by Premchand
In the morning, Revati went for a bath in the Ganga. This had been her daily ritual for the past several months. Today, it was a bit dark, but this was nothing strange. Suspicion grew when she did not return home till eight in the morning. By the third quarter of the day, the news of Seth Ramnath’s daughter having drowned in the Ganga had spread in the entire community. Her body was recovered.
Kuberdas said, ‘Okay, it is good. At least the community will no longer be disgraced.’
Jhabarmal said with a heavy heart, ‘Please find some other way out for me.’
Elsewhere, Mohan was banging his head and weeping, and the old woman was consoling him. ‘Beta, why do you cry for that Devi? Her life was full of sorrow. Now she is resting in her mother’s lap.’
Translated from the Hindi by Kalyanee Rajan
Holy Judges
Jumman Sheikh and Alagu Chaudhry were close friends. As partners, they shared the profits from farming and trusted each other. When Jumman went for the hajj pilgrimage he placed his family in Alagu’s care. Alagu did the same whenever he was away from his home. He entrusted his family to Jumman’s care. They didn’t dine with each other—their religions were different. But they had a meeting of the minds, which united them and cemented their friendship.
Their friendship began in their childhood days. Jumrati, Jumman’s revered father, had taught both of them to read and write. Alagu had served his guruji sincerely. He did his dishes, washed his cups and bowls and filled up his hookah. Filling the chillum gave him half an hour’s respite from studying. Alagu’s own father had old-fashioned ideas about education. He had more faith in devotion and service to a teacher than in learning from books. He used to say: knowledge is not acquired by reading but through the teacher’s blessings. Even if Jumrati Sheikh’s tutelage and company did not bring the desired change in his son, he derived satisfaction from the effort to educate him. Nobody, he would say, could do a thing if he wasn’t destined to be educated.
Jumrati Sheikh himself did not favour such blessings. He depended more on his whip; and it is for this reason that the people in the neighbouring villages revered Jumman. Even the court scribe would not dare scribble on a mortgage deed or other legal documents he drafted. From the postman and the constable of the area down to the peon in the revenue office, everybody wanted to keep Jumman in good humour. If Alagu was given importance for his wealth, Jumman Sheikh was revered for his learning.
Jumman Sheikh had an old aunt, Khalajaan, who had no close relatives. She had some landed property, which she transferred to Jumman. As long as the deed wasn’t registered, Khalajaan was treated with care and affection and fed mouth-watering goodies, including heaps of halwa and puri. But after the land was registered, Khala’s happy days were over. Jumman’s wife, Kariman, began to give her a taste of her sharp tongue while Jumman Sheikh turned cold. Poor Khala had to hear harsh words almost every day now.
‘Don’t know how long the old hag will live! She has made over two or three bighas of land and thinks that she has bought us off. She cannot swallow her rotis without fried dal! We could have bought the entire village with the money that has gone into filling her belly.’
Khala put up with the humiliation for a few days. But when the insults became unbearable, she took issue with Jumman. But he chose not to interfere in the domestic affairs run by his wife, the mistress of the house. So the whining and crying continued. Eventually Khala confronted Jumman one day, saying, ‘Son, things can’t go on like this. You pay me the money, I’ll cook my own food.’
‘Does money grow on trees?’ Jumman replied impudently.
‘Don’t I need some coarse food to live on?’
‘Little did we know that you’d live so long!’
Khala was enraged and told Jumman that she would take the matter to the panchayat. Jumman sniggered, much like a hunter who sees the deer running into his trap. ‘By all means. Let the matter be settled once and for all. I’m fed up with your unending complaints.’
Jumman was sure of winning the case. People in the surrounding villages, beholden to him, were not going to rub him the wrong way. Who would dare challenge him? After all, angels would not descend to earth to attend the panchayat.
The old woman, stick in hand and her back bent like a bow, went from pillar to post airing her grievances. Every step hurt her ageing body. Yet she was determined to settle the issue at the earliest.
