by Premchand
Mangru: ‘All right, go and tell him I am not coming.’
Nabbi: ‘What is it to me? I’ll go and tell him but it won’t be good for you.’
Mangru, after thinking for a while, picked up his stick and began walking with Nabbi towards the sahib’s bungalow. It was the same sahib whom Mangru and the two women had met earlier. Mangru knew that it would not be possible to survive there even for a minute after falling out with the sahib. He went and stood in front of him. The sahib scolded him and asked, ‘Where is that woman? Why have you kept her in your house?’
‘Sahib, she is my wife.’
‘All right, who is the other one?’
‘She is my sister, sahib!’
‘I don’t care. You will have to bring one of them.’
Mangru fell at his feet and narrated his entire story in tears. But the sahib wasn’t moved at all. In the end, Mangru said, ‘Sahib, she is not like other women. If she comes here, she will kill herself.’
The sahib laughed, ‘Oh! It is not so easy to kill yourself!’
Nabbi said, ‘Mangru, why do you complain when it is your turn? Didn’t you force your way into our homes! Even now whenever you get a chance you go there! Why are you crying now?’
The agent remarked, ‘Oh, he is a scoundrel. You bring her immediately; otherwise I will thrash you with a whip.’
Mangru pleaded, ‘Sahib, beat me as much as you want, but don’t ask me to do something that I can’t do as long as I live!’
The agent threatened, ‘I will give you a hundred lashes.’
‘Sahib, give me a thousand lashes but don’t look at the women of my family.’
The agent was dead drunk. He took his whip out and began lashing Mangru with it. Mangru endured ten or twelve lashes with patience, then started groaning. The skin on his body was lacerated and when the whip fell on his flesh, a cry of pain would escape him however much he tried to suppress it and so far he had been given only fifteen lashes out of a hundred.
It was ten o’clock at night. There was silence all around and in that quiet darkness, Mangru’s pitiful wailing hovered in the sky like a bird. The clusters of trees appeared to be statues of despair, silently weeping. This stonyhearted, lustful, roguish, conscienceless jamadar was now willing to give up his life to protect the honour of an unknown woman only because she was his wife’s companion. He could bear falling in the eyes of the whole world but he wanted undivided command over his wife’s devotion. Even an iota of deficiency in this was intolerable for him.
What did his life matter compared with this divine love? The Brahmin woman had fallen asleep on the floor, but Gaura was waiting for her husband. She had not been able to speak to him yet. She needed a lot of time to narrate and listen to all the travails of the last seven years and when could she find that time except at night? She was a little annoyed with the Brahmin woman now for hanging on to her. He was not coming home because of her.
Suddenly she was startled by the sound of someone crying. God, what woebegone person was crying at this time of the night? Surely, somewhere somebody must have died. She got up, went to the door and imagining Mangru to be there said, ‘Who is crying? Why don’t you go and find out?’ But when she didn’t get any response, she listened closely. Suddenly, her heart missed a beat. It was his voice. The sound could be heard clearly now. It was Mangru’s voice. She went out of the door. The agent’s bungalow was a stone’s throw away. The sound was coming from that direction. Somebody was beating him. A man cries like this only when he is being beaten. It seemed like the sahib was hitting him. She couldn’t keep standing there and so ran towards the bungalow as fast as she could. The way was clear. She reached the gate in a minute. It was closed. She pushed the gate with all her might, but it didn’t open. When nobody came out even after she had called loudly many times, she climbed over the grill of the gate and jumped inside. On reaching the other side, she saw a dreadful sight. Mangru was standing naked on the veranda and the Englishman was lashing him with a whip.
She sprang forward and, in one bound, stood in front of the sahib. Protecting Mangru with her arms, strengthened by her undying love, she said, ‘Sahib, have mercy, beat me as much as you want in his place, but let him go.’
