The Complete Short Stories

by Premchand

  Nathua had no other work except for cleaning Rai Sahib’s bungalow. After his meal he played around the whole day. Nathua’s work decided his position in the caste hierarchy and he was assigned a place in the sweeper community. Therefore, the other servants called him an untouchable, a bhangi, but he didn’t mind. The poor boy was not aware of the effects this name could have on him and he saw no harm in being a bhangi. While sweeping, he often found some money or other things on the floor with which he could buy cigarettes. Even as a child he had acquired a taste for tobacco, cigarettes and paan in the company of other servants.

  There were many boys and girls in Rai Sahib’s household, for dozens of nieces and nephews lived with him. But he had only one daughter, whose name was Ratna. She was educated at home by two tutors and a British woman who came to teach her English. It was Rai Sahib’s ardent desire that Ratna be accomplished and skilled so that, like the Goddess Laxmi, she would bring prosperity and fortune into her husband’s home. He did not allow Ratna to mingle with the other children. She was given two rooms to herself—one to study in and the other to sleep.

  People say that too much affection makes children wilful and naughty. But, in spite of being pampered, Ratna was well behaved and decent. She did not call the servants ‘hey you’ haughtily. She was not even rude to a beggar. She gave money and sweets to Nathua and sometimes also chatted with him. So the servant boy had become quite free and informal with her.

  One day Nathua was sweeping Ratna’s bedroom while she studied with the English memsahib in the other room. As he swept the floor, an unfortunate thought came to him: He longed to lie on Ratna’s bed. How clean and white the sheet was, how soft and cushioned the mattress and how beautiful the shawl! Ratna slept so cosily in the bed, just like chicks in a nest. That was why her hands were so soft and fair. It seemed as though her body was filled with cotton wool. Who will see me here, he thought to himself, and wiping his feet on the floor he quickly climbed into the bed and covered himself with the shawl. His heart filled with pride and joy. He happily jumped on the bed two or three times. He felt as though he lay cushioned on soft downy cotton. His body sank a finger’s length into the mattress as he turned from one side to the other. Oh! Why is such joy not meant for me? Why didn’t God make me Rai Sahib’s son? These thoughts troubled Nathua and he sorely felt his own privation in the soft comfort of Ratna’s bed. Just then Rai Sahib happened to come into the room. His eyes immediately fell on Nathua lying on Ratna’s bed. Incensed, he shouted, ‘Why, you pig, what are you doing?’

  Nathua was petrified; he felt as though he had lost his foothold and toppled into a river. He leapt from the bed and snatched up his broom.

  Rai Sahib asked again, ‘What were you doing, wretch?’

  ‘Nothing, master!’

  ‘Are you brazen enough to sleep in Ratna’s bed now? Ungrateful scoundrel! Bring me my whip.’

  Rai Sahib flogged Nathua mercilessly. Nathua folded his hands and fell at Rai Sahib’s feet but Rai Sahib’s anger was implacable. All the servants crowded round and began to rub salt on his wounds. Rai Sahib’s rage grew and throwing aside the whip he began to kick Nathua. When Ratna heard Nathua’s cries she came running into the room. Once she had gathered the cause of the ruckus she pleaded with her father, ‘Dadaji, the poor boy will die; have mercy on him now.’

  Rai Sahib growled, ‘If he dies, I’ll have his carcass thrown out. At least he will have reaped the fruit for this wickedness.’

  ‘It is my bed, isn’t it? And I forgive him.’

  ‘Just look at the state of your bed. The filth from the rascal’s body must have rubbed off on it. What was he thinking? Why you . . . what came over you?’

  Rai Sahib leapt at Nathua again but he ran and hid behind Ratna. There was no refuge elsewhere. Ratna stopped her father. ‘Dadaji, I request you, please forgive him.’

  Rai Sahib: ‘What do you mean, Ratna? How can such villains be forgiven? All right, because of you I will let him go, otherwise I would have killed him today. You, Nathua, hear me, if you know what’s good for you don’t ever come here again. Get out right now, you no-good swine!’

