by Premchand
Damodar’s sons had sun-tanned complexions, and they were not very pleasant to look at. His heart filled with pleasure when he heard about the newborn child’s pretty looks. He said to his mother, ‘Ammaji, you should send for the women to sing and rejoice and leave the rest to God. Whatever is destined shall come to pass.’
‘My heart does not permit me to rejoice. What shall I do?’
‘Our troubles will not be warded off if we do not have the singing, or will they? If by not having the celebrations our lives can be ensured, then avoid them.’
‘I will send for them, son. Whatever was destined has happened.’
Just then, the midwife called out from the maternity room, ‘Bahuji says this is not the time to celebrate.’
Damodar’s mother retorted, ‘Will you tell her to be quiet? She can do as she pleases once she is out of the maternity room—it will be only twelve days of post-natal lying-in—not too many, are they? She’d been strutting about so conceitedly. “I won’t do this, I won’t do that . . . what are gods? What are goddesses?” After listening to all that the menfolk had to say, she had begun to talk like them too. Why doesn’t she keep quiet now? The white women do not believe that a girl born after three boys is ill-omened and malevolent. Since she endeavours to be at par with them in everything, she should also think like them.’
She then ordered the naain to fetch the singers and inform the neighbourhood on the way.
Early in the morning, when Damodar’s elder son awoke, he rubbed his eyes and asked his dadi, ‘Badi Amma, what happened to Amma yesterday?’
‘She delivered a baby girl.’
The boy jumped up and down with joy and said, ‘Oh ho ho! She will wear little anklets with bells on them and walk about making music. Show her to me please, Dadiji!’
‘Arré, will you go into the delivery room? Have you gone mad?’
The boy was too excited to listen. He walked up to the doorway of the delivery room and called out to his mother, ‘Amma, please show me the baby girl.’
‘The baby is asleep,’ replied the midwife.
‘Hold her in your arms and show her to me.’
After the midwife had shown him the baby, he ran across to his younger brothers and woke them up, excitedly breaking the good news.
One of them said, ‘She must be very small!’
‘Quite small indeed! Just like a big doll! She is fairer than the daughter of a white man. This girl belongs to me.’
The youngest boy trilled, ‘Show her to me.’
All three of them went to see the baby girl and returned, jumping with joy and prancing about.
The eldest boy asked, ‘Did you see her?’
The second said, ‘How she lay with her eyes closed!’
The youngest cheeped, ‘Give her to me.’
The eldest mused, ‘A groom will come to our house with a train of elephants, horses, a band of musicians and firecrackers, and take her away.’
The two younger boys became very excited about the prospect of that glorious spectacle; their innocent eyes shone with unadulterated joy.
The second boy added, ‘There will be lots of flowers too.’
The youngest joined in, ‘I too will take some flowers.’
2
The sixth day of the infant’s birth was celebrated and so was the twelfth; there was singing and festivity; elaborate dinners were arranged and gifts were distributed. But all this was simply obligatory—the celebrations were not wholehearted; no one was happy. The child was not well; she grew weaker by the day. The mother would administer opium twice a day to the baby girl, who remained in a listless stupor through the day and night. At the slightest easing of the narcotic intoxication, she would cry with hunger. The mother would bottlefeed her and administer yet another dose of opium. It was rather surprising that she was quite dry this time. Even earlier, she had been rather slow to lactate, but after the birth of each son she consumed various types of drugs that induced lactation; besides, each baby was forced to breastfeed, consequently stimulating lactation. This time, however, none of these pains were taken. The flowerlike baby girl began to shrivel up. The mother did not so much as cast a look upon her. Sometimes, when the naain snapped her fingers, and made kissing sounds or spoke lovingly to the child, her tender face showed such heart-rending signs of anguish and distress that she would wipe her tears and move away. She could not gather up the courage to say anything to the mother. The eldest son, Siddhu, would suggest repeatedly, ‘Amma, should I take the baby out to play?’ But his mother merely scolded him.
