by Premchand
Madho rushed out to Ghisu and both began to howl and beat their chests. Hearing their laments, the neighbours came running in panic and muttered time-worn consolations.
But there was not much time for mourning. They had to arrange for the firewood and the shroud. Money was as scarce in the house as meat in an eagle’s nest.
The father and son went wailing to the zamindar of the village. He hated the very sight of them and had thrashed them a couple of times with his own hands for stealing and for not showing up for work after they had promised to. He said, ‘What’s the matter, Ghisua? What are you howling for? One doesn’t see your face nowadays. It seems like you don’t want to live in this village.’
Ghisu prostrated himself before the zamindar and said tearfully, ‘Sarkar, we’re in deep trouble. Madho’s wife died last night. She suffered the whole day. We sat by her late into the night. Gave her all the medicines—the best we could. But she gave us the slip. We have no one left now to prepare a roti for us. Master, we’re ruined. My family is destroyed. Now who will see to her last rites except you? We spent whatever little we had on her treatment. She can be given her last rites only if you have mercy. We have no one else to turn to.’
Though the zamindar was kind, he knew that his kindness would be wasted on these fellows. For a moment he felt that he’d shoo them away and tell them to their faces that the corpse could rot for all he cared. They didn’t come when they were sent for, did they? Only because they had found themselves in a tight spot today had they shown up to flatter him. Rascals! But this was not the occasion for anger or revenge. He reluctantly flung two rupees at them, but didn’t utter a word of sympathy. He didn’t even deign to look at them. It was as though he was getting a load off his head.
When the zamindar himself had given them two rupees, how could lesser mortals like the village banias, shopkeepers or moneylenders avoid making some contribution to the good cause? Ghisu made much of the zamindar’s name, and some contributed two annas and some four. Within an hour, Ghisu managed to collect a sum of five rupees, which was adequate. Some gave grains, others gave firewood. Thus reassured, Ghisu and Madho set out for the market at noon to buy the shroud, while others got busy splitting bamboos for the bier.
The kindly village women came to take a look at the corpse, bemoaned the helpless fate of the dead woman, and left.
3
As they reached the market, Ghisu said, ‘We’ve got enough firewood for the pyre, what do you say?’
‘Yes, there’s enough wood. We need only the shroud now.’
‘Let’s get a cheap one.’
‘Of course. It will be night when the corpse is carried to the pyre, no one will look at the shroud.’
‘What an unjust custom! She, who didn’t have even tattered rags to cover her body while she was alive, must now have a new shroud.’
‘And it burns to ashes with the corpse.’
‘So it does. Now, if we’d had these five rupees earlier, we could’ve bought her some medicines.’
Each was trying to gauge what the other was thinking. They kept wandering around in the market until it was evening. And either intentionally or by coincidence, they found themselves in front of a liquor shop. They entered together and stood hesitantly for a while. Then Ghisu bought a bottle of liquor and some titbits and, sitting in the veranda, both began to drink. Soon, they were drunk.
‘What good would it have done if we’d bought the shroud? It’d only be burnt to ashes,’ said Ghisu.
Madho looked up at the heavens as though he was reassuring the angels of his innocence, and said, ‘This is the way of the world. They give thousands of rupees to the Brahmins. Who knows whether it brings them rewards in the next life?’
‘Rich people have money to burn, let them. What do we have?’
‘But what’ll we tell people? They’ll ask where the shroud is.’
Ghisu grinned. ‘We’ll say the money slipped out from my waistband. We looked everywhere, but couldn’t find it.’
Madho giggled. He was excited by his father’s unexpected ingenuity, and said, ‘She was a good soul. Even in death, she saw to it that we were fed well.’
By this time, they had finished off more than half the bottle. Ghisu ordered two seers of puri, along with mutton curry, liver pieces and fish fry from the shop opposite the shack. Madho ran to collect it all in two bowls. The sumptuous fare cost them one and a half rupees. They now had very little money left.
The two of them sat there in all splendour and helped themselves to the puris with the gusto of a lion feeding on its prey in the jungle. No one could hold them to account and there was no fear of humiliation. They were past the stage of such sensitivities. Ghisu said philosophically, ‘She made us so happy, she’ll definitely get rewarded for it in heaven.’