  Nathua ran for his life. He didn’t look back even once and only stopped running when he reached the road. Rai Sahib could not touch him here. Here, people would not take Rai Sahib’s side just to please him. Someone would be sure to speak up for him. After all, he was only a boy. Surely he couldn’t be killed for making a mistake. Let him try and beat me here, he thought, I’ll abuse him and run away. This idea bolstered his courage. He turned towards the bungalow and shouted, ‘Come and hit me here, if you dare!’ Then he took to his heels, in case Rai Sahib had heard him and was indeed coming after him.

  2

  Nathua had gone only a little distance when he saw Ratna’s memsahib coming after him on her tamtam, the one-horse carriage. He was afraid she was chasing him to nab him. He fled at top speed once again but when he was too tired to run any further he had to stop. His mind said, What can she do to me? What harm have I done her? Meanwhile, the memsahib had reached him. Stopping her tamtam she said, ‘Where are you going, Nathua?’

  Nathua answered, ‘Nowhere.’

  ‘If you go back to Rai Sahib’s he will beat you. Why don’t you come with me to the Mission? You can live there comfortably and be educated and cultured.’

  ‘Will you make me a Christian?’

  ‘A Christian is not worse than a bhangi, silly!’

  ‘No, Ma’am, I won’t become a Christian.’

  ‘Don’t, if you don’t want to. No one can force you to become one.’

  Nathua went some distance in the tamtam but then suddenly he jumped down, for he was still suspicious of the Mission. The memsahib asked, ‘What is it, why aren’t you coming with me?’

  ‘I’ve heard whoever goes to the Mission becomes a Christian. I won’t go. You are tricking me.’

  ‘Foolish boy, you’ll be schooled there and not have to slave for anyone. In the evening you’ll get time to play and have a coat and trousers to wear. At least come and see what it’s like for a few days.’

  Nathua did not respond to this temptation and ran down the alley. Only when the tamtam had gone quite far did he relax and begin to take stock of his situation. Where do I go? I hope no policeman seizes me and takes me to the police station. If I go where people of my community live, will they take me in? Why shouldn’t they? I won’t just sit and eat; I will work and earn a living. I only need support, someone to stand behind me. If today I had someone to back me Rai Sahib would not have dared to beat me like that. The entire community would have rallied round and the whole house left uncleaned. Even the doorway would be unswept. Then, all his pride in his title would have been reduced to nothing.

  Having made up his mind. He wandered towards the bhangi quarter of the town. It was evening and many bhangis sat on mats under a tree playing the shehnai and the tabla. Music was their livelihood and they practised daily. The torment that music was subjected to here could not have happened elsewhere. Nathua went towards the players. A bhangi, who watched him listening very carefully, asked, ‘Do you sing?’

  Nathua replied, ‘Not as yet, but if you teach me I will.’

  ‘Don’t make excuses, sit down; first let’s hear you sing something and find out whether you have a good voice or not, otherwise how can one teach you?’

  Like all the boys of the bazaar, Nathua also knew how to sing a little. He often sang and hummed while walking on the road. So he promptly broke into song. The teacher, respectfully called the ustad, heard him and understood that the boy was not worthless. He asked Nathua, ‘Where do you live?’

  Nathua introduced himself and poured out his tale of misery. He not only found shelter there but also got the chance to grow in a way that raised him from the earth and catapulted him into the heavens.

  3

  Three years flew by. Nathua’s singing became the talk of the town. Singing wasn’t the only thing he excelled in; his talents were manifold. In addition
to singing, he played the shehnai, pakhawaj, sarangi, tamboura, and sitar—and he was skilled in all. Even his teachers wondered at his amazing genius. It seemed as though he was merely honing what he already knew. People practise playing the sitar for as long as ten years and still fail to learn it but Nathua had mastered its strings in just one month. So many gems like Nathua are lost in the dust because they do not meet a person discerning enough to see their hidden brilliance.

