The Complete Short Stories

by Premchand

  Bhajansingh witnessed Chaudhary Sahib’s dilemma. He said in a choked voice, ‘Master, your kindness won’t allow you to raise your hand against me. You will not be able to kill a servant you’ve raised. But my life is yours. You saved it, you can take it whenever you want. You can send somebody in the morning tomorrow to collect what is rightfully yours. If I give it to you here, a riot will break out. If it happens in my own house, nobody will know who has killed me. Please forgive my mistakes.’

  And Thakur walked away from there.

  Translated from the Hindi by M. Asaduddin

  Faith

  1

  In those days Miss Joshi was the darling of Bombay’s high-flying social circle. Though she was only a schoolteacher in an insignificant institution for girls, her lifestyle and social standing put many a rich heiress to shame. She lived in a palatial bungalow, which at one time had been the residence of the maharaja of Satara. It was not unusual for business tycoons, rajas and government officials to make a beeline for her house all day. It was common knowledge through the entire province that she was the answer to the prayers of all those desirous of acquiring name and fame. Anyone hankering after a title kowtowed to Miss Joshi. If someone wanted a prestigious posting for himself or for a relative he worshipped the ground she walked on. Construction of government buildings, contracts for salt, liquor, hardware, opium and other items under government purview were all controlled by Miss Joshi. Whatever was accomplished was with Miss Joshi’s blessings, and if anything was a possibility only Miss Joshi could actually make it happen.

  When Miss Joshi drove out in her phaeton drawn by the finest thoroughbred horses, the carriages of the rich gave way involuntarily, while the most respectable of shop owners quickly stood up to wish the lady reverently as she passed by. She was a beauty—though there were women in the city who were more beautiful than her. She was well-educated, witty and a good singer. Whether she spoke or laughed, or arched an eyebrow—it was done with a certain style and finesse that was unique. But then she did not have a monopoly over these arts. Clearly, the secret behind her prestige, power and fame lay elsewhere. Not just in the city, everyone in the entire province knew that Mr Johri, the governor of Bombay, was Miss Joshi’s slave. One look from Miss Joshi was a supreme command for Mr Johri. At dinner parties, theatres and other social functions he followed her around like a shadow and occasionally people saw his car leaving Miss Joshi’s bungalow in the dead of the night. Whether this relationship thrived more on lust or on adoration no one was quite sure. However, Mr Johri was married while Miss Joshi was a widow. Therefore those who condemned their association for being sinful were not being unduly harsh to them.

  Recently, the Bombay administration had levied a tax on foodgrain and in protest the public had organized a massive rally. Representatives from all major cities had arrived in large numbers to participate in the event. The people of Bombay had gathered in a huge open ground right across Miss Joshi’s sprawling bungalow to give vent to their pent-up emotions. The chairman of the meeting had not yet arrived and so everyone chatted idly as they waited for their leader. Some commented on the misery of the workers, while others discussed the state of the nation and some drew attention to their own pathetic lives. It was felt that if the public had adopted a tough stance in the past the administration would have never slapped this tax on them—as a matter of fact it would have become difficult for government officials to even step out of their homes. Our simplicity and goodness have made us playthings in the hands of the officials, said a few. They know that the more pressure they apply the more we will succumb . . . and that we will never retaliate.

  Apprehensive of hooliganism, the administration had called in the armed police, who had surrounded the ground from all sides. Uniformed officers, imperiously mounted on their horses, cracked a whip every now and then, boldly cutting their way through the crowd as though the ground was completely devoid of people. High-level government officials and the who’s who of Bombay had strategically positioned themselves in Miss Joshi’s high veranda, from where they could enjoy an uninterrupted view of the rally. While Miss Joshi welcomed her guests making sure they were comfortable, Mr Johri stretched himself out in an armchair, looking at the crowd with disgust and distaste, along with a certain degree of apprehension.

