the ways of the Awadh state?’
The emperor said, ‘I don’t see anyone more suitable and loyal than you.’
But Raja Sahib was not persuaded. The emperor also did not insist much. A moment later, when the issue of Raushanuddaulah’s punishment came up, they disagreed so much that they began to shout at each other. The emperor wanted him to be killed and fed to the dogs. Raja Sahib insisted that he should not be killed but kept under surveillance. In the end, the emperor said angrily, ‘One day, this fellow will definitely betray you.’
Raja Sahib said, ‘I can’t take somebody’s life because of this fear.’
‘All right, you may like to forgive him, but I can never forgive him in my whole life.’
‘You have surrendered him to me. How can you take back something that you have already given?’
‘You leave me no choice then.’
Raushanuddaulah’s life was spared. Captain Sahib was made the prime minister. The surprising thing was that the British Resident expressed total ignorance about this conspiracy and said that the emperor could mete out whatever punishment he wanted for the English courtiers. He had no objection to it. ‘If I had them in my control, then I would have sent them to the emperor, but I have no idea of any of them. Probably all of them fled to Calcutta on the night of the incident.’
In history, this incident does not find any mention, but folktales, which are often more trustworthy than history, are a witness to the truth of this story.
Translated from the Hindi by M. Asaduddin
End of Enmity
1
Lifting his elder brother’s body from the charpoy and laying it on the ground, Rameshwar Rai said to his younger brother, ‘If you’ve got some cash, go and get it. We must think of his last rites. My pockets are empty.’
His younger brother’s name was Vishweshwar Rai. He was a zamindar’s agent and had a good income. He replied, ‘Take half the money from me. You take care of the rest.’
‘I don’t have any money.’
‘So mortgage his share of the land.’
‘Go and make a deal with some moneylender. Don’t be long.’
Vishweshwar took a loan from one of his friends and their immediate needs were met. Later he took more money and mortgaged the land. There were five bighas in all. They fetched three hundred rupees. The villagers surmised that the funeral could hardly have cost one hundred rupees. But on the day of the shodashi ceremony Vishweshwar presented an account of three hundred and one rupees. Rameshwar Rai asked in astonishment, ‘All that money’s been spent?’
‘Am I so low as to filch money for my brother’s last rites?’
‘No. I’m not saying you’re dishonest. I was just asking.’
‘If you have any doubts, check with the bania I bought everything from.’
2
One day, a year later, Vishweshwar Rai said to his brother, ‘If you have money, give it to me. We’ll redeem our land.’
‘Where will I get money from? It’s not as if I’ve hidden how things are at home.’
‘Then I’ll give the entire amount and redeem the land myself. When you have money, give me half the amount and take your share of the land.’
‘Fine. Get back the land then.’
Thirty years passed. Vishweshwar Rai enriched the land with plenty of cow dung and fertilizer and reaped its fruits.
He had decided that he would never give it up, that it was his rightful inheritance. No one could take it from him, even by going to court. Rameshwar Rai tried several times to get the money together to recover his share of the land but in thirty years he was never able to save the required one hundred and fifty rupees.
But Rameshwar Rai’s son Jogeshwar managed to improve matters slightly. He began hiring out his bullock cart to carry loads and found it very profitable. He thought constantly about reclaiming his share of the land. By labouring night and day he finally managed to save sufficient money.
One day he went with his father to his uncle and said, ‘Kaka, take your money. I’ll get our share registered in my name.’
Vishweshwar: ‘You’re not the only cunning son in the family. You didn’t lift a finger all these years and now that I’ve turned the land into gold you’ve come to claim your share? Did I go to seek any favour from you?’
Jogeshwar: ‘So now we won’t get the land then.’
Rameshwar: ‘No one can be happy robbing a brother of his rights.’
Vishweshwar: ‘The land’s mine. Not yours.’
Jogeshwar: ‘So you won’t give it up straightforwardly.’
Vishweshwar: ‘Neither straightforwardly nor crookedly. Go to court.’
Jogeshwar: ‘I don’t have the means to go to court. But I can promise this much—I may not get the land, but you won’t get to keep it either.’
Vishweshwar: ‘Try that threat on someone else.’
Jogeshwar: ‘Then never complain that your own brother became your enemy.’
Vishweshwar: ‘Hand over a tight bundle of a thousand rupees and then do what you please.’
Jogeshwar: ‘Where can a poor man like me get hold of a thousand rupees? But sometimes God is merciful to the humble.’
Vishweshwar: ‘I’m not digging myself a hole for fear of it.’
Rameshwar Rai fell silent but Jogeshwar was not so forgiving. He spoke to a lawyer. He was no longer content with half the land; he wanted to bite into all of it.
