by Premchand
‘A man’s duty also stands for something. I cannot sacrifice a family for an old feud. What harm does it do me? Just that I have to work an hour or two longer every day.’
Rameshwar turned his face away. When Jogeshwar went indoors his wife said, ‘You do whatever you want no matter what anyone tells you. A man first lights a lamp in his own home.’
‘But it’s not right, is it, to burn fancy candles in your home instead of one oil lamp, and leave the mosque in darkness?’
‘Living with you is like falling into a well. What happiness do you give? You took my jewellery from me and even now you don’t give me a moment’s peace.’
‘My cousins’ lives are dearer to me than your jewellery.’
His wife turned her head away and said, ‘The children of an enemy can never be trusted.’
As he walked out, Jogeshwar replied, ‘Enmity ends with the enemy’s death.’
Translated from the Hindi by Gillian Wright
The Fool
1
I had been in Devipur for only five days, but not a day had passed without a mention of the fool. The villagers flocked around me from morning to night. Never had I met such an opportunity or such temptation to flaunt my knowledge. Finding a ready audience I waxed eloquent about what the viceroy had said to Gandhi Baba and what Gandhi Baba’s reply was. I improvised further: ‘You haven’t seen anything yet, wait and see what happens next. Fifty thousand young men are willing and ready to go to jail. Gandhiji has asked all Hindus to do away with the practice of untouchability, or the future will be bleaker than ever!’
People would listen to me with rapt attention, their faces wearing delighted expressions, aglow with pride. They would burst forth elatedly, ‘We trust only in the mahatma now.’ Then they would say, ‘Had the fool been here, he wouldn’t have let you off for an instant. You’d find it difficult to eat or drink. He’d listen all night long to your conversations.’
Finally, one day, I asked, ‘Who is this fool? Is he some mad man?’
One gentleman answered, ‘Not really mad, just a fool. His family is rolling in money. They own a sugar mill in Siwan, two factories in Chhapra, and have servants at home, but look at him! He roams around in tatters. His family had sent him to Siwan to supervise the sugar mill. Within two months he had quarrelled with the manager, who finally sent in his resignation. He complained to the family that their son was inciting the workers and they were no longer paying attention to their work. The family had to call him back. His servants rob and pilfer at will, and he is least bothered. But that mango orchard you see there? He guards it day and night. No one dares throw a stone in that direction.’
Another gentleman piped up, ‘Sir, all kinds of delicacies are cooked in his house, but it seems he is destined to eat lentils and coarse bread, and nothing else. His father buys him the best of clothes, but he doesn’t even look at them. He only wears a rough kurta and a loincloth. What else can we say about him? He is a complete fool.’
2
My curiosity was piqued. Suddenly, someone said, ‘Look! There’s the fool, coming this way.’ I glanced in that direction, my interest aroused. A young man of twenty or twenty-one, bare-headed, wearing a rough kurta and baggy pants, was walking towards me. He was wearing shoes. When he came closer, I said, ‘Welcome. Do take a seat.’ He looked at the assembled gathering with derision. Then he replied brashly, ‘Not today, some other day.’ And he walked off.
When the audience scattered at dusk, he slowly walked out of the mango orchard and sat down next to me. He began, ‘These people must have said a lot against me. I know I’ve been given the sobriquet of “fool”.’
I replied hesitantly, ‘Well, yes, you were indeed one of the subjects of our discussion. But I was very keen to meet you. What’s your real name?’
‘My name is Mohammad Khalil,’ he answered. ‘But people here and in the nearby five or ten villages know me only by my alias, which, as you know, happens to be “the fool”.’
‘But why do they call you by this name?’ I persisted.
He began to explain. ‘It’s their choice, what else can I say? My way of life is different, so I don’t even have permission to read the namaz five times a day. My father and my uncle are both engrossed in their work day and night. Accounts, profit and loss, demand and supply—these are the only things that interest them, as though they’re not servants of God, but servants of wealth. My uncle oversees cans of sugar syrup being loaded on to trucks late into the night. My father weighs the sugar with his own hands. He eats his afternoon meal in the evening and his evening meal at midnight. Neither has the time to read the namaz. I keep telling them, “Why do you hassle yourself so for this business? As a big businessmen, you have to trust people, and you may bear some losses while doing that. Only small enterprises work with one’s own personal effort.” But no one likes what I say. And so I’m called a fool.’
