The Complete Short Stories

by Premchand

  Delegate leader: ‘Maharaj, as long as the panchayat of the town doesn’t assemble on this issue, we can’t guarantee you anything. Who will come to our rescue if the Congressists ransacked our shops? You please get up and partake of your meal, we will call the panchayat tomorrow and whatever the decision is, we will faithfully report back to you.’

  Shastriji: ‘Come back tomorrow then, after the panchayat.’

  When the deputation started to return, the crestfallen Panditji asked, ‘Is nobody carrying snuff?’ A gentleman took out his box and gave it to him. After they left Panditji asked the policemen, ‘Why are you all standing here?’ They said, ‘Boss’s orders, what to do?’

  ‘Go away.’

  ‘Just because you say so? If we get discharged tomorrow, will you feed us then?’

  ‘I’m telling you, leave; or else I’ll leave this place myself. Am I a prisoner to be watched over like this?’

  ‘You dare not leave, sir.’

  ‘Dare I not, you rogue! Have I committed a crime?’

  ‘Okay, let’s see you try.’

  Incensed with Brahminical rage, Panditji got up and gave a sepoy such a hard shove that he landed a few feet away. Seeing him the others lost courage. They had all taken his girth to be as only flab, so seeing his power they all slunk away silently.

  Moteram immediately started to look around for a hawker so that he could buy something. But he realized instantly that if the man happened to report it to anyone people would clap and jeer at him. No, one would have to operate with guile—so that the act doesn’t reach a single ear. It’s only in such crises that one recognizes the power of one’s intelligence. Within a second he had figured out how to handle this difficult situation.

  And as if by godsend a hawker was seen passing by at that very time. It was past eleven o’clock, and the area had become desolate. Panditji called out, ‘Vendor, here, vendor!’

  ‘Yes, sir, what can I give you? You have started feeling hungry, haven’t you? Sacrificing food and water suits sadhus, not those like me and you.’

  ‘What are you blabbering, you dullard? Am I any less than a sadhu? I can lie down for months without hunger or thirst affecting me if I so wish. I called for you only so I could borrow your kerosene lamp. Let me see what’s wriggling there. I’m afraid it might be a snake.’

  The vendor unhooked his lamp and passed it to Panditji, who started searching the ground for something. Suddenly, the lamp slipped out of his hand and the flame went out. The entire kerosene spilled out. Panditji made sure that not a drop remained by giving it a knock further.

  The vendor shook the lamp and said, ‘Maharaj, there is no oil left here. I could have sold four paise worth of goods, but now you have gone and created this trouble.’

  ‘Brother, it was just a slip of the hand; the lamp fell—should I cut off my hand or what? Take this money. Go and get some oil now.’

  The vendor took the money and asked, ‘Why would I come back here after filling the oil?’

  ‘Let your basket be here, now just fly off and get some oil; or else, if a snake bites me you’ll have a murder on you. There is surely some creature there. See, there it crawls . . . it’s gone. Run now, fella, and come back with some oil. I’ll look after your basket. If you are worried about your savings, take your money with you.’

  The hawker was in a moral bind now. If he reached for his money, he was afraid Panditji’s sentiments would be hurt. He would think that he was doubting his integrity. If I leave my money there, who knows what his intentions are? People’s motives do change. In the end, he decided to leave his basket there, thinking what was in his stars would be. No sooner had he proceeded towards the bazaar than Panditji gave the hawker’s basket a once-over, and became very despondent. There were very few sweets left; five or six items, from which there was no scope of pilfering more than two pieces each. And there was every chance of his sham being exposed. Panditji thought, How would this scant measure suffice? It would only intensify the hunger; a lion tasting a bit of blood. It’s an unpalatable crime. And he went back to his place and sat down. Yet just a breath later his craving returned. He thought, At least there would be some relief. Howsoever little the food may be, it still is food. He got up and took out the sweets and had just kept the first laddu in his mouth when he saw the vendor retracing his steps with his lamp lit. Panditji had to finish off the sweets before the vendor returned, so he put two pieces together inside his mouth and was chewing furiously when he realized that the devil had come ten steps closer. He quickly took four pieces and gobbled them up half-chewed. Now only six remained, and the vendor had already come up to the gate of the maidan. He stuffed all of them down at once, and found that he could neither devour them nor spit them out. The fiend was still approaching at the speed of a motor-car, shining his light. Panditji hastily swallowed the whole lot. But he was a human being after all and not a crocodile. His eyes watered, his throat choked, and his whole body was seized by wild tremors, and he began to cough violently. The vendor extended the lamp towards him and said, ‘Take this now and have a look. Such a hankering you make for your life, and yet you are sitting on a fast. Even if you lose your life, why do you have to worry, the government would look after your family.’