Three or four months passed. One night, when Damodar woke up to drink water, he noticed that the baby girl was awake. The little girl had fixed her gaze on an oil lamp on the shelf while she sucked her thumb, making soft gurgling sounds. Her countenance had withered and she neither cried nor threw her limbs about; she merely sucked on her thumb as though it were the storehouse of sweet nectar. She did not so much as turn towards her mother’s breasts—perhaps she did not have any right over them, no hope lay in them for her. Babu Sahib felt sorry for her. How can this miserable child be blamed for being born in my house? How can she be held responsible for whatever adversity befalls me or her mother? How heartless are we that merely on the conjecture of some imagined adversity we are causing her such severe injury? Should we make her pay with her life for fear that something inauspicious may befall us? Only my destiny can be accountable for whatever misfortune befalls us. Would God be pleased with our ruthlessness towards this little child? He lifted the baby in his arms and began to kiss her face. This was perhaps the first time ever that the little girl felt truly loved. She began to throw her arms and legs about and gurgle, reaching out for the light of the lamp with her hands. It seemed that she now had found reason to live.
Early in the morning, Damodar lifted the girl in his arms and took her out. All the while his wife kept saying, ‘Let her be, she is not all that beautiful, is she? Day and night the ill-fated one feeds on my very existence; she does not even die so that I may be relieved.’ But Damodar did not listen to anything she had to say. He took the baby outside, sat down and began to play with his children. Across his house lay a small vacant plot. A neighbour’s goat grazed on the grass that grew on this plot. At that time too, the goat was grazing. Damodar told his eldest son, ‘Siddhu, can you catch hold of the goat so that we may feed the little one—perhaps the poor child is hungry. She is your little sister, isn’t she? You should bring her out to play in the fresh air every day.’
Siddhu had been instructed to do exactly as he had wanted. His younger brother, too, ran out with him. Together, they caught hold of the goat and holding her by the ear, they brought her to their father, who positioned the baby’s mouth under the goat’s udders. In a minute, spouts of milk flowed into her mouth, giving her a new lease of life, as a fading lamp bursts into flame when it is replenished with oil. The girl’s face lit up. Perhaps, for the first time, today, her hunger had been sated. She began to play energetically in her father’s lap. Even the boys played enthusiastically with her.
From that day, Siddhu began to derive pleasure from a new form of entertainment. Boys are very fond of little children. If they chance upon a fledgling in its nest, they go up to look at it again and again. They will observe how the mother feeds its young ones—how the fledglings flap their wings and receive the grain in their beaks, chirping all the while. They will talk about it among themselves with a great deal of seriousness and take their friends over to the site. Siddhu was always on the watch now. No sooner would his mother go to cook food, or to bathe, than he would carry the girl out, get hold of the goat and position her mouth under its udders. Sometimes, he would manage to do this several times a day. He had tamed the goat by feeding it fodder and hay, so that it would come looking for food of its own accord, permit the baby to nurse on it and then go away. About a month passed like this; the girl grew healthy; her countenance blossomed like that of a boy; her eyes shone brightly. The innocent glow of her infan
cy attracted everybody’s attention.
Her mother was quite astonished to see the child’s health blossom. She didn’t say anything to anyone, but ruminated over the fact that the child no longer appeared as though she would die soon—in all likelihood, one of them would. Perhaps God tended the child Himself; that is why she grew healthier by the day; else she should have made her residence in his abode by now.
3
However, the baby’s grandmother was far more concerned than her mother. She began to think that her daughter-in-law was feeding the baby well—that, in fact, she was nourishing a serpent. She would not even raise her eyes to look at the child. One day, she exclaimed, ‘You are very fond of the child—and why not? After all, you are the mother, aren’t you? If you don’t love her, who will?’
‘Ammaji, God knows that I do not feed her!’
‘But I do not forbid you from doing so. Why should I sin needlessly by preventing you from feeding her? After all, I will not be affected!’
‘Now, if you are not willing to believe me, what can I do?’
‘Do you think I am silly to believe that she is growing healthier by drinking air?’
‘God knows best, Amma, I too am quite surprised.’