‘I think your principles are quite right,’ I said.
‘Don’t ever say that in public,’ he exclaimed, ‘or else there will be two fools instead of one! The only thing that interests people is business. They don’t care in the least for the poor, the world, the nation or the community. I read the newspaper, and I want to contribute to the Smyrna Fund. I think of it as my duty to also contribute to the Khilafat Fund. And the worst part is that I am in favour of the Khilafat Movement. Well, sir, when my country, my people and the poor are being attacked by the enemy from all directions, isn’t it my duty to sacrifice the profit of my class for the well-being of my nation? And that’s why both at home and outside, I’ve been given the sobriquet of the “fool”.’
‘What you’re saying is the need of the moment!’ I exclaimed.
‘I’m afraid you’ll depart this town as a much-maligned man,’ he replied. ‘When thousands of my fellow men are rotting in jails, and can’t afford even the cheapest cloth to cover their bodies, my conscience doesn’t allow me to wear fine clothing and gorge on the best delicacies.’
‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry that others are incapable of making the same sacrifices as you.’
‘I don’t think of it as a sacrifice,’ he said, ‘nor do I behave like this for show. I’m just disgusted by all this pomp and splendour. A few days ago my father sent me to Siwan to look after the sugar mill, and what do I see? The manager’s cook, cleaner, washerman, gardener, guard and servants were all on the payroll of the mill. They worked for the manager, but were paid by the factory. And to make matters worse, the manager himself was completely without principles, but was so strict with the labourers that he would deduct half a day’s wages if they were late by even five minutes. I decided to take matters into my own hands, and showed some leniency towards the workers. That was all. The manager was furious; he threatened to resign. My family knew that he was a cheat and a parasite of the highest order. But the moment they received his threat, they went pale with fear. They immediately ordered me to go back home and gave me a stern dressing-down. If there was any doubt of my being a fool, this incident just settled the case and proved it right once and for all. I fail to understand why they are so afraid of the manager.’
‘You did absolutely the right thing,’ I averred. ‘In fact, if I was in your place, I would have first sued him for embezzlement, had him beaten up by goons, and then spoken to him. People like him deserve no better.’
‘That means we’ve similar views,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry you won’t be here for long. I wish to spend a few days in your company. It’s been a long time since I’ve met a man I can speak my mind with. I do not converse with these illiterates. My uncle, when he was young, had developed an illicit relationship with a tanner woman. He had two children, a son and a daughter, from her. The woman died, leaving the infant girl in his arms. Since then, these children have been treated worse than beggars in my house. No one cared for them. They went hungry and ill-clothed, and languished in the servant quarters outside the house. I couldn’t bear that. I began feeding them from my kitch
en, and still do. What a furore it created in my house! I was the target of everyone’s anger, but I didn’t let that bother me. After all, they are our flesh and blood, aren’t they? That’s why I’m called a fool.’
‘Those who call you a fool are fools themselves,’ I replied.
‘Sir, it’s strange to live with these people,’ Khalil continued. ‘The shah of Kabul and the Indian ulema have both banned the sacrifice of cows. But the sacrifice continues, particularly in my house. I tried my best to stop it, raised a hue and cry, but to no avail. I atoned for this atrocity by selling my own horse to feed three hundred fakirs. Since then, whenever I see cows being led for slaughter, I buy them. This way I have managed to save the lives of ten cows. All of them are now in the homes of Hindus, but the strange thing is that even in those homes, I am called a fool. I’m now so used to this name that I’ve fallen in love with it.’
‘I wish there were more fools like you in this country,’ I said.