She recounted her tearful tale to everyone. Some listened to her casually and offered lip service; others attributed the injustice to the perfidy of the times. They said: ‘She’s got one foot in the grave. Will kick the bucket any day. Yet she can’t overcome her greed. What does she need at this age? Eat your roti and chant Allah’s name! Why do you need to own land and property?’ Some people simply made fun of an elderly woman with her bent back, puffed up face and hemp-dry hair. Very few indeed were kind enough to give her a patient hearing and offer solace. After much wandering, she finally came to Alagu Chaudhry. She flung her stick aside, took a deep breath and said, ‘Son, do come over for a while when the panchayat is on.’
‘Why me? People from several villages will turn up, anyway,’ Alagu seemed reluctant.
‘I’ve told my tale to everyone. It’s up to them to come or not.’
‘All right. I’ll come. But I won’t say anything.’
‘Why, son?’
‘Now, what can I say? That’s how I feel. Jumman’s an old friend. I can’t speak against him.’
‘Son, will you hedge the truth for fear of ruining your friendship?’
Unless we are told, our sense of righteousness remains dormant. But once stirred, our sensitivities are heightened. Though Alagu couldn’t answer Khala’s question, her words kept resonating in his ears—‘Will you hedge the truth for fear of ruining your friendship?’
The panchayat met one evening under a tree. Sheikh Jumman spread out a sheet on the ground and organized paan, cardamom, hookah and so on for the members. He sat with Alagu Chaudhry at some distance. As people dropped by, he greeted them with a hushed salaam. The panchayat began its deliberations after sunset, with a flock of birds chirping in the trees. So many people turned up that there was no room to sit on the sheet. Most of them were spectators. Among the invitees, only those came who nursed a grudge against Jumman. In one corner a big fire was lit. The barber was filling big chillums. It was hard to make out what emitted more smoke—the burning cow dung cakes or the chillums. Children ran around, some calling each other names, some crying. There was a general air of confusion. Sensing a feast, dogs gathered in large packs.
After the five members took their seat, Khala said, ‘Members of the panchayat, you must know that I have made over the whole of my property to Jumman, my sister’s son. He had promised to provide me with food and clothing as long as I lived. I’ve somehow put up with him for a year, but I can’t bear it anymore. I’m denied adequate food and clothes. I’m a helpless widow. I can’t run around courts or appeal to people for justice. To whom can I go with my tale of woe except you? Whatever you decide will be binding on me. Reprimand me if I’m wrong; if, on the other hand, Jumman is at fault, urge him not to torment a widow. I shall abide by your decision.’
Ramdhan Mishra, who bore a grudge against Jumman for settling some of his tenants in his own village, said, ‘Jumman miyan, who are your nominees to the panchayat? Decide right away. Then the panchayat’s decision will be binding on all.’
Jumman’s eyes fell on those who, for one reason or the other, were his enemies.
‘The panchayat’s voice is the voice of Allah. Let Khalajaan nominate whosoever she wants. I have no objections.’
‘Allah’s great devotee indeed! Why don’t you say the names of the members? Let me have some idea!’ Khala shouted.
‘Don’t compel me to open my mouth now. It’s your day. Nominate whomsoever you want,’ Jumman replied angrily.
Khala sensed the sarcasm. ‘Son, fear God. The panchayat members are no one’s friends or enemies. Is t
his the way to talk? You may not trust others, but how about Alagu Chaudhry? Yes, I propose that he be the sarpanch.’
Jumman Sheikh was delighted. But he concealed his delight and said, ‘Agreed. Ramdhan or Alagu—it’s all the same to me.’
Alagu didn’t want to be involved in the dispute and tried wriggling out, ‘Khala, you know Jumman and I are close friends.’
‘Son, no one reneges on the truth for friendship’s sake. God dwells in the heart of the panchayat. It is God who speaks through the panchayat,’ Khala said solemnly.
With Alagu as the sarpanch, Ramdhan Mishra and the other opponents of Jumman cursed the old woman in their hearts for nominating him.
‘Sheikh Jumman, you and I are old friends. You’ve always helped me; I’ve also reciprocated. But at this moment you and your old aunt are equal to me. You are free to place your case before the panchayat.’