  Soon, Apte, the chairman of the meeting, was seen arriving in a hired tonga. There was excitement everywhere as people ran to welcome their leader and escort him to the stage. Apte, who was not more than thirty to thirty-five years of age, was a thin man with greying hair. Though he was visibly tense, one could also discern a hint of a smile on his face. Dressed in a rough white kurta, his feet were bare and so was his head. The magical hold this semi-clad, emaciated, seemingly listless man had over the crowd was indeed intriguing. But there was no doubt about the fact that people loved Apte and would do anything at his bidding. This one man was so powerful that he could have all the factories and mills shut down in a matter of minutes and bring the city to a standstill. He had given sleepless nights to several officials. Some of them, it was believed, even screamed in their sleep—presumably at the thought of Apte. No living creature posed a bigger threat to them than Apte. This bag of bones could make the entire administration tremble in its well-polished shoes—because within the bag of bones blossomed a pure, immaculate, strong and divine soul.

  2

  Standing on the stage, Apte first asked the gathering to remain calm, reminding them to be true to their vow of non-violence. Then he moved on to comment on the country’s political state of affairs. At that moment his eyes fell on Miss Joshi’s veranda, and his heart, which beat for the poor and the downtrodden, seethed with rage. While hundreds of people had gathered there to share their misery and look for some respite, right across the ground, tables were crammed with tea, biscuits, dry fruits and snacks and liquor flowing freely for the select gathering. As the distinguished guests feasted they would occasionally cast a supercilious look at the lesser mortals across the road, clapping their hands together in unconcealed amusement. For the first time in his life, Apte lost control and thundered . . .

  ‘While our comrades here struggle for each morsel of food, a tax is being levied on foodgrain—simply to ensure that the government officials don’t have to go without their usual share of goodies. We, who are the breadwinners of this country, who extract wealth from the core of the earth—we are dying of hunger, while those whom we have elected to power to make our lives decent and safe, have turned into our masters, who spend their days in drunken revelry. Isn’t it strange that we who toil day and night—we, who should be crowned kings—have to go hungry day after day? While those who are really at our mercy for all their luxuries are savouring delicacies brought in from Spain and Italy! Who is to blame for this?

  ‘Is it them? Is it their fault? No, certainly not. We are to blame for this, friends, it is our fault! It is our fault that we have given them so much power over ourselves. But today, we want to say it—loud and clear—that we shall no longer tolerate this cruel and callous behaviour. It is unacceptable to us that our children beg for food while this privileged group remains soaked in luxury, completely oblivious to our misery. It is unacceptable that our families have to sleep on empty stomachs while these people dance the night away in theatres and clubs, drinking and throwing away money on prostitutes. Where else in the world does the public die of starvation while government officials are lost in a world of depravity and decadence, where poor, respectable women get pushed around in the streets, while prostitutes masquerading as school-teachers live in the lap of luxury?’

  3

  Suddenly, the group of armed policemen looked agitated. Their officer was giving orders, ‘Disrupt the meeting, round up the leaders, nobody should escape. This is a subversive speech.’

  Calling the police officer Mr Johri said, ‘There is no need to arrest anyone else. Get Apte. He is our real enemy.’

  The police started beating the crowd and soon an officer, accomp
anied by a group of soldiers, surrounded and arrested Apte.

  The crowd went berserk. Seeing their beloved leader being rounded up in this manner was the ultimate test of their patience.

  Just then Apte’s voice was heard rising over the commotion: ‘You have taken a vow to remain non-violent and if any one of you breaks it I shall hold myself responsible for it. I request you to please go home. The government officials have behaved exactly in the manner we had thought they would. We have succeeded in our aim behind holding this meeting. We didn’t come here to create trouble—we gathered here to generate people’s sympathy and we have succeeded in that objective.’

  In a moment the crowd dispersed, and Apte was taken into police custody.