  The enraged Panditji felt like showering curses on the brute, but not a sound escaped his throat. Silently, he took the lamp, pretended to look around, and then returned it.

  ‘And anyway, what made you decide to tow the government’s line? The panchayat will go on the whole day tomorrow, and arrive at a decision only by night. By then, you’d be seeing stars!’

  So saying, the vendor left the place and Panditji, after coughing for some more time, went to sleep.

  4

  The traders began their deliberation early the next morning. Even among the Congressists there was much ado. The officials of the Peace Committee pricked up their ears too. What a nice way this was to twist the arms of the naive traders! The pandits of the town called a separate meeting wherein it was unanimously declared that Pandit Shastri had no locus standi to delve into political matters. What did they have to do with politics, they asked. The whole day went by in these hot debates by the concerned groups, and not one inquired after Panditji. People were heard openly saying that Panditji had taken a thousand rupees from the government to have this ceremony arranged. Poor Panditji spent the night tossing and turning, but when he got up, he felt as if his body was a corpse. If he tried standing up, his eyes would start smarting and his head swimming. It felt as if something was gnawing away sitting inside his stomach. His eyes were glued to the street expecting people coming to pacify him. The time for the twilight prayers went away in such expectation. At this time he was in the habit of having a snack while performing his puja. Today, though, till now his tongue hadn’t even touched water. Who knew when that propitious hour would arrive? Then, a feeling of intense anger started building up against his wife. She must have gone off to sleep last night having eaten a proper dinner, and now must have even had evening refreshments. Yet not even mistakenly had she peeped in here to find out whether he was dead or living. Couldn’t she have, on the pretext of discussing something, brought in some mohanbhog? But is anyone bothered? She took the money and kept it, and would do so again if he got more. He had been made a fool.

  So Panditji kept waiting the whole day but nobody came to placate him. What prevented people from doing that was the doubt lodged in their hearts that Panditji had made a give-and-take pact to act out this whole thing, and that he stood to benefit from this hypocrisy.

  5

  It was past nine in the night. Seth Bhondumal, who was the leader of the traders’ delegation, opined in a decisive tone, ‘Granted that Panditji has arranged this show out of his selfish motives, but that doesn’t take away the pain that a living being suffers without food and water. It is against the sacred laws that a Brahmin forsakes his meals for our acts and we stuff ourselves and sleep to our heart’s content. If he has behaved against the c
ode of ethics, it would bring suffering to him in due time. But why should we turn away from our duties?’

  The Congress secretary said in a hushed tone, ‘I have said what I had to. You are all the frontrunners of society, we shall accept whatever you decide. Let’s go then, I’ll accompany you; and in the process partake a bit of this pious deed. But please listen to a request of mine—allow me to approach him first. I would like to speak to him alone for ten minutes. All of you please stand at the gates till then, and meet him after I return.’ Why would anyone have an objection to this? The plea was granted.

  The secretary had served the police department for a long time; he understood the weaknesses of the human mind. He went straight to the bazaar and bought five rupees’ worth of sweets. He took the sweets, which were smeared with fragrance and wrapped in silver foil, in a leaf-container and proceeded on his puja of appeasing the Brahmin God. He poured cold water into a latticed jug and added the scent of a screw pine flower. Fragrance oozed out from both containers. Who doesn’t know the exciting capacity of the smell of food? It can incite a craving even when one is not hungry, so imagine what it can do to a hungry man.