The late Siddeshwar Rai had a daughter by the name of Tapeshwari. She had been married off during his lifetime. She had no idea what her father had left or who had taken it. She was just happy that his last rites had been carried out well. She had come for the shodashi ceremony and then returned to her in-laws’ house. Thirty years had passed and neither had anyone from her father’s house called for her nor had she ever gone there. And her in-laws’ home was not in good shape either. Her husband had died early and her son had a poorly paid job. Jogeshwar began to instigate his aunt. He urged her to stake a claim to the land.
Tapeshwari told him, ‘Beta, I am happy with whatever God has given me. I don’t want land and property. I’m not wealthy enough to go to court.’
‘I will put up the money; you just have to lodge a claim.’
‘My brother will drag you into court and leave you penniless.’
‘I can’t bear to stand by and watch while he enjoys what is rightfully ours. I will pay for the case. I am ready to sell myself rather than let go of his throat.’
‘Even if I get the land you will take it from me in exchange for all the money you spend. What will I be left with? Why should I do my brother ill?’
‘You take the land. All I want to do is break chacha’s pride.’
‘Very well, go and file
a claim on my behalf.’
Jogeshwar thought that once the land was freed from his uncle’s clutches he would rent it from his aunt for five or ten rupees a year. At present she didn’t even earn a cowrie. Whatever she got would seem a lot to her. The following day he lodged a claim. The case came up before the munsif magistrate.
Vishweshwar Rai proved that Tapeshwari was not even Siddeshwar Rai’s daughter.
The villagers could be pressurized by Vishweshwar. They all borrowed money from him and took his advice on legal matters and disputes. They all stated in court that they had never seen Tapeshwari and that Siddeshwar Rai never had a daughter. Jogeshwar employed senior advocates to argue his case and spent a great deal of money but the magistrate ruled against him. The poor man was in despair. Vishweshwar Rai knew everyone at the courts. The work that cost Jogeshwar fistfuls of money people did for Vishweshwar simply out of personal regard.
Jogeshwar decided to appeal. He had no money left, so he sold his cart and bullocks. The appeal was filed. The case dragged on for months. Poor Jogeshwar would spend every day from dawn to dusk flattering the court officials and lawyers; he spent all his money and kept taking loans from moneylenders. Finally, this time, the decision went in his favour. He had a debt of five hundred rupees on his head but now victory wiped away his tears.
Vishweshwar appealed to the high court. This time Jogeshwar was unable to raise the required money. Helpless, he mortgaged his own piece of land. Then he mortgaged his house. He even sold his wife’s jewellery. Finally, he won in the high court too. Whatever capital he had left disappeared in a joyous celebration. A thousand rupees had gone down the drain. But there was the satisfaction of winning all five bighas. How could Tapeshwari be so unkind as to pull this platter away from him?
But the moment the land was in her name Tapeshwari changed her tune. When she went to the village one day she discovered that she could rent out the five bighas for one hundred rupees. The land revenue due was only twenty-five rupees; seventy-five rupees was the annual profit. This sum transformed her. She summoned the tenants and made arrangements with them. Jogeshwar was left rubbing his palms. No longer able to contain himself, he went to her and said, ‘Phoophiji, you have given the land to other people, now where do I go?’
‘Beta, first you light a lamp in your own home and then you go and light one in the mosque. Now I have so much land, I have a connection with my father’s house. Before this, no one cared for me.’
‘But I’m ruined.’
‘Why don’t you rent some cheaper land for a few rupees less than these people are paying?’
Tapeshwari left a few days later. It was as if Rameshwar Rai had been struck by lightning. In his old age he was reduced to being a daily-wage labourer. His hands were washed of honour and respect. He was living hand to mouth. The cooking fire was only lit in their house if both father and son laboured from dawn to dusk. They argued with each other most of the time. Rameshwar put all the blame on his son’s head. Jogeshwar said that if Rameshwar had tried to stop him he would not have been trapped in this disastrous situation. Meanwhile, Vishweshwar egged the moneylenders on. Before a year had passed they were left with nothing—they lost their land, their house was auctioned. They had a dozen or so trees—those were auctioned too. As they say, a Chaube Brahmin couldn’t raise his status to a Dube Brahmin, he became a pauper instead.
At this point Vishweshwar’s taunts became even crueller. In their misfortunes this was the sharpest thorn of all, the most merciless blow he could inflict.
For two years, members of this afflicted family knew what they suffered. They never had a full meal. But their pride was unbendable. Poverty did everything to them but crush their spirit. All sufferings can be endured in the name of family honour.
One evening, father and son were sitting warming their hands in front of a fire when all of a sudden a man came up to them and said, ‘Thakur, come, Vishweshwar Rai is calling for you.’
Rameshwar replied indifferently, ‘Why should he call for me? Who am I to him? Does he want to start another fight?’
Meanwhile, a second man came and said, ‘Thakur, come quickly, Vishweshwar Rai is in a bad way.’