  4

  Mr Johri said, ‘I’ve got my hands on the fellow after a long time. I’ll have him booked under anti-national activities and make sure he goes to the Andaman prison for at least ten years.’

  ‘What use would that be?’ asked Miss Joshi.

  ‘Why? He’ll be punished for what he has done.’

  ‘But just think of the heavy price we’ll have to pay for it. What is known only to a handful of people right now will become common knowledge and we shall lose face. You can’t stop journalists from writing what they want.’

  ‘I don’t care. I want to see him rotting in jail. Life will be peaceful for some time at least. There’s no point thinking of what people will say. We can take over all the newspapers in the province and make them dance to our tune. We can prove all their allegations wrong and charge Apte for casting false aspersions on us.’

  ‘I can show you an easier way out. You leave Apte to me. I’ll meet him and by skilfully using all the charms that the fairer sex is known for I’ll help you know his inner thoughts and emotions. I want to probe and find out intimate details of his personal life—the kind that he dare not own up to in public. And then, before we know it, public opinion will swing in our favour and soon everyone will believe that he was a truly scheming character and had vested interests and that the government has dealt with him appropriately. I’m convinced he is a master conspirator and I’m determined to prove as much. I’ll make sure he’s no longer a God in the eyes of the people—I want to expose him as the evil force that he really is.’

  ‘It is not as simple as you imagine. Apte is a clever politician.’

  ‘There is no man who cannot be charmed by a woman.’

  ‘If you’re confident you can do this, then I have no problem. I only want to punish him, one way or the other.’

  ‘Then order his release right now.’

  ‘Won’t that be perceived as weakness on our part?’

  ‘No, as a matter of fact, it will have a positive effect on people. Everyone will think that the government has respected the public opinion.’

  ‘But what will people say if they see you going to his house?’

  ‘I’ll wear a veil and go . . . no one will know.’

  ‘I still feel that he will be suspicious of you and won’t fall into your trap. But if you want to give it a try then go by all means,’ Mr Johri said, looking lovingly at Miss Joshi. Lightly touching her hand, he left.

  A cool, gentle breeze was blowing that starlit night. Silence had descended on the huge ground. It was completely deserted now, but Miss Joshi could still see Apte standing on the stage in front of her eyes.

  5

  The next morning Miss Joshi left her bungalow dressed in simple clothes and with no jewellery on. Devoid of all the trappings of the sophisticated world she lived in, she appeared pure and clean. She walked up to the road and hailed a tonga.

  Apte lived quite a distance away in a locality inhabited by the less fortunate. The tongawala knew his house so there was no problem finding it. Soon Miss Joshi was standing at Apte’s door with her heart beating in an unusual manner. With trembling hands she knocked on the door, which was opened by a middle-aged woman. Miss Joshi was appalled by the simplicity of the house. There was a cot in one corner, a battered bookshelf on the wall with a handful of books in it, a low writing desk on the floor, while a clothesline ran across the room with some clothes hanging from it. On the other side of the room there was a metallic stove and a few utensils. A well-built man—the husband of the middle-aged woman—was fixing a broken lock while a bright six-year-old boy was putting his hands around Apte’s neck and beginning to climb on to his back. Apte lived with this blacksmith in his house. Whatever he earned from his articles that appeared in newspapers he gave to the blacksmith, and thus relieved of the tedium of running a house, lived a life free of the mundane worries of day-to-day existence.

  A little taken aback at seeing Miss Joshi there, Apte quickly regained his composure and stood up to welcome her, all the while wondering where he could ask her to sit. He had never felt as ashamed of his poverty as he did today. Aware of his embarrassment, Miss Joshi sat on the cot and said dryly, ‘I apologize for arriving uninvited, but there was something important that couldn’t be done without my coming here. Can I talk to you in private for a moment?’

  Apte looked at Jagannath and motioned him to leave the room. His wife also left with him. Only the little boy stayed on, observing Miss Joshi with curiosity, wondering what she had to do with his Apte Dada.