Jumman was confident of victory. Surely, Alagu was saying all this just for public consumption. He said coolly: ‘Members of the panchayat, when three years ago my aunt made over her property to me, I promised to look after her. As God is my witness, I haven’t given her any cause to complain. I look upon her as my own mother and consider it my duty to look after her. Well, sometimes there are some tiffs among the women of the house. I have no control over that. Khalajaan now wants a monthly allowance. The panchayat members know that the property does not yield enough to justify a monthly allowance in the gift deed. If it did, I wouldn’t have been involved in this mess. This is all I have to say. The decision, of course, rests with you, the august members of the panchayat.’
Alagu Chaudhry frequented the court and knew the tricks of the trade. He began his interrogation by asking questions that struck Jumman’s heart like a hammer. Ramdhan Mishra sat spellbound.
Jumman was at his wit’s end at this unexpected turn of events and wondered what had come over Alagu. Only a while ago he had sat next to him and talked so reassuringly! And now he had made such an about-turn that it seemed he was only too eager to spell his ruin. Who knew what score he was trying to settle? What had happened to their long-standing friendship?
While Jumman was lost in his thoughts, Alagu pronounced the verdict: ‘Jumman Sheikh, the panchayat considers it reasonable that Khala be paid a monthly allowance. We feel the profit from her property would guarantee a monthly payment. This is our verdict. If you refuse to pay, the gift deed will stand null and void.’
The verdict stunned Jumman. If one’s own friend behaved like an enemy and shoved the knife in one’s gullet—well, what could one say except that the times were out of joint? He had been let down by the one person he trusted. A friend’s loyalty is tested at such critical junctures. This is the friendship of Kali yuga. If there were no hypocrites and traitors like Alagu, the country wouldn’t have been ravaged by disasters. Epidemics like cholera and plague are reprisals for such wicked acts.
Ramdhan Mishra and the other panchayat members hailed Alagu Chaudhry’s upright stand. They said, ‘This is why it’s called a panchayat. It separates milk from water. Justice transcends friendship and personal considerations. But for such defenders of the truth, the world would have gone to the dogs.’
The verdict ruptured the deep bond of friendship between Alagu and Jumman. They were no longer seen talking to each other. The giant tree of their long-standing friendship could not stand a single blow of truth! Truly, it stood on sand and not on firm ground.
From then on, they were stiff and formal in exchanging greetings. They did meet each other but it was like the meeting of the sword with the shield.
His friend’s perfidy rankled in Jumman’s mind. He eagerly waited for an occasion to settle scores with him.
Good deeds take long to come about; not so with bad deeds. Soon Jumman had an opportunity to take his revenge. Just the previous year Alagu Chaudhry had bought a pair of sturdy bullocks from Batesar. They were of good breed and had long, beautiful horns. For months, villagers from the surrounding areas flocked to have a look at them. It was a coincidence that one of them died just a month after the panchayat had resolved Jumman’s case.
Jumman said to his friends: ‘This is punishment for treachery! A man may be compelled to put up with injustice but God sees the truth.’ Alagu suspected Jumman of poisoning the bullock. His wife, too, accused Jumman of the crime. ‘He certainly has a hand in it,’ she said. She and Kariman had a vigorous altercation one day. Both the women went at it full steam, flinging irony, sarcasm, carping comparisons and malicious innuendoes at each other. Jumman had a tough time restoring peace. He reprimanded his wife and took her away from the arena. On the other side Alagu calmed down his wife with his persuasive skills.
Now, a single bullock served no purpose. Having searched in vain to complete his pair, Alagu decided to sell it.
Samjhu Sahu had an ekka. He took cartloads of molasses from the village to the market, where he bought stuff like salt and oil and sold it in the village. He eyed the bullock, hoping to make at least three rounds to the market every day. At the moment he barely managed a round. He scrutinized the bullock, went for a trial run in his cart, haggled for a favourable price and then struck the deal. He agreed to pay up within a month. Chaudhry was, on his part, eager to strike the deal even if he incurred a loss.
