by Premchand
Sukeshi: ‘Anyway, let the past rest. Tomorrow is Tuesday; you must fast and this time feed seven Brahmins. Let us see how the mahatma’s blessing does not come into being.’
Tripathiji: ‘It is a waste of time. She will not be able to accomplish anything.’
Sukeshi: ‘Babuji, you are a learned and intelligent man, yet you seem so disgruntled. You are still young. How many sons do you want? You will have so many that they will make your life miserable.’
Mother-in-law: ‘Daughter, has anyone ever wearied of looking after sons?’
Sukeshi: ‘God willing, your hearts will tire of them. Mine certainly has.’
Tripathiji: ‘Do you hear that, Maharani? Make no confusion this time. Ask your sister-in-law to explain everything to you properly.’
Sukeshi: ‘Rest assured, I will ensure that she remembers to do everything she has been advised; I will make her write down what food she has to take; how she has to live; how she has to bathe, and Ammaji, eighteen months from now, I will take an invaluable gift from you.’
Sukeshi lived with Nirupama for about a week and fed and instructed her well before returning home.
4
Nirupama’s fortune smiled on her once again; this time Tripathiji felt so contented that his anticipation of the future made him forget all about the past. Once again, Nirupama began to reign like a queen instead of being treated like a slave; once more, her mother-in-law began to encourage her to take up the challenge of giving birth to a male heir and people began to look up to her expectantly.
The days began to pass; sometimes, Nirupama would say, ‘Ammaji, today an old woman came to me in my dream, called out to me and gave me a coconut, saying that it was for me.’ Sometimes she would say, ‘Ammaji, I cannot fathom why, but this time I feel very excited, I feel like listening to songs and bathing in the river to my heart’s content; all the time I feel I am under the influence of some kind of intoxication.’ Her mother-in-law would listen to her, smile and respond, ‘Bahu, these are all positive signs.’
On the quiet, Nirupama began to send for some majun and having had it and despite knowing the truth she would venture to ask Tripathiji, ‘Do my eyes look red?’
Unaware of the facts, Tripathiji cheerfully replied, ‘It seems as though you are intoxicated. This is a happy sign.’
Nirupama had never been that fond of fragrances but now she could die for the sweet scent of flower gajras worn on the wrist.
Now, every day, before going to bed, Tripathiji would read out stories of brave men from the Mahabharata for Nirupama, and sometimes he would relate accounts of the valour of Guru Govind Singh. Nirupama was particularly fond of Abhimanyu’s tale. The father wanted his son to be born with an instinctive awareness of heroism and valour.
One day, Nirupama asked her husband, ‘What name will you give the child?’
‘How good that you have thought about that! I had forgotten all about it. He should be given a name that distinctively strikes a chord of heroism and brilliance. Think of such a name.’
Both of them began a discussion about suitable names for the unborn child. A list of all possible names was prepared, right from Jorawar Lal to Harishchandra but nothing seemed appropriate for this extraordinary child. Finally, the father said, ‘How is Tegh Bahadur?’
‘This is it! This is the name I like.’
‘It is certainly a fine name. You have already heard about the valour of Tegh Bahadur. A man’s name has a strong influence on his personality.’
‘There is so much in a name. Every “Damdi”, “Chakaudi”, “Dhurhoo” and “Katwaroo” that I have met has exemplified the meanings of his names. Our son will be called Tegh Bahadur.’
5
The time for the child’s birth arrived. Nirupama knew that she would deliver a girl once again but outside the room of her lying-in, all the preparations had been made for a grand celebration. This time nobody had even an iota of doubt. There were arrangements for singing and dances. A shamiana had been set up and several friends and relatives sat under it talking merrily. A halvai was frying puris and dishing out sweetmeats from a large pan. Several gunny sacks full of foodgrains were kept in readiness for distribution among the bhikshus when the news of the birth of the baby boy was broken. All the gunny sacks had been opened so as to prevent even a minute’s delay.
