The Complete Short Stories

by Premchand

  This young boy named Atmanand unfortunately had all those virtues that unlock the doors of the jail. He was fearless, frank and forthright, brave, a patriot, selfless and diligent. These are precisely the qualities that are needed to be put behind bars. These virtues open the gates of heaven for those who are freethinking and those of hell for the subservient. Atmanand’s social service, his public speeches, and his political writings had put him under the scrutiny of government officers. The entire police department from top to bottom remained vigilant, and watchful eyes followed him everywhere. Finally a dreadful robbery in the district gave them the opportunity they had been waiting for. A search was carried out at Atmanand’s house; some letters and articles were found and seized, which the police tagged as substantial evidence for the robbery. A group of about twenty young men was noosed and Atmanand was accused to be the leader of the gang. Witnesses were arranged. What could be cheaper to sell other than one’s soul in these days of scarcity? What else is one left with to put on sale! It is easy to arrange potentially good witnesses with nominal enticements. Even the mean and worthless witnesses are turned into vox dei with a little hand-holding by the police. So the witnesses were gathered and the case went on for a month; the case was nothing but a farce, of course, and all the so-called accused were sentenced. Atmanand received the hardest sentence—eight years of rigorous imprisonment. Madhavi went to the court every day and observed the proceedings sitting in a corner. Till then she had no idea about how weak, pitiless and base human nature could be. When Atmanand’s sentence was pronounced and he left the courtroom with the guards after saluting his mother, Madhavi fell unconscious. A few considerate people dropped her home in a carriage. From the moment she had regained consciousness, a stabbing pain rose in her heart every now and then. She had absolutely no patience. In her state of deep inner agony, she could see only one resolution to live for, and that was to take revenge against this persecution.

  Her son had been the sole substance of her life so far. But now she would nurture a new fixation: revenge from her enemies. She had no hope left in her life. She would consider her life fulfilled by avenging this victimization. She would make this luckless man-fiend Bagchi shed tears of blood too, the way he had done with her. The heart of a woman is tender, but only under favourable circumstances; the situation in which a man dominates others, a woman displays angelic charm and courtesy. But a woman nurtures no less disgust and fury than a man towards someone who has ruined everything for her. The only difference is that a man takes revenge with the use of weapons whereas a woman employs craft.

  The nights grew wet with her tears but Madhavi never wavered. Her agony dissolved into the promise of retribution to the extent that she grew oblivious of the rest of the world. All she could think of was how to accomplish this task. She had hardly ever stepped beyond the four walls of her house, having spent twenty-two years of her widowhood within. But now she must go out, she thought, in spite of her unwillingness; she’d masquerade as a beggar or a maidservant; she’d tell lies and commit misdeeds; she’d do whatsoever was needed to accomplish her revenge. This society had no place for munificence. Even God has perhaps turned away from humanity having lost all hope. That is why such oppression took place here, and the villains went unpunished. Now she would punish the guilty with her own hands.

  2

  It was evening. Some friends had gathered for a get-together in a well-decorated bungalow in the city of Lucknow. Song and dance were going on. Fireworks were lying on one side. Food items were being picked up from the tables in another room. There were police officers all around. It was the bungalow of Mr Bagchi, the superintendent of police. He had won an important case a few days ago. The officers were impressed and he was promoted. This get-together was to celebrate the same. Such celebrations were often held here. Musicians were available at no cost, the fireworks were for free; the fruits, dry fruits and sweets would be brought from the market at half the price and thus, instantly, a banquet would be set. Where others spent a hundred rupees, these people could manage with just ten. Several guards were available for running all kinds of errands. And what was the important case that he had won? It was the same in which the innocent young men were thrown into the jail through fabricated witnesses.

  At the end of the concert, people sat down for dinner. Unpaid workers and porters who had carried the food items and decoration materials from the marketplace had left complaining and cursing within their hearts; but an old woman was still sitting at the door. She did not fume like the other workers while doing her job. She would swiftly carry out every order she received with a smile. This was Madhavi who had come in the guise of a labourer to complete her fatal resolve.

  The guests left. The gathering dispersed. The items of the banquet were cleared away. There was silence all around, but Madhavi was still sitting right there.

  Suddenly, Mr Bagchi asked, ‘Budhdhi, why are you sitting here? Did you get something to eat?’

  Madhavi replied, ‘Yes, huzoor, I did.’

  ‘Then why don’t you leave?’

  ‘Where shall I go, sarkar? I don’t have a house. If you allow it, I shall stay here, and with your kindness I can have an ounce of flour.’

  ‘Can you work?’

  ‘Why not, sarkar? That’s what I want.’

  ‘Can you babysit my child?’

  ‘Yes, huzoor, I’d love to do that.’

  ‘Very well then. You can start from today itself. Go inside and do whatever you are asked.’

  3

  A month passed. Madhavi does her work with such sincerity that the whole house is happy with her. The lady of the house is quite short-tempered. She lies on her bed all day and keeps screaming at the servants about petty issues. But Madhavi gladly tolerates all her growling. The situation was such that no maidservant would stay beyond a week in that house. Madhavi is the only one with such guts that despite enduring the harsh and awful expressions, she never lets a shadow fall on her face.