Madho lowered his head respectfully to indicate his agreement. ‘Sure. Bhagwan, you are all-knowing. Take her to paradise. We pray for her from the depth of our hearts. We have never had such a hearty meal in our whole life.’
After a few moments, Madho had some doubts.
‘Dada, aren’t we all bound for the same place, sooner or later?’
Ghisu didn’t deign to reply to such a childish query. He looked at Madho reproachfully.
‘What answer will you give her there if she asks why we didn’t give her a shroud?’ Madho asked.
‘Don’t talk rubbish!’
‘She’s going to ask—you can be sure of that.’
‘How do you know that she won’t have a shroud? Do you take me to be a donkey? I haven’t lived in this world for sixty years for nothing. She will have a shroud, and a much better one than we could have given her.’
Madho was unconvinced. He asked, ‘Who’ll provide it? You have blown up all the money.’
Ghisu was really angry now. ‘I’m saying she’ll have her shroud. Why don’t you believe me?’
‘Why don’t you say who’ll provide it?’
‘The same people who gave us the money. They won’t hand over the money to us any more. If they do, we’ll have another feast here. And they’ll pay for the shroud again.’
As the darkness deepened and the stars shone brighter, the atmosphere in the liquor shop became livelier. If one sang, another reeled, someone else clung to his friend’s neck while yet another held a glass to his companion’s lips. There was intoxication in the air. The revelry became more boisterous. Some got drunk after just one swig. Many came here only to taste the joy of forgetfulness. More than the liquor, it was the ambience that made them happy. The sorrows of life had brought them here, and for a while they would forget whether they were dead or alive or something in-between.
The father and son were still taking swigs from the bottle merrily. All eyes were glued to them. How fortunate they were to have a whole bottle all to themselves!
Having finished the meal, Madho picked up the leftover puris and gave them to a beggar who was staring hungrily at them. For the first time in his life, he was experiencing the pride and pleasure of drinking and being on a high.
‘Take it,’ said Ghisu, ‘eat to your heart’s content and give us your blessings. She who has earned it is dead. With your blessings, she is sure to go to heaven. Bless her from every pore of your body. The money was hard-earned.’
Madho looked up at the sky and said, ‘She’ll go to heaven, Dada, and be a queen there.’
Ghisu stood up and said ecstatically, ‘Yes, she’ll go to heaven. She hurt no one, harmed no one. In death, she fulfilled the greatest wish of our life. If she doesn’t go to heaven, who will? These fat bloodsuckers of the poor who go for darshan of the Ganga to wash their sins and offer prayers in temples?’
This exuberance soon wore off. Fluctuation in mood is an integral feature of the drunken state. Sadness and remorse took over.
‘Dada, how the poor thing suffered in life, and now she’s dead and gone!’ Madho covered his eyes with his hands and burst into tears.
Ghisu consoled him. ‘Don’t cry, my so
n. Be happy that she has been released from the web of maya, from all fetters. She was very lucky she could snap all ties so soon.’
And then they both broke into a song: Deceiver, why do you cast such enchanting glances, oh deceiver . . . ?
The entire shack was drowning in a drunken stupor and the two went on singing. Then they began to dance—they leaped and jumped, staggered and tumbled, made faces and gestures, and finally crashed to the ground.
Translated from the Urdu by M. Asaduddin
Idgah
1
Today, after a full thirty days of Ramadan, is Eid. How beautiful and bright is the morning of Eid, like a baby with his face bathed in smiles! The trees look lush green, the fields appear festive. Look at the sun! It looks more beautiful than usual, as if eager to wish Eid Mubarak to the people of the world on the occasion. The village is astir and everyone is making a beeline for the idgah. Someone finds a button missing from his shirt and is hurrying to his neighbour’s house for thread and needle. Another person finds that the leather in his shoes has become hard and tries to soften it with water and oil. People are placing fodder before the bulls because by the time they return from the idgah it will be noon. They will have to trudge on foot to reach the idgah, which is a good five miles from the village, and there will be hundreds of acquaintances to meet and exchange greetings with. It will be impossible for them to return before afternoon.