However, Nirupama’s heart began to sink with every passing instant. What will happen now? Somehow, three years have been spent in crafty manipulations, and they have slipped by rather comfortably. But now the hour of trial is at hand. Haye! What a terrible situation! Despite my innocence, I have to suffer such dire consequences. If God does not will that I give birth to a son, why should I be held responsible? But who will hear me out? I am the ill-fated one, I need to be abandoned, I am the ill-omened one because I cannot bear a son! What will happen? In a minute all these celebrations will suddenly be drowned in mourning; all manner of abuses will be showered upon me; I will be cursed by one and all; I am not concerned about my parents-in-law but perhaps my husband will never look at me again; maybe he will surrender his household responsibilities out of sheer despair. All around me there is misfortune. Why am I still alive to witness the ill that will befall my children and my household? A great deal of craft has been put into practice but no advantage can be got from it now. How hopeful I felt in my heart of hearts! I could have looked after my pretty little daughters; watched them grow; married them and sought happiness in watching their children grow. But ah! All these desires seem ready to mingle with the dust! Bhagwan! You alone are their father; you alone are their sentinel! I am about to depart now.
The lady doctor said, ‘Well, it’s a girl again.’
Inside the house, there was weeping and crying; the women beat their breasts and wailed. Tripathiji exclaimed, ‘To hell with such a life; even death has become elusive!’
His father joined in. ‘She is ill-fated, extremely ill-fated!’
The bhikshus remarked, ‘You can cry over your fate, we will look for another place.’
These expressions of sorrow had hardly ceased when the lady doctor announced, ‘The mother is not well. She cannot survive this. Her heart has stopped beating.’
Translated from the Hindi by Fatima Rizvi
Ghost
1
Pandit Sitanath Chaubey of Muradabad had been the leader of the advocates for the past thirty years. His father had left him and departed for the other world in his boyhood. The household had no wealth whatsoever. His mother had to undergo great troubles to rear and educate him. At first he became a judicial servant at the court for a salary of fifteen rupees per month. After that he took the law exam. He passed it. He had the talent and so he shone as a lawyer in a span of two to four years. By the time his mother left for her heavenly abode, he was already counted amongst the distinguished people in the district of Shumar. His salary was no less than a thousand rupees per month now. He had built a huge mansion, become the zamindar of some lands, saved some money in the bank and also made some investments. He had four sons, who were studying in different grades. However, to say that all this grandeur was the fruit of Chaubeyji’s non-stop hard work would be an injustice to his wife, Mangala Devi. Mangala was a simple, naive woman; she was adept at household chores and was quite tight-fisted. Till the time she did not have her own house, she never rented one for more than three rupees a month; she did not have a maid to look after her kitchen until now. If she had a fetish, it was only for jewellery; and if Chaubeyji had a fetish it was to get his wife decked up with jewels. He was a true devotee of his wife. Generally in a mehfil it is not considered profane to flirt and joke with the prostitutes; but in his entire life Chaubeyji had never gone to entertain himself in a gathering of song and dance. From daybreak at five till midnight his addiction, entertainment, studies and practice was law. He had no love for politics; neither did he believe in serving his community. He considered all this a waste of time. According to his principles the only worthy thing was to go to t
he court, debate, save money and sleep after his meal. Just as for a Vedic scholar, the entire world is a big lie except for the universal knowledge, for Chaubeyji the entire society made no sense except for law. Everything else was an illusion, law was the only truth.
2
The moon surrounding Chaubeyji’s life was eclipsed by one thing. He did not have a daughter. After the first-born who was a girl, they never had a daughter again and there was no hope of having one now. Husband and wife both shed tears in her memory. Girls throw more tantrums than boys in their childhood. The two lives were disconcerted by the fact that they were deprived of the pleasure of watching those tantrums. The mother thought that if she had a daughter, she’d make jewels for her, she’d plait her hair . . . It would be such a pleasure to watch the girl toddle in the courtyard with her anklets on! Chaubey thought, how would it be possible to get redemption without kanyadaan? Kanyadaan is the greatest charity. One who is unable to do this charity—his birth is rendered useless.