  Mr Bagchi had had many sons before, but this one, the youngest, was his only surviving child. Though his children were born healthy, they would soon catch some disease and consequently either after two to four months or after a year, they would succumb to death. Thus, this child was very precious for both parents. If the boy caught a slight cold, they would get restless. Despite both parents being educated, they were not averse to local remedies such as the practice of magic, prayers, rituals and charms for the boy’s survival.

  The boy was so attached to Madhavi now that he wouldn’t let go of her for a moment. If she even left for a minute, he would disturb everyone with his incessant cries. He would sleep only if he was put to bed by Madhavi, would have milk only if fed by Madhavi, would play only if Madhavi played with him. He, in other words, considered Madhavi as his own mother. There was nobody close to him except Madhavi. The boy would see his father only a couple of times in the whole day and so took him to be a stranger. His mother wasn’t in any position to walk around with him because of her lethargy and weakness. He would not allow his mother to take on his responsibility or take appropriate care for his safety. If the servants of the house tried to cuddle him, their callous handling made his tender limbs ache. Some would even toss the little boy high up in the air, frightening him out of his wits. He grew afraid of those servants. Madhavi was the only one who understood him. She knew precisely by what means and under what conditions the boy could be pleased. And that is why the boy loved her.

  Madhavi used to think that the family was extremely well off. But now she was shocked to see that they could barely meet their monthly expenses. Accounts were taken of every paisa the servants were given to spend and many a times necessary items were also avoided.

  One day, Madhavi asked the boy’s mother, ‘Why don’t you get a fast toy car for the boy? He gets restless being in my lap all the time.’

  Frustrated, Mrs Bagchi replied, ‘How do I get that? It will cost no less than fifty to sixty rupees. Where is the money?’
/>   ‘Malkin, you’re also talking like this!’

  ‘I am not lying. My husband has five more daughters from his first wife. They study in a school in Allahabad. The eldest would be no less than fifteen or sixteen years of age. Half his salary is spent on them. Besides, we are also concerned about their marriages. Their weddings will cost no less than twenty-five thousand rupees. Where will all this money come from? I get extremely worried thinking of this. It is not any disease but such worries that make me feel sick all the time.’

  ‘He receives the bribes too.’

  ‘Budhiya, one cannot truly prosper by corrupt means. In fact, frankly speaking, this bribery has made our lives miserable. God knows how others wolf down bribes so easily. Here, whenever such money comes in, there is always a cost that comes along. The loss from such an income is too much. I always advise him not to bring in such unlawful earnings, but who listens to me!’

  It so happened that Madhavi herself was growing fond of the boy. She could not even think of doing him any harm. She would sleep and wake up according to the boy’s routine. The memory of her own misery at the hands of Mr Bagchi would make her angry at him for a moment and her wound would get fresh again, but destructive thoughts did not dictate her conscience. The wound was healing, except that any minor hurt would cause pain. Otherwise, she didn’t have any feelings of smarting or jealousy. Rather, she began to sympathize with the family. She would speculate about the difficulties that would beset the family unless they grabbed the share of others. How else would they survive? How would they marry off their daughters? The wife is sick all the time. Moreover, the man has to have a bottle of alcohol every day. These people are themselves so unfortunate. A house where five marriageable daughters were there, where sons died consecutively, where the mistress remained sick, where the master was an alcoholic—they are already facing God’s wrath. Though ill-fated, I’m faring better!

  4

  Rainy days are an ill omen for children who are weak. They suffer from ailments like cough or fever or diarrhoea. How far can one fight for survival in cold weather?

  Madhavi had gone back to her own house one day. The boy had started crying and so the mother asked one of the servants to take him out. The servant took him out and sat him on the green grass. The grassy soil was wet with rainwater and in some places there were small patches of water as well. It was the perfect place to play around for the little boy! All excited, the boy started rolling about in the water. The servant got busy chatting with other men. Hours passed. The boy caught a terrible cold and was brought home with a running nose. When Madhavi returned, she saw that the boy was coughing. Around midnight she could hear a rattling voice coming out of his throat. Madhavi was terribly shocked. She woke the mother up and said, ‘Look, what’s happening to the child. I’m afraid he has got a cold. Yes, it seems like a bad cold.’

  The mother woke up aghast and when she heard the boy’s rattling voice she was terribly frightened. She had heard this fearful voice many times before and thus was familiar with it. Perplexed, she asked, ‘Light some fire, get some husks of wheat, make a pouch, and give him a hot compress. It will comfort him. I’m sick of these servants. One of them had taken him out for a while. He must have abandoned the boy in the cold.’

  Both Madhavi and the mistress applied the hot compress all night long. Finally, it was dawn. Hearing about the boy’s condition, Mr Bagchi rushed him to the doctor. Fortunately, the child was attended to in time. The boy recovered in three days. But he was so weak that he looked a terrible sight. Truly speaking, it was Madhavi’s dedication that had saved the boy. The mother would fall asleep, so would the father, but sleep fled Madhavi’s eyes. She would hardly remember to eat or drink. She would propitiate the gods with her worship and sacrifice herself completely for the well-being of the child, losing her mind completely. This was the same Madhavi who had once come into this house to avenge her own misery. She had come here for vengeance but had ended up being an agent of beneficence. She had come here with a poisonous intent but had ended up offering nectar. The divine in Man is so powerful!

