by Premchand
3
On the third day, sometime in the second quarter of the night, two women came and stood in front of the mosque. One was a labourer and the other, Gomati. Both stared at the mosque but dared not ask anything. Gomati said softly, ‘Is anyone there or not? Just ask! Is this Rahim Khan’s mosque?’
The labourer said, ‘Whom do I ask? If only I could spot anyone!’ Upon sighting the maulvi she said, ‘Arré, Mian Sahib, isn’t this Rahim Khan’s mosque?’
As soon as Tahir Ali saw the two women, he rushed inside and told Premnath, ‘Ulfat Hussain, Ulfat Hussain! Are you asleep? Your family members have arrived!’
Premnath sprang up and rushed forward but, being bewildered, stopped after a few steps. He exclaimed with anxiety, ‘My family members? Are you dreaming?’
Tahir replied, ‘It’s not a dream. It’s real, sir. They’re most definitely your family. Should I call them in? An old woman asked me if this was Rahim Khan’s mosque. I didn’t answer as I thought I should first inform you.’
With a tender look, Premnath inquired, ‘Did you write them a letter?’
Tahir Ali confessed, ‘Yes, brother, I did write the letter. Seeing your condition, I couldn’t stop myself.’
Premnath reproached him, saying, ‘You didn’t desist even though I made you swear. I didn’t expect this villainy from you. I believe it is open villainy and betrayal.’
‘You may abuse me later, brother. What do you say now? Should I call them in? Now sit like a decent man. Don’t start speaking nonsense to them.’
‘No, there’s no need to call anyone. Tell them nobody is here.’
‘Think it over.’
‘If you let anybody in, I’ll jump into this well, right here. You’re a shameless fellow. You pretend to be a righteous man but in reality you’re a scoundrel!’
The old woman advanced to the mosque’s door and called out, ‘Arré, Mian Sahib, isn’t this Rahim Khan’s mosque? I’ve been shouting for so long but nobody is answering!’
Tahir begged Prem. ‘Brother, have pity on me. If I knew you’d lose your temper, I wouldn’t have written this letter, not even in my dreams.’ He turned and shouted to the old woman, ‘Yes, this is indeed Rahim Khan’s mosque. Who are you and where have you come from?’
The old woman replied, ‘I have come from Lucknow. From Babu Premnath’s in-laws’ house. The daughter has also come. Where is the master?’
Prem said to Tahir, ‘Tahir Ali! You’ve seriously betrayed me. I swear that if my hands had the strength, I would’ve surely wrung your neck. Tyrant! You should’ve given some thought as to how I would face that Goddess! How will I do anything?’
‘Forgive me, brother. I admit it’s a serious mistake. The truth is that I had never thought they would come.’
‘I had told you earlier that Gomati would certainly come upon hearing of my condition. Anyhow, now you have tested me. Now you know how loyal a Hindu woman is!
‘Now, for God’s sake, please go and say that Premnath is not here. And if they insist, tell them that he was here till this afternoon, but has left without any information.’
Tahir Ali pleaded with him helplessly, ‘Brother, have mercy on me and do not force me to betray a loyal heart. My tongue cannot repeat what you are asking me to say.’
Premnath’s eyes welled up. What a sensitive, empathizing heart this mullah had! He looked at Maulvi Sahib with eyes full of gratitude and said, ‘Please go and call them! Tell them that Premnath, the unfortunate, is here. I was determined not to show my face to the family. I wished to die in a place where no one could shed tears for me, but God didn’t agree to my wish for a peaceful death.’
4
What a torturous scene it was! Gomati just stood there, with Premnath’s head bowed down at her feet. And despite her strong protestations, he would not raise his head. The flood from their eyes continued to flow, and both stayed tongue-tied. Words bobbed unsteadily on the flood of emotions but drowned before reaching the tongue.
At last, sobbing, Gomati asked, ‘How’s your health now? I wouldn’t even have known if Maulvi Sahib had not written the letter. We have become such strangers!’