At last this greed became so strong that Mangala decided to bring her little sister from her parents’ home and raise her as her own daughter. Mangala’s parents were poor. They agreed to it. In fact, this girl was the daughter of Mangala’s stepmother. She was very beautiful and very naughty. Her name was Binni. Chaubeyji’s house got a new life with her arrival. In a few days the girl forgot about her own parents. She was only four years old, but apart from playing she also liked to do some work. Whenever Mangala went to the kitchen to cook food, Binni followed her there. She would insist on kneading the dough, and she would find chopping the vegetables fun. When Chaubeyji was at home, she would sit with him in the drawing room. Sometimes she’d flip open a book or play with the pen and ink pot. Chaubeyji would say with a teasing smile, ‘Beti, shall I beat you?’
Binni would say, ‘You’ll get beaten, I will chop off your ear, I will summon and get you caught by the juju.’
At this, the drawing room would be engulfed in roars of laughter. Chaubeyji had never been so childlike in his life! Whenever he came back home, he made sure to bring some gift for Binni and the moment he stepped inside, he’d call out for Binni, ‘Binni beti, let’s go.’
And Binni would come running along and sit on his lap.
One day Mangala was sitting with Binni when Chaubeyji arrived. As usual Binni ran to him. Chaubeyji asked, ‘Whose daughter are you?’
Binni: ‘I won’t say.’
Mangala: ‘Tell him that you are jiji’s daughter.’
Chaubeyji: ‘Binni, are you my daughter or hers?’
Binni: ‘I won’t say.’
Chaubeyji: ‘Okay, we are sitting with our eyes closed; whoever’s daughter Binni is, she should go and sit on his or her lap.’
Binni got up and went to sit on Chaubeyji’s lap.
Chaubeyji: ‘She is my daughter, my daughter; (to his wife) now you won’t say that she is your daughter.’
Mangala: ‘Okay, go, Binni, I won’t give you sweets any more; I won’t even get a doll for you.’
Binni: ‘Bhaiyaji will get those for me; I won’t give them to you.’
Chaubeyji laughed and hugged Binni to his chest and carried her along outside. He wanted his good friends to have a taste of this childhood playfulness.
From that day onwards if anybody asked Binni whose daughter she was, she would promptly reply, ‘Bhaiya’s.’
Once Binni’s own father came and took her along to his house. Binni cried her eyes out. Even Chaubeyji spent his days restlessly. Not even a month had passed when he went to his in-laws’ place and brought Binni back with him. Binni forgot about her own mother and father completely. She had come to regard Chaubeyji as her father and Mangala as her mother. Those who gave birth to her were now strangers to her.
3
Many years went by. Chaubeyji’s sons got married. Two of his sons, along with their families, went away to different districts to practise law. The other two were studying in college. Binni, too, bloomed into youth like a flower. There was not a single girl in the entire community with such beauty, talent and personality—she was good at studies, skilful at household chores, deft at embroidery and stitching, adept in the art of cooking, sweet-mouthed, coy and beautiful. A dark room was lit by the rays of her divine beauty. In the redness of dawn, in the heart-stealing splendour of moonlight, in the dewdrops that shine when reflected by the sun’s rays upon a rose in bloom, there isn’t the life-giving exquisite beauty or radiance that was Binni’s; in the white snow-capped mountains there isn’t the coolness that was there in Binni’s, which is to say, Vindheshwari’s large eyes.
Chaubeyji started to look for a worthy groom for Binni. He had fulfilled his heart’s wishes in the weddings of his sons. Now he wanted to satisfy his ambition in his daughter’s wedding. He had acquired fame by splurging his wealth, now he wanted to be known for bestowing gifts and a sizeable dowry. It is easy to organize a son’s wedding but to maintain one’s reputation in a daughter’s wedding is difficult. Everybody can cross the river by a boat, but the one who swims across deserves praise.