Vishweshwar Rai had been suffering from a fever and cough for several days but people never fear that any harm may come to their enemies. Rameshwar and Jogeshwar never even went to ask how he was. They would say, ‘There’s nothing wrong with him. Rich people get rich people’s diseases. Whenever they want to rest they lie down, eat boiled sago with milk mixed with sugar crystals, and then get up again.’ Even when they heard that Vishweshwar Rai was in a bad way neither of them moved. Rameshwar said, ‘What’s wrong with him? He’s lying there in comfort talking, isn’t he?’
‘He must want to send us to fetch some doctor or hakim. Perhaps his fever is worse,’ said Jogeshwar.
‘Which of us has time to do that? Everyone in the village is his well-wisher; he can send anyone he pleases.’
‘What’s the harm? Shouldn’t I go and hear what he has to say?’
‘Go and get some dry cow dung first. Once the cooking fire is lit you can go. If you had known how to handle people we wouldn’t be in this mess now.’
Jogeshwar had just picked up a basket and set off to the grazing ground when he heard the sound of weeping from Vishweshwar Rai’s house. Jogeshwar threw down the basket and ran there. He saw his uncle being lowered from his charpoy to the ground. Jogeshwar felt dishonoured, as if his face had been blackened. He stepped back from the courtyard into the hall along one side, hid his face against the wall and began to weep. Youth is emotional. It burns with anger but it also melts with compassion.
3
Vishweshwar had three daughters. They were already married. He had three sons who were still young, the eldest no more than ten years old. Their mother was still living. There were four mouths to feed and no breadwinner. In the countryside a man whose cooking fire is lit twice a day is considered wealthy. His wealth is also exaggerated. People imagined that Vishweshwar Rai had saved thousands of rupees but that wasn’t the case at all. Everyone’s eyes were on his income; no one considered his expenditure. He had celebrated his daughters’ weddings in a befitting manner. His entire income had disappeared in food and clothes and hospitality. Even if he had done a deal of a few hundred rupees to impress the villagers, he had also taken loans from several moneylenders—in fact he had to mortgage land for his youngest daughter’s wedding.
For a year, somehow, his widow managed to feed and care for her children. She did so by selling her jewellery, but when that capital was spent the going became hard. She decided to send the three boys to stay with her three daughters. Then she would just have to fend for herself and that was not a worry. Even if she could get a quarter of a ser of wheat flour every three days she would be able to pass her days. At first the girls treated the boys lovingly, but none of them could keep their brothers for more than three months. Their husbands were irritated by the fatherless children and beat them. Their mother had no choice but to send for them.
The young boys were hungry all day. If they saw anyone eating they would go home and beg their mother for food. Then they gave up asking her. They went and stood by whoever was eating and gazed at them beseechingly. Some people would give them a handful of parched gram but mostly they just got a scolding.
It was winter. There were ripe peas in the fields. One day all three boys slipped into one and began picking the peas. The farmer saw them. He was a generous man. He himself pulled up a basketful of peas, brought it to Vishweshwar Rai’s house and said to the thakur’s widow, ‘Kaki, tell your boys not to go into anyone’s fields.’
At that time Jogeshwar was sitting at his threshold smoking a chillum. He saw the farmer bringing the peas, the three boys behind him running like puppies. Jogeshwar’s eyes filled with tears. He went indoors and told his father, ‘Chachi doesn’t have anything left now. The boys are starving.’
‘You don’t know a woman’s wiles. This is all show.
Where have his lifetime’s earnings flown off?’
‘No one will let young boys starve when they have the power to prevent it.’
‘What do you know? She’s a very sly woman.’
‘People must be laughing at us.’
‘If you’re ashamed of them laughing, then do what you want, give them food and drink. If you have it in you!’
‘If not full stomachs, at least let them have half-full stomachs. Otherwise won’t it reflect badly on us? Our fight was with chacha. What have his sons ever done to us?’
‘The witch is still alive, though, isn’t she?’
Jogeshwar came away. Several times he had felt that he should start helping chachi, but he feared her fiery, cutting comments. Then he worked out a new plan. When he saw the boys playing he would call them over and give them something to eat. Daily-wage labourers got a break in the afternoon. Now he worked through his break and earned a little more. On his way home he would buy something or the other to eat, which he gave to the fatherless children, out of sight of his own family.
Gradually the boys became so attached to him that the moment they saw him they ran over shouting ‘Bhaiya! Bhaiya!’ and would spend the day waiting for him. At first their mother was afraid that Jogeshwar was winning over the children as a part of some plot connected with the old enmity. She tried to prevent them from going near Jogeshwar and taking food from him but children can recognize friends and enemies better than adults. The boys paid no attention to their mother’s objections and gradually their mother too became convinced of his sympathy.
One day Rameshwar said to his son, ‘If you’ve got more money than before why don’t you save a bit? Why are you squandering it?’
‘I watch how I spend every single cowrie.’
‘Those you consider your own will one day be your enemies.’