Premnath raised his head and said gently, ‘Forgive me, Gomati, forgive my faults. I’ve been punished enough for my folly. My intention was to not let the news reach you but to depart from the world stealthily. Perhaps it was my fate to face such guilt and shame.’
Gomati sat down. Wiping her husband’s tears, she said, ‘What guilt and shame? Do you consider me a stranger? Lord knows I value you the way I did earlier even now, in fact, more. And why mourn wealth? If fate wills it, we’ll get it again. Serving you is the greatest wealth for me. A husband is a woman’s greatest treasure. You deserted me but how could I desert you? I have always been yours.’
Premnath replied, hesitant, ‘But how will this be, Gomati? There is an iron wall between us. The world calls me a Muslim and considers me one, though I can truly say that I never had any allegiance to Islam. Death is agreeable to me but heaping notoriety on you is not.’
This very thought hurt Premnath and his tears resumed. A moment later, he collected himself and asked, ‘Will you answer me if I ask you something? Tell me the truth, Gomati.’
‘Tell me what it is. I don’t lie to you.’
Premnath bowed his head in shame. He knew that the question was untimely. He also knew the pain it would cause to Gomati, down to her soul. Even so, he gazed at Gomati’s face expectantly.
Head bowed but voice brave, Gomati answered, ‘It would have been better had you not asked me this question. Dearest! Had I returned after years of being away from you, your feelings for me would be the same as I feel for you today. The heart pines for you but the body recoils. Even now I can sacrifice my life for you, but . . .’
Gomati went silent. She could not find words appropriate enough to express her situation. Premnath understood the hesitation and said, elated, ‘I understand you, Gomati! And I’m happy that you have expressed it. There should be no secrets between us. I can undergo shuddhi, purification, but will you still object to me? Though I, for one, do not agree with this ritual. Even today, the Hindu community has innumerable men from whom I would not even accept water. Our society is full of such men. And I would consider it shameful to purify myself just to socialize with them. But for your sake, even this test is acceptable to me.’
Gomati looked at him gratefully and asked, ‘So when?’
Premnath replied, ‘Whenever your heart wishes.’
Translated from the Urdu by Vikas Jain
Autobiography
1
There generally comes a time in the life of most servants of literature when readers begin to send them reverential letters. One may praise the writer’s creative style; another may be captivated by his high principles. The present writer, too, has for some time enjoyed this good fortune. Only a servant of literature can describe the thrill occasioned by such letters. Sitting on your torn blanket, you are immersed in waves of pride and self-esteem. You forget how much your head ached the previous evening from cooking dinner over wet firewood, how bedbugs and mosquitoes had made it impossible to sleep the entire night. For a moment you become deranged with egotism—‘I too am Someone!’ Last year in the month of Saavan I received a letter of precisely this ilk. In it the writer heaped fulsome praise on my trifling creations.
The sender was himself a fine poet. I often used to see his poems in magazines. Reading his letter I could not contain my joy and immediately sat down to reply. I do not now recall exactly what I wrote in this flood of emotion. I certainly do remember this much—that from beginning to end the letter was filled with expressions of affection. I have never written poetry or even a prose poem but I adorned my language to the extent that when I reread the letter it gave me the same pleasure I find in poetry. The whole letter was replete with a charming sweetness.
Five days later this esteemed poet’s second letter arrived. It was even more touching than the first. I was addressed as
‘My dear brother!’ and was requested to provide a list of my creative works and the names and addresses of my publishers. In the end came the welcome news that,
My wife holds you in the highest regard. She devotedly reads your works. She was inquiring where your wife came from, how many children you have and also whether you have a photograph of yourself. If you have, please do send it.
I was also asked details of the place where I was born and my genealogy. This letter, and especially the news at the end, sent me into raptures.