  Serendipitously, a music conference was organized at Gwalior one day. Distinguished musicians from the country and abroad were invited. Nathua’s teacher Ustad Ghurey also received an invitation. Nathua was his student. The ustad took Nathua along with him to Gwalior. The celebration went on for a week there. Nathua earned a lot of fame at the conference. He won a gold medal. The chairman of the music school of Gwalior requested Ustad Ghurey to admit Nathua into his music school. He would be taught music at the school and be educated as well. Ghurey consented and Nathua agreed to study there.

  In five years Nathua had earned the highest degree of the school. Apart from music, he also showed proficiency in language, mathematics and science. He now had an honourable place in society. No one asked him his caste any more. His lifestyle, habits and demeanour were not of the low-caste singers but of an educated and genteel person. To safeguard his dignity be began to behave like high-caste people. He gave up meat and drink and took to regular puja. Not even a high-born Brahmin could have observed custom and conduct as he did. He was already known as Nathuram; now his name was further refined to N.R. Acharya. Often, he was simply called ‘acharya’, the learned and accomplished one. The acharya was also addressed as ‘mahashay’, or gentleman. Furthermore, the royal court began to give him a good salary. Very rarely does a talented man achieve such fame at the age of eighteen. However, the thirst for fame is never quenched. It is akin to the thirst of Rishi Agastya who drank up the ocean and was still not sated. The acharya also wanted to excel in Western music. He enrolled in the best music school of Germany and after five years of unrelenting labour and hard work he earned a master’s degree. He toured Italy before returning to Gwalior and within one week of his arrival he was appointed by the Madan Company as inspector of their branches, with a monthly salary of three thousand rupees. Before going to Europe he had already made thousands of rupees. In Europe, too, the opera houses and theatres had welcomed him magnanimously and on some days he had earned more than a singer back home made in years. On his return the acharya was drawn towards Lucknow and decided to settle there.

  4

  When Acharya Mahashay reached Lucknow he was overwhelmed with emotion. He had spent his childhood here—he remembered how, as an orphan, he used to rob the square kites in these very alleys, and how he had gone begging in these bazaars. Ah! He was flogged here—he still carried the stripes of the whipping on his body. But now he held these scars dearer than the lines of fortune. In fact, for him the strokes of the whip had been a boon from Shiva.

  There were no feelings of anger or revenge for Rai Sahib in his heart, not even a jot. He only remembered Rai Sahib’s goodness; and he remembered Ratna as the very image of kindness and affection. For misfortune deepens old wounds, but fortune fills them up! The acharya alighted from the train with a palpitating heart. The ten-year-old boy had grown into a twenty-three-year-old learned and gracious young man. Now, not even his mother could have known him as her own Nathua. However, his transformation was considerably less amazing than the metamorphosis of the town. This was not Lucknow, but another city altogether!

  As he emerged from the station his eyes fell on the people of the town, the prominent as well as the ordinary, waiting to welcome him. One of them was a beautiful young woman who resembled Ratna. The men shook his hand while Ratna garlanded him. This gracious welcome was accorded to him for bringing fame to Bharat in distant lands. The acharya’s legs began to tremble; he found it difficult to stand still. This was the same Ratna! The innocent girl-child had taken the form of the Goddess of beauty, modesty, pride and grace. He did not have the courage to look straight into her eyes.

  After the courtesies he was taken to the bungalow prepared for him. He was startled when he saw that it was the same mansion where he used to play with Ratna; the furnishings were the same, the pictures, chairs, tables and the gleaming mirrors were all the same . . . even the floor was unchanged. Acharya Mahashay stepped into the house with the same feelings a devout Hindu has when he enters a temple. As soon as he reached Ratna’s bedroom his heart was so convulsed that tears began to flow from his eyes—this was the same bed, the same bedding and the very same floor! ‘Whose bungalow is this?’ he asked giddily.

  The manager of the company was with him. He answered, ’One Rai Bholanath’s.’

  ‘Where did Rai Sahib go?’