The agent stopped, went towards Gaura like a madman, and said, ‘If I leave him, will you stay with me?’ Mangru’s nostrils started flaring. This vile, base Englishman was talking like this to his wife. It was intolerable that this priceless gem, for whose protection he had endured so much torture, was slipping into the sahib’s hands. Come what may, he wanted to spring forward and grab the sahib by the neck. What was the point of living after this insult! But Nabbi quickly grabbed him, called other men and tied his hands and feet. Mangru started tossing on the ground.
Weeping, Gaura fell at the sahib’s feet and said, ‘Sir, let him go, have pity on me.’
Agent: ‘You will stay with me?’
Swallowing her anger, Gaura said, ‘Yes, I will.’
8
Lying on the veranda outside, Mangru was groaning. His body was swollen, his wounds were smarting and every limb of his body felt stiff. He didn’t even have the strength to move. The wind pierced his wounds like arrows but this was a pain he could bear. What was unbearable was that the sahib was with Gaura in this very house and he was unable to do anything. He had almost forgotten his pain, and was listening with his ears close to the wall, so that he could get to listen to their conversation. ‘Let me find out what they are talking about. Gaura will surely scream and run and the sahib will chase her. If I could get up, I would overpower him and bury him alive!’ But a considerable amount of time passed, and Gaura neither screamed nor did she run out of the bungalow. Sitting with the sahib in a well-appointed room, she was thinking, Is there no kindness in him? Having to listen to Mangru’s cries of pain made her heart break into pieces. Doesn’t he have a family—a mother or a sister? If his mother had been here, she wouldn’t have allowed him to commit such excesses. My mother used to get so angry when she saw boys throwing stones even at trees. Trees also have life. Wouldn’t his mother have stopped him from killing a man! The sahib was drinking liquor, and Gaura was playing with a carving knife.
Suddenly, she saw a picture. Gaura asked, ‘Sahib, whose picture is this?’
The sahib put down his glass of liquor on the table and said, ‘Oh, she is Mary, the mother of our God.’
‘It is a very nice picture. Sahib, is your mother still alive?’
‘She is dead. She fell ill when I came here. I couldn’t even go to see her.’
A shadow of pain passed over his face.
‘Your mother must have been very sad then. You didn’t love her. She died weeping and you didn’t even go to see her. That is why you are so hard-hearted.’
‘No, no, I loved my mother very much. There was no other woman like her in the whole world. My father died when I was very young. My mother raised me by working in a coalmine.’
‘Then she was a Goddess, and you don’t feel pity for others even after having suffered the misery of poverty! Won’t that goddess of compassion, looking down on your harshness, be distressed? Do you have her photograph?’
‘Oh, I have many. Look, that is her picture, on that wall.’
Gaura saw the picture. She was moved, and she remarked, ‘She was really a Goddess, it seems, the Goddess of kindness. Did she ever beat you? I know that she could never have been angry with anyone. She seems to be the epitome of kindness.’
‘Oh, Mamma never hit me. She was very poor, but she used to donate something or the other to charity from her income. When she saw an orphan, tears would well up in her eyes. She was very kind.’
Gaura replied insolently, ‘And you, the son of that Goddess, are so cruel. If she had been here now, would she have allowed you to kill somebody like a murderer? She must be weeping in heaven. You must also believe in heaven and hell. How are you the son of such a Goddess?’
Gaura didn’t feel afraid at all while saying this. She had tak
en a firm decision in her mind and now she was not scared of anything. Even the shadow of fear vanishes once one has decided to give up one’s life. But that heartless Englishman, instead of growing angry at these insults, was becoming more polite. However unacquainted Gaura may have been with human emotion, she knew that every heart, whether of a sage or a butcher, has a special corner of love and respect for a mother. Is there any unfortunate being that doesn’t cry, at least for a short while, when he remembers his mother’s love? Is there anyone in whom the soft emotions of the heart do not well up by that? The sahib’s eyes brimmed with tears. He kept sitting with his head bowed. Gaura continued in the same tone, ‘All the hardships she bore have been in vain. Even after her death, you are troubling the woman who suffered such hardships to bring you up. Does a mother nurture and feed her son with her own lifeblood for this? If she could speak, would she remain quiet? If she could check your hand, wouldn’t she restrain you? I think if she had been alive, she would have taken poison and killed herself.’