This was the first time that I had had the good fortune to hear praise of myself from the mouth of a woman, albeit through her representative. I felt drunk with pride. God be praised! Now even the fairer sex had begun to extol my writing! I replied at once. I expended all the ear-pleasing vocabulary contained in the dictionary of my memory. The whole letter was full of amity and intimacy. I provided an account of my family history. Never could any bard have composed such a paean for his forefathers. My paternal grandfather was the agent of a landowner—I made him the minister of a major princely state. I made my father, who was an office clerk, a manager. And it was a simple matter to turn our small holding into a zamindar’s estate. I could not increase the number of my works but mentioned their importance, the respect they commanded, and their reach in words that disguised my pride with a screen of humility. Who doesn’t know that ‘insignificant’ is generally used to mean the opposite and ‘modest’ is understood to mean something quite different? To praise oneself openly shows a lack of restraint, but through allusive language you can successfully achieve the same end. Anyway, my letter was finished and promptly dispatched into the stomach of a letterbox.
After that I received no reply for two weeks. I had in my letter added a few appropriate remarks from my wife. I had hoped that our friendship would become even more intimate. If only he would write a poem in my praise, then I alone would tower over the literary world! His silence began to cast me into despair. However, I couldn’t write another letter out of fear that the distinguished poet would consider me self-seeking or sentimental.
It was the month of Ashwin, and late afternoon. I could hear the commotion of a Ram Leela performance nearby. I had gone to a friend’s house. A game of cards was in progress. Suddenly a man arrived asking my name and sat down in a chair next to me. I had never met him and wondered who he was and how he had come to be there. My friends looked the gentlemen up and down and exchanged meaningful glances. There was certainly something novel in his appearance—dark-complexioned and squat, his face scarred by smallpox, bare-headed with his hair carefully combed, wearing a plain shirt with a flower garland around his neck, his feet in full boots and in his hand a rather fat book!
Taken aback, I asked his name.
‘They call me Umapati Narayan,’ came the reply.
I rose and embraced him. This was the very poet who had sent those affectionate letters. I inquired after his health and well-being and offered him betel nut and cardamom. Then I asked, ‘How did you get here?’
He replied, ‘Let us go to your house and then I will tell you all. I went to your home and discovered you were here. I asked my way.’
I stood up to accompany Umapatiji to my home. When he left the room, my friend asked me, ‘Who is that gentleman?’
‘A new friend of mine.’
‘Just be careful about him. He looks dodgy to me.’
‘You’re mistaken. You always judge a man by how smartly he’s turned out. But a man’s nature resides not in his clothes but in his heart.’
‘Well, I leave you to fathom those mysteries; I am just warning you.’
I didn’t answer him and went home with Umapatiji. I sent for food from the bazaar and then we began talking. He recited several of his poems to me. His voice was sweet and full of feeling.
I didn’t understand a word of the poems, but I praised them to the skies. I swayed from side to side exclaiming, ‘Wah! Wah!’ as if there was no greater connoisseur of poetry in the world than me. In the evening we went to see the Ram Leela. When we returned I offered him another meal. Then he began to tell me his news. He was now on his way to pick up his wife from Kanpur. His own family home was in Kanpur. It was his opinion that we should bring out a monthly magazine. One publisher paid him a thousand rupees for his poetry but he wanted to serialize them first in a magazine and then publish them in book form at his own expense. Although his zamindari estate was in Kanpur, he wanted to live a literary life. He loathed being landed gentry. His wife was a principal in a girls’ school. We talked half the night away. Now I don’t remember most of what was said. But, yes, I do recall that we both had prepared a plan together for our future lives. I thanked my lucky stars that God had sent me such a true friend out of nowhere. When half the night was over, we slept. He had to leave by the eight o’clock train the next morning. When I woke up it was already seven o’clock. Umapatiji was sitting washed and ready to go. He said, ‘Please permit me to leave, I shall call here on my way back. Now I’m going to trouble you often. Please forgive me. When I set out yesterday it was four o’clock in the morning. I’d been lying awake since two so that I wouldn’t oversleep. In fact you can say that I had to stay awake the whole night because I was anxious about the journey. After I’d taken my seat in the train I began to doze. I took off my coat, put it to one side and lay down. Immediately I fell asleep. I woke up at Mughalsarai. The coat had vanished! I looked for it everywhere, but there was no sign of it. I realized someone had stolen it. This was my punishment for sleeping. I had kept fifty rupees in the coat to cover the expenses of the journey; they were stolen with it. I have to collect my wife from her father’s house; I will have to take some clothes and other things with me. Then in my in-laws’ house you are expected to give a hundred kind of presents to everyone. Every step costs you money. If you don’t spend they laugh at you. I’ll repay the money on my way back.’