  Panditji was, at that time, lying inert on the ground. He hadn’t had anything to eat the previous night. The half-a-score sweets that he had consumed were hardly worth mentioning! He hadn’t had anything in the afternoon either. And now it was past dinner time. Hunger did not generate hopeful yearning any more but the frigidity of hopelessness. The limbs were loose. Even his eyes would not remain open; he would try time and again, yet they would close on their own. His lips were parched. If there was any sign left of life, it was in his slow moaning. Such a crisis had never fallen upon him. He had complaints about indigestion a couple of times in a month, but he would attend to them with doses of the myrobalan fruit; he had never given up food altogether even during the times of indigestion. He had spent the day showering an entire array of abuses on the townsfolk, the Peace Committee, the government, the gods, the Congress and his wife. There was no hope from any one of them. And now, he had no strength left to stand up and go to the bazaar. He was certain that tonight was the night his soul would fly away. After all, the circle of life could hardly be said to have been formed out of chords so unbreakable that they wouldn’t snap howsoever one tugged at it!

  The secretary called out, ‘Panditji!’

  Shastriji opened his eyes without getting up. The pathos in them was like that of a child whose only sweet has been snatched away by a crow.

  The secretary placed the container of sweets in front of him and, tilting the contents of the jug into a clay cup, said, ‘How long will you keep lying here?’

  The fragrance of food had a sanjivani-like effect on Panditji’s senses. He sat up and said, ‘Let’s see by when this thing is decided.’

  ‘No decision will be arrived at. The panchayat went on the whole day, yet there was no conclusion. And the viceroy will arrive only by tomorrow evening. Who knows what will happen to you by then? Your face . . . it has gone so pale!’

  Shastriji: ‘If it is fated that I die here, who can avert it? Are there kalakand sweets inside this container?’

  ‘Yes, and many other sweets. Specially prepared for the wedding of a relative.’

  ‘No wonder then it smells so divine. Would you open the lid a bit?’

  The secretary smiled and opened the container, and Shastriji started devouring the sweets with his eyes. Even a blind man getting his sight back would not have stared at this world with such deep longing. His mouth watered. The secretary said, ‘Had you not been on fast, I would’ve asked you to taste a few. I’ve purchased these at five rupees a ser.’

  ‘These would be of the very best quality then. It’s been many days since I’ve tasted kalakand.’

  ‘It is you who has got himself entangled in this unnecessary fracas. What use would wealth be if you don’t get to live?’

  ‘I’m in a tight spot now, what to do. (Feeling them with his hands.) These are from Bhola’s shop?’

  ‘Taste a couple?’

  ‘How? I’m in a moral bind now.’

  ‘Come, come, just taste a few. The happiness it would bring now cannot be compared to coming across even a lakh of rupees. And anyway, would one disclose such things to anyone else?’

  ‘You think I fear anyone? Here I am dying without food and water, and nobody is bothered in the least. So, why should I be afraid? Come, pass on the container to me. Go and tell everyone that Shastriji has called off his fast. To hell with the market and the business! I don’t give a damn. When there is no righteousness left, why should I be the only one around to uphold it?’

  With these words Panditji dragged the leaf container towards himself and started gobbling up the sweets in fistfuls. He ate with such haste that within a moment half the container was empty. The secretary went to the traders standing at the gate and said, ‘Just go and watch the spectacle. Now you neither have to worry about keeping your shops open, nor about humbling yourselves in front of Panditji. I have solved the entire problem. It is the glory of the Congress.’

  The moonlight had spread all around. People went in to see Panditji engrossed in cleaning up the sweets just the way a sage is lost in a deep meditative trance.

  Bhondumal said, ‘I touch your feet, Panditji. We were on our way here . . . why did you have to hurry things up? We would have disclosed such a stratagem to you that your vow wouldn’t have been broken and yet our purpose would have been solved.’