Her daughter-in-law continued to express her innocence, but the aged mother-in-law’s fears were not assuaged. Instead, she imagined that her daughter-in-law believed that her worries were unjustified, that perhaps, she was holding a grudge against the baby. She began to wish to be afflicted by some malady in order to prove to these people that her fears were not fabricated. Or that some unforeseen evil would befall the people she loved more dearly than her own existence, only so that her misgivings would not be perceived as ill founded. Although she did not want anybody to die, she began to wish for someone to fall prey to some untoward incident, so as to make them conscious of the fact that what had happened was because they had not heeded her warning. The more the mother-in-law’s attitude of hostility became apparent, the more her daughter-in-law’s affection for the girl increased. She prayed fervently for that one year to pass without any unpleasant incident, so she could question her mother-in-law about the mythic belief. To some extent the girl’s innocent-looking face and to some extent her husband’s fatherly affection towards the child encouraged her to change her earlier negligence of the baby. It was quite a peculiar situation; she could neither express her love for her daughter wholeheartedly nor debunk the fallacy of the malevolent child in totality. She could neither laugh nor cry.
Two months passed this way, and no unseemly incident took place. By now, the aged mother-in-law had begun to suffer pangs of extreme anxiety. My daughter-in-law is not falling ill with fever even for a couple of days so that my suspicions are vindicated; neither does any older child fall off his toy car and nor is there any news of a death in my daughter-in-law’s family, she thought.
One day Damodar spoke to his mother without mincing his words, ‘Amma, this notion of the malevolent girl child is merely a delusion; aren’t there daughters born after three sons all over the world? Do all parents expire after their birth?’
Finally, his mother devised a strategy to justify the validity of her misgivings. One day when Damodar returned from school he found Amma lying unconscious on the bed; his wife had lit a coal fire in the brazier and was applying a warm fomentation on her chest. The doors and windows of the little room were barred. Shocked, he asked, ‘Ammaji, what happened?’
His wife answered, ‘She has been suffering from an awful pain in her chest since the afternoon; she is in great agony.’
‘I should go and fetch the doctor immediately. Any delay may cause the malady to worsen. Ammaji, Ammaji, how are you feeling?’
His mother opened her eyes and spoke in an anguished tone, ‘Son, have you arrived? Now I will not live. Haye Bhagwan, I will not live now! It seems that somebody is piercing a knife through my heart. I have never suffered such awful pain. I have grown old but I have never been ill with anything like this all my life.’
‘I wonder in what inopportune moment this ill-omened child was born!’ said Damodar’s wife.
‘Son, whatever happens is divinely ordained; the miserable child knows nothing about it! Look, if I die, do not give her any trouble. It is better that I am afflicted with the consequence of her birth. Someone had to endure the consequence, so I am suffering. Haye Bhagwan, I will not live now.’
‘Let me go and fetch the doctor. I will be back soon.’
Damodar’s mother wanted only to have her word honoured; she did not want money to be spent, so she countered: ‘No, son, why should you go and fetch the doctor? After all, he is not God that he will administer the nectar of immortality. He will charge money too! No doctor or vaid can do anything now. Go and change your clothes, son; sit beside me and read the Bhagavata Purana. I will not be able to survive this. Haye Ram!’
Damodar said, ‘A girl child born after three sons is undoubtedly malevolent. I thought it was a delusion, merely a delusion.’
His wife joined in, ‘That is why I’ve never spoilt her with kindness.’
‘Son, you should take good care of the child; may God bless all of you. It is good that the evil has befallen me. If I die before you, my soul will ascend to the heavens. How terrible to have the harm befall someone else. God has paid heed to my submissions. Haye! Haye!’
Damodar felt quite certain that Amma would not be able to survive the affliction. He was deeply saddened. Deep in the recesses of his heart he felt that he should not have exchanged the malevolent girl child for his mother. How did a babe in arms, who could not even offer him a glass of water, compare with his mother, who had given birth to him, who had suffered all kinds of hardship to bring him up and, who, despite having been widowed young, had educated him? In a state of profound grief, he changed his clothes and sat by his mother’s bedside, reading aloud the story of Vishnu from the Bhagavata Purana.