The boys are more excited than anyone else. Some keep their fast for only one day, and that too, for just half a day. Some do not even do that. But the pleasure of walking to the idgah is special to them. The fasting is for the elderly, while the children just love the Eid celebrations. They have been waiting eagerly for it, and now it has finally come. They are impatient with their family members in a bid to make haste. They are least concerned about other worries. They have no idea why a distraught Abba is rushing to the house of Choudhury Qasim Ali, the village moneylender. Their pockets contain all the wealth of the world. They frequently take the coins from their pockets, count them, show them off to friends, and then put them back with a great sense of satisfaction. They will buy all the goodies of the world—toys, sweets, bugles and many other things—with these few coins. The happiest of them all is Hamid. He is an impoverished boy of four. His father died of the plague a year ago. Then his mother gradually became pale, with no one knowing what the ailment was, and finally died. She didn’t have anyone to share her miseries with. She had to endure the suffering that befell her, and when she couldn’t endure it any more, she just left the world.
Now Hamid sleeps in Granny Amina’s lap and is very happy. He thinks his father has gone to a far-off place to earn money. He’ll return with pots of money. And his mother has gone to Allah’s house to get sweets for him. Hamid doesn’t have any shoes on his feet, the cap on his head is an old and soiled one, its golden thread has turned black. But that does not dent his happiness in any way. He knows that when his Abbajaan returns with bagful of coins and Ammijaan returns from Allah with goodies, he will be able to fulfil his heart’s desires. Then he will see how Mahmood and Mohsin, Noori and Sami can bring as many coins. The world might like to strike him with innumerable miseries, but his innocent gaze is enough to vanquish them all.
Hamid goes inside the shack and tells Amina, ‘Don’t worry about me, Amma. I’ll stay with the people of the village. Have no fear.’ But Amina isn’t reassured. The children of the village are going to the idgah with their fathers. Will Hamid go all by himself? What if he gets lost in the crowd? No, she won’t allow him to go alone. He’s a child. If he walks three to five miles, won’t he get blisters on his feet?
But if she accompanies him then who will prepare sewaiyaan at home? He’ll return hungry and thirsty and won’t be able to wait for her to cook. Amina feels sad that she doesn’t have any money on her. She has saved up eight annas for Eid by sewing clothes for Fahiman, but she has to pay the milkmaid. She buys two paise worth of milk every day for Hamid. Now she is left with two annas only, out of which she has given three paise to Hamid. That brings her balance to five paise. Only Allah can see her through the day. The washerwoman . . . the cleaning woman . . . the barber woman . . . All will come. Everyone will expect sewaiyaan, and she can’t avoid them. The festival comes once a year. May Allah keep everyone happy! Their fortunes are connected with hers. May Allah keep the child safe! This day, too, will pass.
The people from the village start out for the idgah. Hamid accompanies other children. In their enthusiasm, the children run ahead of the others, then they stand under a tree for the others to catch up. Why do the oldies walk so slowly!
They reach the outskirts of the town. The orchards of the rich people are on both sides of the road, enclosed by walls on four sides. Mangoes are hanging from trees. Hamid picks up a stone and aims at a mango. The gardener comes out hurling curses. The children slink away from the spot, laughing to their heart’s content. How they have made a fool of the gardener!
Then the big buildings appear—the court, the school, the club. Such a huge school! ‘How many boys must be studying there! Not simply boys, but men with big moustaches. They have grown so big, yet no one knows how much longer they’ll go on studying! Today’s a holiday. But once when I came here I saw many boys with moustaches and beards playing in the field. There are two or three big boys in the village school too—absolutely worthless. They’re shirkers. These boys, too, will be like that. Otherwise, why should they still study at school? Over there is the clubhouse where magic shows are held. People say that a man’s head is separated from the torso and can be seen flying around. Then he’s made senseless but gives out all the secret facts that are asked of him. There’s always a big spectacle being held there, and memsahibs play games. To tell you frankly, if you hand over what they call the ‘bat’ to my mother, she won’t be able to handle it and fall down on the ground herself.’
Mohsin says, ‘My mother won’t even be able to hold it. Her hands will begin to shake, I swear.’
Hamid counters him, ‘What’re you saying? She grinds bushels of grain with her hand, and can’t hold a bat? She carries so many jars of water every day. Ask any memsahib to carry just one jar and she’ll see the world darken before her eyes.’