‘There!’ said Khalil. ‘You too are having me on. Look at my mango orchard! I’m the one who guards it. People find it odd that I don’t care about losses worth thousands, but guard this little garden with my life. Sir, the problem is that the boys here pluck one mango and in the process let twenty-five drop to the ground. So many trees get bruised that way and they become good for nothing. All I want is for the mangoes to turn ripe and juicy. After that, anybody is welcome to pluck and eat them. What’s the point of ruining raw mangoes? This is, again, a part of my folly.’
3
While we were speaking we saw three or four people beating up the local merchant. When asked what the matter was, one of them, who appeared to be a maulvi, answered, ‘Sir, this man’s a cheat and a fraud. His weights measure less than they should. I’ve just bought a kilo of ghee from him. When I went home, I discovered that it weighed less by a quarter of a kilo. Now when I’ve come to return it to him, he says he had measured the full amount. Have I eaten the ghee on my way home then? I’m going to take him to the police station. He’ll come to his senses when he gets a good beating.’
Then another gentleman, who was a clerk at the post office, said, ‘He has a habit of never weighing the full amount. Only today, I sent my boy to get two annas’ worth of sugar from him. When the boy returned home, there was barely an anna worth of sugar left. When I came to return it to him, he glared at me. His weights should certainly be checked.’
The third person was a milkman. He put down the bundle of cattle food from his head and spoke, ‘Sir, this cattle food cost me eleven rupees for six kilos. When I reached home and weighed it, it turned out to be barely two kilos. I’ve come to return it to him, but he refuses to take it back. Now only the police can deal with him.’
At this point, many people chimed in. ‘Yes, yes, he’s indeed a dishonest one.’
The merchant, however, persisted in declaring his innocence. ‘If my weights turn out to be wrong, I’ll willingly give away a thousand rupees.’
The maulvi was not to be outdone. He said, ‘Then maybe the cheat deliberately weighs less.’ The clerk vigorously concurred. The milkman had his own opinion. ‘Maybe he has two sets of weights—one for show and the other for the actual weighing. The police should search his house.’
The merchant protested again. His captors attacked him again, and the quarrel continued for half an hour. I didn’t know what to do. Should I defend the merchant and save him, or should I just let it go? Everyone seemed to be against him. I looked around for Khalil, and discovered that he was missing. When did he get up and go? The merchant refused to admit his guilt, and he was not afraid to go to the police station.
4
Finally, everyone was about to go to the police station when they saw the fool coming their way. He had a basket in one hand, a bowl in the other, and a boy of about seven or eight in tow. As soon as he reached the gathering, he addressed the maulvi, ‘Does this bowl belong to you, Qaziji?’
The maulvi was nonplussed. ‘Yes, it does. Why have you got it from my house?’
The fool replied calmly, ‘Because this bowl contains a quarter of a kilo of the ghee which you say was weighed less by the merchant. The ghee is the same. Its weight is the same. It’s not the poor merchant who’s the cheat but Maulvi Zahoor Ahmed.’
The maulvi was livid. ‘If you wish to display your folly here, go ahead. I’m not afraid of anyone. I don’t care if you’re a millionaire, but how dare you enter my house?’
The fool calmly said, ‘I displayed the same audacity that you did when you wanted to take the merchant to the police station. Now this ghee will also go to the police.’
The maulvi stammered, ‘Everyone keeps some stuff in their house. I swear on the Holy Koran, I’ll go to your father this instant. No one has ever accused me in this manner before.’
The merchant was quick to reply. ‘Where are you off to, Maulvi Sahib? Come, the police will decide our case. I won’t heed any of your entreaties. You pretend to be kind and generous like a God; you’re a cheat and you have the temerity to call others dishonest. Don’t let this long beard of yours fool anyone.’
But the maulvi did not stay. He retreated to the comparative safety of Khalil’s father’s house, which was for the moment the only way to save himself from embarrassment.
Then Khalil turned to the milkman. ‘So, you too are going to the police? Come, I’ll accompany you. I’ve brought this kilo of cattle food from your house.’