That night when his wife got up to prepare dinner, she asked her mother-in-law, ‘Ammaji, shall I make some sago?’
The mother-in-law replied rather mockingly, ‘Daughter, do not take my life by depriving me of grain. Do you imagine I will be able to eat sago? Go and fry some puris. I will eat whatever I feel like eating while I lie in bed; make some kachoris too. Why should I starve while I am dying? Send for some cream as well—make sure it is from the chowk. I will not come back to eat, child! Get some bananas also. They are known to ease chest aches.’
The affliction eased when she had eaten but returned in about half an hour. Only after midnight did she get some sleep. For about a week her condition remained unchanged. All day long she would lie in bed and groan; at mealtimes her pain would ease slightly. Damodar sat by her bedside and fanned her gently with a hand fan, crying over the thought of separation from her. The servant woman of the house spread the word in the neighbourhood. When the women came over to see her, they laid the blame squarely on the little girl.
One of them observed, ‘I must confess, it is a blessing that only the old woman is afflicted; else a malevolent child finds peace only after she has taken the life of either the father or the mother. God forbid the birth of a malevolent baby in anybody’s house!’
Another woman said, ‘My hair stands on end at the mere mention of a malevolent child. It is better by far that God keeps a woman barren rather than give her a malevolent child.’
After a week, the old woman recovered. She had nearly died; in fact, it was the good deeds of her ancestors that came to her rescue. Brahmins were given the gift of a cow. Only after recitals were made from sacred texts to propitiate the Goddess Durga did the situation recover.
Translated from the Hindi by Fatima Rizvi
Money for the Decree
1
Naeem and Kailas were as different as chalk and cheese. Naeem was a huge, big tree; Kailas, a delicate, tender sapling. Naeem was fond of cricket, football, travelling, and hunting; Kailas loved reading. Naeem was a glib, fun-loving, uncomplicated youth who enjoyed the go
od things in life and never let worries of the future burden him. He thought of school as his playground and as a place where he was occasionally made to stand on the bench. Kailas, on the other hand, was a reserved, indolent, thoughtful idealist who loathed exercise and shunned extravagance. He was perpetually tormented by anxiety about the future. Naeem was the only son of an affluent, high-ranking official, while Kailas was one of the many children of an ordinary merchant. Kailas never had enough money for his books. He had to make do by borrowing them from others. Life for one was a happy dream; for the other, a burden of sorrows. In spite of these differences, they shared a deep friendship and felt a selfless, pure affection for each other. Kailas would die rather than accept a favour from Naeem, and Naeem would die rather than misbehave with Kailas. For Naeem’s sake, Kailas would at times step out to enjoy the fresh outdoors, while Naeem, for the sake of his friend, would occasionally consider what the future held in store. The doors of a government job were open for Naeem. The future was no boundless sea of doubt. Kailas knew he had to dig his own well. His future was destined to be a battle for survival, the very thought of which agitated him.
2
After graduation, Naeem got a senior position as an officer in the administrative services, though he had secured a third division. Kailas had a first division, yet he couldn’t find a job despite years of toil and struggle. In desperation, he took up his pen and started a newspaper. One took the privileged route, which aims only at amassing riches; the other went the way of social service, which initially brings fame, but ends in troubles and prison. No one knew Naeem outside the office, but he lived in a spacious bungalow, travelled in an open car, went to the theatre, and holidayed in Nainital. Kailas was known everywhere, yet he lived in a ramshackle cottage and had only his two feet for conveyance. It was difficult for him to even procure milk for his children, and vegetables were hard to come by with the money he brought home. Naeem was fortunate enough to be blessed with only one son. Kailas’s misfortune was to be encumbered with progeny of such a large number that prosperity was out of the question. Both friends corresponded regularly with each other and met occasionally. During these meetings, Naeem would say to Kailas, ‘You’re doing so great! You’re at least doing some service to the nation and the community. I haven’t done a thing except fill my stomach.’