There was no dearth of wealth. A good house and a suitable groom were found. The horoscopes were matched, the stars were favourable. The rituals of fruit offering and tilak had been done. But alas, the misfortune! When the preparations for the wedding were in full swing, the tailor, the jeweller, the sweet-maker, and everybody else was doing their work right there in the courtyard, cruel fate played a totally different game! Just a week before the wedding, Mangala suddenly fell ill and within a span of three days she left for the other world taking all her hopes along with her.
It was evening. Mangala was lying on the charpoy. Everybody—sons, daughter-in-laws, grandchildren—stood encircling the four corners of the charpoy. Binni was massaging Mangala’s feet at the foot of the charpoy. The terrible silence that is characteristic of the hour of death prevailed. No one spoke; everybody knew in their hearts what was going to happen. Only Chaubeyji was not there.
Suddenly Mangala started looking around the room frantically. Her eyes wistful, she said, ‘Call him for a minute, where’s he?’
Chaubeyji was in his room in a mournful state. As soon as he got the message, he wiped his tears and entered the room and with great equanimity stood in front of Mangala. He feared that if he shed even a single tear his entire house would break into a tumult.
Mangala said, ‘Let me ask you something—don’t take offence—who is Binni to you?’
Chaubeyji: ‘Who is Binni? Why, she is my daughter. What else would she be?’
‘Yes, that is what I wanted to hear. Always think of her as your own daughter. Whatever arrangements I had made for her wedding, make sure nothing of it is cut and chipped.’
’Don’t worry about it. God willing, the wedding will be conducted with more pomp and show than what has been planned.’
‘Let her come here for occasional visits. Don’t forget her during Teej and other festivals.’
‘There’s no need to remind me of these things.’
Mangala thought for a moment and then said, ‘Marry her off this very year.’
‘How is it possible this year?’
‘This is the month of Phagun. The lagan is till Jeth.’
‘If it’s possible I’ll do it this year.’
‘No, promise me you will do it this year.’
‘I’ll do it.’
They began preparations for a godaan.
4
The death of one’s wife in old age is equivalent to the collapse of the roof during the rainy season. There’s no hope of repair.
With Mangala’s death Chaubeyji’s life became irregular and somewhat disorganized. He stopped socializing or meeting with people. For days on end he would not go to court. Even if he went, it was after much persuasion. He lost his taste for food. Seeing his condition, Vindheshwari’s heart pined and she tried her utmost to keep his attention diverted. She read stories from the Puranas for him and coaxed him to eat with persistence and pleading. She herself n
ever ate until he did.
In the summer she would sit at the foot of his bed and fanned him till late at night. Unless he fell asleep, she never went to bed. If at all he complained of a headache, she promptly poured oil over his head. And if he felt thirsty at night, she came rushing to give him water. Slowly, Mangala faded into a mere joyful memory for Chaubeyji.
One day Chaubeyji gave away all of Mangala’s jewels to Binni. That was Mangala’s last request. Binni was overwhelmed. That day she groomed herself. When Chaubeyji came back from the court that day, she stood blushing and smiling in front of him laden with jewels.
Chaubeyji stared at her with thirsty eyes. A new kind of emotion was budding in his mind for Vindheshwari. When Mangala was alive, she had reinforced the father–daughter relationship. Now Mangala was not there. Therefore, with the passing of days, that emotion faded away. In Mangala’s presence Binni had been a girl. In Mangala’s absence she was a beautiful young lady. But the pure-hearted Binni did not have the slightest inkling about bhaiya’s change of emotions. For her he was the same father figure. She was inexperienced in the ways of men. In a woman’s character, through certain circumstances the feeling of motherhood grows stronger. Then there comes a time, when in the eyes of a woman, a man becomes equivalent to her son. There is no trace of sensual enjoyment in her mind. But men never have any such feelings. Their sensual organs may become inactive but their lust for carnal pleasure possibly grows stronger. A man is never set free from his desires; rather with the passage of time his lust gets fiercer like the heat of the last phase of summer. To satisfy himself he is ready to seek the aid of vulgar means. When young, a man does not stoop so low. His character is endowed with a greater sense of propriety, which loathes resorting to despicable means. He can barge into somebody’s house, but he won’t give in to clandestine means.