  Shastriji replied, ‘My task is accomplished. This is supernatural bliss, which can’t be gained by heaps of wealth. If you revere me even a little bit, then get me a second helping of the same amount of the same thing from the same shop.’

  Translated from the Hindi by Sanjay Mukherjee

  The Roaming Monkey

  1

  Jeevan Das was a poor juggler. He earned his living through the acrobatics of his monkey, Mannu. Both he and his wife, Budhiya, loved him deeply. Since they were childless, Mannu alone was the object of their love. Both of them fed him with their own hands and put him to sleep in bed like a child. Nothing was dearer to them than Mannu.

  Once, Jeevan Das brought a ball for him, which Mannu played with in the courtyard. There was an earthen bowl for his food, a sack cloth for sleeping and a blanket rag for covering his body. There was also a rope hanging from the roof for his jumps. Mannu deeply cherished these things. He wouldn’t eat until something was put in his bowl. His sack cloth and his blanket rag were dearer to him than a shawl or a mattress. He spent his days happily. Every morning, he ate his chapattis and went with Jeevan Das to perform his acrobatic feats. His skill at acting captivated the spectators. Grabbing a stick, he would walk like an old man, sit in a position of prayer, make the gesture of a tilak on his forehead and hold pages from the scriptures in his hand and pretend to read them. He would beat the drum and pretend to sing in such an endearing way that the spectators split their sides with laughter. When the spectacle got over, he saluted everyone and touched people’s feet to beg money from them. Mannu’s bowl would fill with coins. After this, if someone fed Mannu a guava, someone else threw a piece of sweet before him. Boys never got tired of watching him. They would run to their houses to fetch pieces of bread to feed him. Mannu was the main entertainer for the people of the mohalla. As long as he was in the house, someone or the other would come to play with him. The street vendors would give him something to eat. If any of them tried to go past him without giving him anything, he touched their feet and extracted his share from them, as he stayed in the house free, without being tied. The only creatures Mannu had a distaste for were dogs. No dog dared pass by his house. If any did, Mannu served him one or two tight slaps. This was another reason for his popularity. On some days, when Budhiya slept in the sun, Mannu would stand near her head and pick out lice from her hair. Sometimes Budhiya sang for him. Mannu followed her wherever she went. Surely even a mother and her son weren’t so attached to each other.

  2


  One day, Mannu felt like eating some fruits. Now, there were fruits to eat, but the pleasure of climbing up trees and hanging from the branches, eating some and throwing away others was something else. Monkeys are usually entertaining. Mannu was a little more so. So far, he had never been caught or beaten. Climbing up trees and eating fruits came to him naturally. He didn’t know that even objects in nature belonged to someone or the other. Why, people exerted claims on even water, air and light, never mind orchards and gardens. When Jeevan Das returned at noon after the show, Mannu made his escape. He usually roamed around the mohalla, so no one suspected him of going anywhere else. He roamed the streets, jumped over the roofing tiles and finally reached an orchard. He saw that the trees there were laden with fruits. He was delighted to see gooseberries, jackfruits, litchis, mangoes and papayas hanging from the trees. It was as though the trees were beckoning him to come and feed on the fruits as much as he wanted. He leapt on a wall and then leapt up a tree. He ate some mangoes and then moved on to litchis and threw the stones around. Then he climbed up the highest branch of another tree and began to shake the branches. The ground filled up with ripe mangoes. The noise woke up the gardener from his siesta. The moment he sighted Mannu, he began to throw stones at him. These stones didn’t reach him, and the ones that did he escaped by ducking or manoeuvring his body cleverly. He even frightened the gardener by making faces at him and baring his teeth, threatening to bite him. The gardener backed off but came back again with a fresh supply of stones. The boys of the mohalla gathered around to see the fun and raised a racket:

  Hey, monkey, loyelaaye,

  We shall pull out your hairs toyetaaye,

  Hey monkey, your face is red,