I found myself in a great dilemma. I’d already been let down once before. At once I became apprehensive that I would be left in the same position again. But I was quickly ashamed of my lack of faith. In this world all men are not the same. This poor chap was such a gentleman. Right now he was in difficulty and here I was doubting him for no reason. I went indoors and said to my wife, ‘Do you by any chance have any money?’
‘What for?’
‘My friend who came yesterday—somebody in the train stole his money. He has to go to his in-laws’ house to bring his wife home. On his way back he’ll return it.’
My wife said sarcastically, ‘All your friends come here just to rob you. All of them constantly have problems. I don’t have any money.’
I said ingratiatingly, ‘Please do give it, the poor man’s standing outside ready to leave. He’ll miss his train.’
‘Tell him there’s no cash in the house at the moment.’
‘That’s not easy. That means I’m not only poor but also friendless. Otherwise couldn’t I find fifty rupees from somewhere? Umapatiji will never believe that I don’t have the money. It would be much better to tell him plainly that we don’t trust him and that’s why we can’t give him anything. At least there would be a veil over our real position.’
In sudden anger, my wife flung down the key of her box in front of me and said, ‘If you were as good at judging people as you are at arguing you would have been a man by now! Take the money and give it to him. At least your honour will be safe. But don’t think of it as a loan, rest assured that you are throwing it into water.’
I was concerned with eating mangoes, not counting the mango trees. I quietly took out the money and gave it to Umapatiji. He set off, once again promising to repay the money on his way back.
Seven days later he arrived at my house with his wife and daughter in the evening. My wife welcomed them with sugar and curd. We gave them twenty rupees as the customary gift for seeing a bride’s face for the first time. We also gave his daughter two rupees for sweets. I had imagined that the moment he arrived Umapatiji would star
t counting out my money, but until late in the night he never even mentioned the matter. When I was going to bed my wife commented, ‘He didn’t give you the money, ji.’
She then laughed sarcastically and said, ‘So did you really think he would repay you the moment he arrived? I told you from the start not to give the money expecting to get it back, that you should just consider it as helping your friend. But you are a very strange fellow.’
I was ashamed and silent. Umapatiji stayed with us for two days. My wife treated him respectfully and hospitably as was proper. But I was not so content. I thought he had cheated me.
On the third morning, he was ready to leave. I still hoped that he would pay me before he went. But I was dumbfounded by his new tale. Rolling up his bedding, he told me, ‘I am really sorry that I couldn’t pay you back this time. The fact is that I didn’t meet my father at our house. He had gone to the villages to collect rent and I didn’t have the time to go after him. There’s no railway there. You have to travel by bullock carts. That’s why I stayed one day at the house and then went to my in-laws’. I spent everything there. If they hadn’t given me money, it would have been difficult for me to get here. Now I don’t even have the money for our rail tickets. If you could give me twenty-five rupees more I will send it to you the moment I arrive. I don’t even have enough for the ekka fare.’
I felt like giving him a straight answer but that kind of discourtesy was impossible. I went again to my wife and asked for money. This time she handed it over to me without saying a word. Rather half-heartedly I gave it to Umapatiji. When his wife and daughter descended the stairs he picked up his bedding and respectfully took his leave. I acknowledged him with a nod from where I sat. I didn’t even see him off as far as the street.