  Getting off the cot Miss Joshi now sat on the floor. ‘Do you have any idea why I have come here like this?’

  ‘I can only attribute it to your benevolence,’ Apte replied awkwardly.

  ‘No, no. No one is so magnanimous as to be benevolent to those who openly bad-mouth them. Do you remember all that you said about me in your speech yesterday? I want you to know that by casting those aspersions you have been extremely unfair to me. I didn’t expect this from a man as good, intelligent and balanced as you. I am a defenceless woman, and there is no one to speak up for me. Was it right on your part to make false allegations about me? If I were a man, I would have challenged you to a duel. But alas! I am only a woman, and all I can do is to reach out to your humane side. Everything that you said about me is completely untrue.’

  ‘Assessment is based on outward appearances,’ Apte said, boldly.

  ‘Outward appearances can never give a real picture of anybody’s inner self.’

  ‘It is only natural to get confused about someone whose outward and inner self are not the same.’

  ‘So it was your confusion that did it! And now I want you to erase the disgrace that you have labelled me with. Are you prepared to make amends?’

  ‘If I don’t then there would be no one more depraved than me in this world,’ Apte said.

  ‘Do you have faith in me?’ Miss Joshi asked.

  ‘So far I have never disbelieved an attractive woman.’

  ‘Do you suspect that I am leading you on?’ Miss Joshi inquired.

  Apte looked at her with his sincere, honest eyes and said, ‘Madam, I am an uneducated, unsophisticated man, but the respect that I have for women is no less than the reverence in which I hold all gods. I never saw my mother, and have no idea who my father was, but the loving countenance of the kind-hearted woman who brought me up as her child is always there in front of my eyes, and has kept alive the respect that I have for womankind. I am distressed and ashamed of having said what I did that day. It happened in a moment of frenzy and today I am going to issue a statement in the newspapers regretting my words and seeking forgiveness from you.’

  So far Miss Joshi had only been associated with self-centred men whose every word had an ulterior motive. Apte’s childlike faith was heartening. No one from her social circle of fashionable people would believe the happenings of today even if Miss Joshi swore that she was telling the truth. Face-to-face they may have agreed with her but she knew they would ridicule her the minute her back was turned. In complete contrast to that scheming lot was this man whose each word dripped with honesty and which seemed to emanate from the core of his being.

  Miss Joshi’s silence worried Apte. He was convinced that no matter how much he apologized now,
nothing would obliterate his rash speech. The thought made him unravel personal details about himself in the hope that it would further bring him down in her esteem. That Miss Joshi would know him for the undesirable creature that he was and would therefore expect nothing better from him.

  He said, ‘I am more unfortunate than others. Not only did I never see my parents, even the kind woman who brought me up as her own passed away when I was thirteen, leaving me alone in this world. All that I had to go through then makes me feel ashamed of my past even today. I worked as a dhobi, a cobbler, washed dishes in a hotel, worked in a stable. On several occasions, pangs of hunger drove me to beg on the streets. There’s nothing shameful about working with your hands—even today I’m a worker. Begging, too, can perhaps be justified in certain circumstances . . . but some of the things I did in those days! I feel ashamed to even talk about them now. I duped people, I stole what I could to the extent that I even got jailed for theft.’

  Moistening her eyes, Miss Joshi said, ‘Why are you telling me all this? I can make all this public and put you through so much embarrassment. Aren’t you afraid of that?’

  Apte laughed and said, ‘No, I have no such fears from you.’

  ‘What if I want to settle a score with you?’

  ‘When I am ashamed of what I did and am asking you for forgiveness then there is no score left to settle. In fact this makes me wonder if you have really forgiven me. But even if I hadn’t apologized, you wouldn’t have been looking for revenge. Because the eyes of vindictive people don’t get wet so easily. I think you are incapable of deception. If you wanted to deceive me you would have never come here.’

  ‘I have actually come here to worm things out of you.’