The sahib couldn’t control himself now. In a drunken state, the current of guilt flows as naturally as that of anger. Covering his face with both his hands, he started crying and he cried so much that he began to sob. He went and stood in front of his mother’s photo for some time, as if asking her forgiveness. Then he said in a choked voice, ‘How can my mother find peace now! Oh my God! She can’t find happiness even in heaven because of me. How unfortunate am I!’
‘In a little while, you will change your mind and you will begin your cruelties again.’
‘No, no, I will not cause Mamma any unhappiness again. I will send Mangru to the hospital immediately.’
9
Mangru was sent to the hospital the same night. The agent took him there himself. Gaura accompanied him. Mangru was feverish and lay unconscious for a long time.
Mangru didn’t open his eyes for three days. Gaura sat next to him all that time. She didn’t move from his side even for a moment. The agent came many times to inquire about his condition and each time he apologized to Gaura.
On the fourth day, Mangru opened his eyes, and saw that Gaura was sitting in front of him. When she saw him open his eyes, Gaura went and stood near him and asked, ‘How do you feel now?’
Mangru said, ‘When did you come here?’
‘I came here with you, I have been here ever since.’
‘Is there no place for you in the sahib’s bungalow?’
‘If I had desired bungalows, would I have crossed the seven seas to be with you?’
‘So what happiness have you given me by coming here? If you had to stay with him, why didn’t you let me die?’
Gaura answered him irritably, ‘Don’t talk like this to me. Such things set my body on fire.’
Mangru turned his face away, as if he didn’t believe Gaura’s words.
The whole day Gaura stood next to him without a morsel of food or a drop of water. Gaura called out to him many times, but he remained silent. This insult, tinged with the suspicion, was intolerable for the gentle-hearted Gaura. How could she live without the love of the man whom she treated as God? This love was the foundation of her life. Having lost that, she had lost everything.
It was well past midnight. Mangru was fast asleep, oblivious to everything; perhaps he was dreaming. Gaura touched his feet with her forehead and left the hospital. Mangru had rejected her. She would reject him too.
A furlong east of the hospital flowed a small river. Gaura went and stood on its bank. A few days ago, she had been living comfortably in the village. How could she have known that what was attained with so much difficulty could be lost so easily? She remembered her mother, her home, her friends and her goats’ little kids. Did she leave all that for this? The words of her husband—‘Is there no place for you in the sahib’s bungalow?’—had pierced her tender inner core like arrows. ‘All this happened because of me. If I hadn’t come here, he could have continued living comfortably.’ Suddenly she remembered the Brahmin woman. How would that poor creature pass her days here? Let me tell the sahib that she should either be sent home or be given a job in a school.
Gaura was about to return when somebody called, ‘Gaura! Gaura!’
It was Mangru’s voice, trembling with emotion. She stood quietly. Mangru called again,‘Gaura! Gaura!! Where are you? For God’s sake . . .’
Gaura heard no more. She jumped into the river. She couldn’t put an end to her master’s troubles without ending her life.
Hearing the sound of the splash, Mangru too plunged into the river. He was a good swimmer! But even after diving many times, he couldn’t find her.
In the morning, both their bodies were found floating side by side in the river. In the journey of life, they had never been united. In the journey to heaven, they were travelling together.
Translated by Preeti G. Dewan
Laila
1
No one knew who Laila was, where she came from or what she did. One day people saw a peerless beauty at the main square in Tehran swaying to the Hafiz ghazal that she sang, accompanied by her tambourine:
Those who surrender to material pleasures care not about people nor are their souls stirred,
Hence they have no attachments, nor any desires, as they are cut off from the real world
And all of Tehran was enamoured by her. This was Laila.