  It was early morning. Mr Bagchi was sitting by the boy’s swing. His wife had a headache. She was lying on the bed and Madhavi was boiling milk for the child nearby. Mr Bagchi suddenly said, ‘Budhiya, we will sing your praises as long as we’re alive. You’ve given our child his life.’

  The wife reiterated, ‘This woman descended in the form of a Goddess to free us from our misery. I wonder what would have happened to us if she wasn’t here. Budhiya, I have a request to make of you. Though life and death are in the hands of destiny, one’s past too has a part to play. I’m wretched. It was due to your blessed deeds that the child survived. I’m afraid God might yet take the child away from us. To tell you the truth, Budhiya, I’m afraid I can’t even cuddle the child. From today consider him your own son. With you the boy may have a good chance of survival whereas with us he’ll be destined to be a part of our misery. Why don’t you mother the child? Take him to your home or wherever you wish. At least the thought that he’s being taken care of by you will ease my worries. Truly speaking, it is you who is to be credited as being the mother of this child, I’m a hag indeed.’

  Madhavi replied, ‘Bahuji, God will fix everything, why do you get so disheartened!’

  Mr Bagchi now spoke, ‘No, no, Boodhi Mata, there’s no problem in that. I don’t believe in such pretentions yet my heart cannot help but accept them. I myself was sold to a washerwoman by my own mother. I was born after three of my brothers had died. Selling me was the only option for my parents to keep me alive. You bring up this child. Treat him as your own son. We’ll pay for all the expenses. Just don’t worry about anything. We’ll come and see him once in a while whenever we desire. We believe that you’ll be able to take care of him much better than us. I’m a corrupt man. One cannot help being corrupt in the kind of profession that I am in. We are compelled to create false witnesses and send innocents to prison. My weakened conscience cannot escape such temptations. I know very well that evil begets evil, yet I’m helpless under these circumstances. If I don’t follow these ways, I will be called unfit and thrown out of the system. No one questions the English when they commit countless wrongs. But if an Indian commits a single mistake, all the officers get after his life. Indians shouldn’t occupy these bureaucratic positions because whenever they do, they end up becoming morally degraded souls! Just to make up for their fault of being Indians, they have to do a great deal of things that the Englishmen can never even think of doing. So, what do you say? Will you accept my offer?’

  Madhavi replied at once, ‘Babuji, I’ll always be ready to offer whatever services I can afford, whenever you wish. I sincerely pray to God for the boy’s survival!’

  Madhavi felt as if the doors of heaven had opened before her and the angels were offering their salutations to her through heavenly gestures. She could feel the rays of light in the deepest corners of her heart. Such was the contentment in the servitude of a mother’s love and care!

  Till now, the boy was sleeping under the sheets. Once the milk was hot, Madhavi lifted the boy from the swing and screamed. The boy’s entire body had gone cold and his face had turned frightfully pale, shocking one’s heart, with cold sighs escaping one’s throat and tears streaming down one’s eyes. Madhavi clutched the child to her chest—though she should have laid the lifeless body down.

  All hell broke loose. The mother wept with the boy in her arms, never laying him down. What discussions had been going on, and quite the opposite had occurred! Death revels in deceit. It does not come when people are waiting for it. Death strikes when the sick person begins to recover, when he starts partaking normal food, sitting and moving as usual, when the house starts celebrating, and everyone believes that the worst is over, right then, the preying Death strikes its deadly blow. This is the cruel game that Death plays on Man.

  How deft we are in planting orchards of hope. There we sow the seeds of blood and sweat, and consume the fruit
s of ambrosia. We water our saplings with fire, and ourselves sit in a cool shade. How ignorant Man is!

  The mourning went on for the whole day; the father cried, the mother was tormented, and Madhavi was consoling both of them by turns. If she could have brought back the child by sacrificing her own life, she would have felt fortunate. She had come here determined to cause mischief, and today when her wish was fulfilled and she should have ideally felt elated with joy, instead, she was suffering far more than she had when her own son had been jailed. She had come to make others weep, but now she herself was weeping inconsolably. A mother’s heart is a storehouse of kindness. When you burn it, it emits the fragrance of love and kindness, and if you crush it, it will only ooze compassion. A mother is a Goddess. Even the cruellest moments of adversity cannot malign this source of spotless purity.

  Translated from the Hindi by M. Abbasuddin Tapadar and Kalyanee Rajan

  Theft

  Childhood! One cannot forget childhood memories! This dilapidated house, this straw mattress! Roaming around in the fields bare-bodied, barefooted! Climbing the mango trees! All these moments flash before my eyes. I was happier wearing rough-hewn leather shoes rather than the flex shoes that I wear now. The taste that the hot panuaye juice had, one doesn’t find in the rose drink now. The sweetness that was there in the chabena and raw berries cannot be found in grapes and kheer mohan.