  ‘God alone knows where he went. The building was attached after he went bankrupt and was put up for auction. It was close to the theatre so I wrote to the authorities and bought it for the company. We got the fully furnished bungalow for forty thousand rupees.’

  ‘You got it for free! Have you no news of Rai Sahib?’

  ‘I heard that he had gone on a pilgrimage. God knows whether he has returned or not.’

  In the evening Acharya Mahashay sat warily among the people who had called on him and asked one of those gathered, ‘Do you have any news of Ustad Ghurey? I’ve heard a lot about him.’

  The man answered sadly, ‘Don’t ask about him, master. He was returning home drunk when he fell unconscious on the road in front of a passing lorry. The driver didn’t see him and he was crushed to death. His body was found in the morning. He was a rare musician, sir, and Lucknow became desolate with his death. Now there is no one in whom Lucknow can take pride. He had taught some of his art to a boy called Nathua and we had hoped he would keep the name of the ustad alive. But he went away to Gwalior and after that we don’t know what happened to him.’

  Acharya Mahashay was half-dead with the fear of being discovered. He could hardly breathe with the sword of Damocles hanging over his head. Fortunately, the moment finally passed and the clay pitcher remained whole even after being struck.

  5

  Acharya Mahashay lived in the house as gingerly as a new bride in her in-laws’ home. The old values would not be erased from his heart. His self would not accept the fact that it was his house now. If he laughed out loud he would pull himself short with a start. If his friends who visited became too boisterous he would be engulfed by an unknown misgiving. If he were to sleep in the study, he would stay awake the whole night, for it was marked in his mind that the room was meant only for reading and writing. He could not change the old furnishings as they were still in fine shape. And, he never again opened Ratna’s bedchamber. It remained shut and untouched. His legs trembled at the idea of entering the room, and the thought of sleeping on that bed never once crossed his mind.

  The Acharya displayed the marvel of his musical genius many times at the Lucknow University. He would not sing at the households of kings and nobility even if they offered him lakhs of rupees. This he had vowed not to do. Those who were fortunate enough to hear his heavenly music were said to experience divine joy.

  One morning Acharya Mahashay had just finished his puja when Rai Bholanath came calling. Ratna was also with him. Acharya Mahashay was overawed. His heart had not quaked like this even in the big and splendid theatres of Europe. He bent over double to greet Rai Sahib with a salaam. Bholanath was a little bewildered by this humility. It had been a long time since people had bowed to him. Now, wherever he went he was only mocked and derided. Ratna was also discomfited. Rai Sahib looked around him dejectedly and said, ‘You must like this place.’

  ‘Yes, sir, I cannot imagine a better place than this.’

  ‘This is my bungalow. I had it made and I ruined it myself.’

  Ratna said uncomfortably, ‘Dadaji, what is the point of talking about this now?’

  ‘There is no advantage, daughter, and no loss either. The mind i
s calmed by sharing one’s grief with honourable men. Mahashay, this is my bungalow or, let me say, it was. I had an income of fifty thousand rupees a year from my estate but in the company of some men I began to gamble. At first, I quickly won two or three rounds. I was emboldened and began to wager and make lakhs of rupees. But a single loss destroyed everything and the chariot of my fortune floundered. All my property was ruined. Just think, twenty-five lakh was at stake. If the cowrie had only landed head-side up, the splendour of this bungalow would have been something else altogether! But it didn’t and now I can only remember the days gone by and wring my hands in misery. My Ratna adores your singing and always talks of you. She has done her BA.’

  Ratna flushed with embarrassment. ‘Dadaji, Acharya Mahashay knows all about me. There is no need for this introduction. Forgive us, Mahashay, the bankruptcy has unsettled my father’s mind. He came to ask you if you would mind his coming to see the bungalow occasionally. It would relieve his sorrow. He would be satisfied in the knowledge that a friend owns the house. We’ve come to you with only this request.’

  The acharya replied humbly, ‘You don’t need to ask me. This house is yours, come whenever you wish. In fact, if you want you can live here; I’ll find another place for myself.’