To imagine Laila’s beautiful form think of the blushing crimson of dawn when the blue sky is tinted with a golden glow; think of the spring when flowers of all hues blossom in the gardens and bulbuls sing.
To imagine Laila’s beautiful voice think of the constant peal of those bells that can be heard ringing upon the camel’s neck in the silence of the night, or the tune that comes from the lips of a shepherd lying under the shade of some tree, playing his flute in the lazy lull of midday.
Whenever Laila sang in abandon, a divine light shimmered on her face. She was such a fascinating embodiment of the poetic, the musical, the fragrant and the beautiful that old or young, rich or poor, all would bow their heads before her. All would be spellbound by her; all heads would sway to the rhythm of her song. She would sing of future tidings when the land would be governed by contentment and love, when conflicts and wars would cease. She would awaken the king with her questioning—when will all this dissipation end, how long will the enjoyment of power go on for? She would awaken the dormant desires of people; she would make the blood quiver in their veins with her voice. She would sing of the valour of immortal heroes, and of the dignity of those wise women who had forsaken their lives for family honour. Her moving songs would tug at people’s heartstrings; they would feel tormented.
All of Tehran was enamoured by Laila. For the downtrodden, she was a light of hope, for the ardent she was an angel from paradise, for the wealthy, she was an awakening of their spirituality and for the people in power, she was a harbinger of mercy and justice. A signal from her eyebrows could make the masses leap into flames. Laila drew the masses the way consciousness draws the unconscious.
And this incomparable beauty was as pure as nectar, as spotless as snow and as innocent as a fresh bud. For her loving glance, for her enigmatic smile, for one bewitching gesture—what extraordinary things would happen—mountains of gold would rise, wealth would pay homage, empires would lick the dust at her feet, poets would be torn asunder, scholars would fall on their knees, but Laila would never even lift an eye to look at anyone. She lived under the shade of a tree, ate what she got as alms, and sang the strains of her heart. Like the verses of a poet, she was only an object of delight and light, not to be consumed. She was an image of the blessings of sages, immersed in benediction, coloured with peace, untouched by anyone—priceless.
2
One day in the evening, Nadir, the prince of Tehran, passed by on horseback. Laila was singing there. Nadir reined in the horse and for a long time stood there and listened, lost in oblivion. The first couplet of the stanza ran:
Those who raise not their voice again
st injustice or untruth live only in body while their souls die
And once the inner spirit dies, no longer can one realize one’s dreams or fulfil another’s wishes as one lives a lie
He dismounted from the horse, sat right there on the ground and wept with his head bowed. After that he arose and going to Laila laid his head at her feet. The people around her politely dispersed.
Laila asked, ‘Who are you?’
Nadir said, ‘Your slave.’
‘What do you want from me?’
‘Your wish is my command. Light up my humble abode by stepping into it.’
‘This is not my habit.’
The prince sat down again and Laila began singing. But her voice quivered like the broken string of a veena. She looked at Nadir with beseeching eyes and said, ‘Don’t sit here.’
Many of the men around spoke up. ‘Laila, this is Prince Nadir.’
Laila said nonchalantly, ‘I am happy to hear that. But what work do princes have here? They have their palaces, their mehfils and their glasses of wine. I sing for those whose hearts are full of pain, not for those with whims and fancies.’
The prince said dejectedly, ‘Laila, for one note of yours I can surrender everything. I was a slave to fancy but you have made me taste the pleasure of pain.’
Laila began to sing again, but she lost control over her voice—as if it was not hers at all.
Laila put the tambourine over her shoulder and started walking towards her home. The audience also went home. Some people followed her till the tree where she rested. By the time she reached the entrance of her hut, everyone had departed. Only one man remained standing silently a few yards away from her hut.
Laila asked, ‘Who are you?’
Nadir said, ‘Your slave, Nadir.’
‘Don’t you know that I never allow anyone to enter my abode of peace?’
‘I can see that.’
‘Then why do you sit here?’