Having just witnessed what had happened with the maulvi, the milkman began to perspire. ‘Brother. I swear on my youth. The maulvi made me say all this.’
‘Will you burn someone’s house down just because someone asked you to?’ Khalil admonished him. ‘You shamelessly mix water in milk, but today you lost your conscience to such an extent that you became hell bent on destroying an honest man? You kept the cattle food in your house and then accused the merchant of weighing less.’
The merchant was not mollified. ‘Brother, my reputation has gone to the dogs. I’m not going to rest until I report this man to the police.’
‘Please forgive me this once,’ the milkman pleaded, ‘or I’ll be ruined.’
It was now the clerk’s turn. ‘So, Munshiji,’ Khalil said, ‘should I expose you too, or would you rather slink off home?’
The clerk was made of sterner stuff. ‘You think I’m the milkman and that I’ll cower under your threats?’ he said.
Khalil turned to the boy. ‘So, son, did you go straight home after buying the sugar?’
The son glanced at the clerk doubtfully. ‘I’ll tell you later.’
‘He’ll say what you teach him to say,’ said the clerk.
‘All right, son, repeat what you had told me earlier,’ Khalil gently prodded.
‘Grandpa will beat me.’ The child was clearly fearful.
‘Did you eat the sugar on your way home?’ the clerk asked.
The boy began sobbing.
‘Yes, that’s what he told me. But you didn’t think to ask. You just began hurling accusations. Is this decency?’ Khalil asked.
‘How would I know what he did on the way?’ the clerk demanded.
‘Then why were you running to the police on such flimsy grounds? Khalil said. ‘You give out money orders to these illiterate people and deduct two annas as your fee from that money. You sell postcards for much more than their original price. I can prove it if you want. Don’t you think that’s dishonesty?’
The clerk knew better than to engage in an argument with the fool. He dragged the boy home, beating him all the way. The merchant blessed the fool with all his heart. The onlookers gradually dispersed. Then I said to Khalil, ‘You saved the merchant’s life today. Otherwise he’d have got into the clutches of the police for no reason.’
‘Do you know the reward I’ll receive for this good deed?’ Khalil asked. ‘The police will turn against me. They’ll complain that I turned away their victims. My father is mortally afraid of the police. He’ll be furious with me for interfering with th
em. That’s also part of my folly. I shouldn’t have exposed so many respectable people for one common merchant. These are the actions of fools.’
I said reverentially, ‘Today I’ve discovered that “fool” is a sobriquet given to gods! This is the name I’m now going to call you by. He who sacrifices his conscience for his selfish interests is regarded as clever and wise. He who doesn’t put his selfish interests or criticism above the dictates of his conscience, his true principles, and the truth, lacks wisdom and is a fool.’
Translated from the Hindi by Urvashi Sabu
Compulsion
1
When Babu Hridaynath’s only daughter, Kailash Kumari—or Kailashi, as he called her—was widowed at the age of thirteen he decided that something needed to be done to distract her. Alone she would only brood. Loneliness intensifies one’s grief. It was for this reason that he bought a gramophone and story books for her. He directed his wife to take Kailash Kumari for outings lest the poor child should die from grief. The result was that Kailash Kumari became addicted to outings and recreation. She found it unbearable to pass a day without going to the theatre or taking a walk along the river. Entertainment is the gift of modernity. Modernity hates old ways and traditions. Kailash Kumari remained busy looking for new diversions.
Would people remain silent at this? They spare no one. Their tongues wagged if one placed his cap at a jaunty angle or walked with a swagger. A widow, in their opinion, should spend her time praying and fasting. Her attire should be plain and simple. She has no need for recreation. Kailash Kumari might be a lovely girl but she could not ignore that society laid great store by what it regarded as shame and modesty.
The neighbours talked about the matter for days. Finally, some ladies took the trouble of dropping in at Hridaynath’s house to speak to his wife, Jogeshwari. After some inane chatter one of them remarked, ‘Sister, you spend your time laughing and enjoying yourself. Our day weighs heavily upon us. We have nothing to do. How long can one gossip about this and that?’