Samjhu Sahu made the bullock work very hard by making three, sometimes even four, rounds to the market in a day. He didn’t feed the bullock well—neither water nor fodder. His only interest was in making more and more rounds. The bullock would be given some dry hay before being yoked for yet another round. Life had been comfortable at Alagu’s house, where the bullock would be yoked to the plough maybe once in six months. He had capered and galloped through the field. He had also had plenty of nourishment—clean water, ground arhar and hay seasoned with oil cakes. On top of it, he sometimes had a taste of ghee! A servant would currycomb his coat, wash him and run his hand over his back morning and evening. What a difference there was between these two worlds—one of peace and comfort and the other of round-the-clock drudgery. Within a month the bullock lost his spirit. He froze at the very sight of the ekka. Every single step was torture. His bones stuck out. But he was a self-respecting creature, not one to put up with beatings.
One day, on his fourth round, Sahuji doubled the load. The bullock was exhausted after the day’s hard work; he could barely lift his leg. At this, Sahuji began whipping him. The bullock tore ahead furiously. After a while he paused to catch his breath. But Sahuji was in a tearing hurry and served the bullock some more cruel lashes. The bullock made another go at it but was really at the end of his tether. He collapsed to the ground, not to rise again. Sahuji began beating him mercilessly, pulled his legs, shoved a stick in his nostrils. But it was useless flogging a dead bullock. Then, for the first time, Sahuji looked intently at the bullock, before freeing him from the yoke. Now his worry was to reach home with the ekka. He shouted in vain for help, for a village road is deserted at sunset. No one was in sight. The nearest village was still far off. In blind fury he began to lash the bullock and curse it, ‘Wretch, if you had to die, you could’ve done so after reaching home. The bastard decides to drop dead midway. Now who’ll pull the cart?’ He ranted and raved. He had sold many sacks of molasses and some tins of ghee, and the money—about two hundred and fifty rupees—was tied in a knot at his waist. Moreover, he had several sacks of salt on the cart, which could not be left on the road. Finding no way out, he decided to spend the night on the cart. He filled his chillum, sang stray lines from songs and smoked the hookah. In this way he kept himself occupied. He tried his best to ward off sleep, but he dozed off now and then. As he opened his eyes at the crack of dawn his hands involuntarily went to his waist. The money had vanished! He looked around fearfully. Several oil canisters had also disappeared. Tears of rage flowed from his eyes and he began to beat his head. He reached home in a pitiable condition and narrated his experience to his wife. She cried for a while and then began to curse Alagu Chaudhry. The fellow had g
iven them such a cursed bullock that the earnings of a lifetime had been lost with it.
Several months elapsed after this incident. Whenever Alagu went to collect the money that was due to him, the husband and wife flew into a rage like two mad dogs and blabbered incoherently—‘Wah! All our earnings are lost. We’re ruined and here he demands his money! He palmed off a dead bullock to us and wants us to pay up! You throw dust in our eyes, tying an inauspicious bullock around our neck. What do you take us for? Halfwits? We too come from bania stock, do you hear? You can’t fool us. Forget about the money. Take away our bullock and work him for two months instead of one month. What more do you want?’
Chaudhry had no dearth of ill-wishers. They got together on this occasion and supported Sahuji’s obnoxious behaviour. But one hundred and fifty rupees was no small amount. On one occasion Alagu lost his temper while Sahuji rushed to his house to fetch his lathi. Sahuji’s wife also jumped into the fray. Heated exchanges between them led to fisticuffs. Sahuji’s wife ran into her house and barred all the doors. The noise brought the villagers to the scene. They reassured Sahuji and persuaded him to come out. All of them suggested that things should not be allowed to go on like this and the panchayat should be convened. Its verdict should be binding on both. Sahuji agreed; so did Alagu.
Preparations began for holding the panchayat. Both parties mobilized support. The panchayat sat under the same tree at the twilight hour. An assembly of crows was going on in the field. The issue was: did they have a right over the patch where chickpeas grew? Till the issue was settled one way or the other, they felt it obligatory to express their displeasure at the attempts by human beings to scare them off the field. The birds sitting on the branches unanimously decided that they could rightly call human beings traitors as they had no compunction about deceiving their own friends.