Mohsin is not ready to give in so easily. ‘But she’s not accustomed to running, and can’t jump about.’
‘She can run if needed,’ replies Hamid. ‘Just the other day, when your cow had snapped the tether and strayed into Choudhury’s field, it was your mother who ran to bring it back. How fast she ran! She left both of us much behind.’
They move on. The shops of the sweet vendors are right before them, all so gaily decorated. Who eats all these sweets? Just see, every shop will have tons of sweets. People say that a jinn visits every shop at night, buys all the sweets that are left and pays with real silver coins.
Mahmood is incredulous. ‘Where will they find such real coins?’
‘Jinns are never short of money.’ Mohsin displays his knowledge. ‘They can enter into any treasury they want. No one can see them. Even iron bars cannot stop them, you know. They also have diamonds and rubies; if they are pleased with you they can give you basketfuls of those. If they’re here this moment, they can reach Kabul in five minutes.’
‘Jinns must be huge in size,’ Hamid speculates.
‘Of course,’ Mohsin agrees. ‘Each one is as huge as the sky. If his feet are on the ground his head touches the sky. But if he so wants, he can squeeze himself into a pot.’
‘I’ve heard that there are many jinns working under Choudhury Sahib,’ Sami butts in. ‘If anything is stolen, Choudhury Sahib will be able to tell where it is and who stole it. Jumrati’s calf was stolen. He wandered everywhere looking for it for three days, but couldn’t find it. Finally, he went to Choudhury Sahib, who said it was in the cattle pound, and there he found it. The jinns give him news of everything that is going on in the world.’
Now everyone begins to understand how Choudhury Qasim Ali ca
me to possess all that wealth, and how he became the moneylender for a huge area around the town. The jinns give him money.
‘Here is the police line. The police do their drills here—left, right, halt!—and guard us.’
Noori objects, ‘The police guard us? It seems you know a lot about them! It is they who are behind all the theft. All the thieves and dacoits of the town are in cahoots with the police. The police instruct them to commit thievery in one mohalla, when they themselves go to another mohalla and ask people to be on their guard. My uncle is a constable in a police station. His salary is twenty rupees a month. But he sends home bags full of money. Bagfuls—I swear by God. Once I asked him, “Uncle, where do you get the money from?” to which he replied smilingly, “Son, God provides.” Later, he said himself, “If we want, we can earn lakhs of rupees in a day. But we take only as much as is safe for our job and does not give us a bad name.”’
Hamid is surprised and asks, ‘If these people help thieves in stealing, why doesn’t someone arrest them?’
Noori pities his lack of understanding and replies, ‘Silly ass, who will catch them? They’re the ones who are supposed to catch others. But Allah does punish them for their misdeeds. Not too long ago my uncle’s house caught fire and all the goods there were reduced to ashes. There was not even a plate left. For days together, they had to sleep under the trees. Finally, someone lent them some money, with which they bought some utensils and other things.’
Now the settlements are becoming dense, and the crowds walking towards the idgah can be seen clearly. They are wearing colourful clothes, one dressed brighter than the other. Someone is riding a car, someone is on a tonga. The smell of itr perfume wafts in the air.
The villagers, oblivious to their ordinary status, walk forward, fully content. Everything they encounter seems wondrous to them. They keep staring and do not listen to the horns hooting behind them. Mohsin narrowly escapes being run over by a car.
At long last, the idgah comes into view. The congregation has started. Huge tamarind trees cast their shade over the cemented floor on which carpets have been spread. Row upon row of worshippers are standing in line all the way to the far end. There are no carpets for several rows towards the end. As people arrive they join the row closest to them. There is no space left in the front rows. There is no distinction of status here. Everyone is equal in Islam. The villagers perform ablutions and join the congregation. How orderly the congregation is! Thousands of devotees genuflect at the same time, then rise to sit on their knees; and these movements are repeated. It seems as though thousands of electric bulbs light up at one moment and then go out the next. What a solemn and lofty spectacle! It leaves a deep impression of harmony and breadth of vision. It is as though a bond of brotherhood connects all these souls genuflecting before Allah.