by Frank Wynne
“Easy, you spendthrift. Why be in such a hurry to send them off? They belong to us only while they are safe here, under the hood. Let them remain there for a little while yet. For, you see, I have to do some washing and for that I need some soap, and for the soap I must have at least seven pennies, they won’t give me any for less. I’ve got three already, I need four more, they must be in this little house. They live here, but they hate to be disturbed, and if they grow angry, they’ll vanish and we shan’t ever get hold of them again. Easy, then, for money is a delicate thing and must be handled gently. It wants to be respected. It takes offence quickly, like a sensitive lady… Don’t you know a verse that would lure it from its house?”
Oh, how we laughed while she babbled along! My incantation was odd indeed. It went like this:
“Uncle Coin, I’m no liar, Your house is on fire…”
At this I turned the drawer right side up again.
There was every kind of rubbish below it, but coins… there were none.
My mother kept rummaging in the heap, making a sour face, but that didn’t help.
“What a pity,” she said, “that we have no table. It would have been more respectful to turn it over on a table, and then the coins would have stayed put.”
I swept up the things and put them back into the drawer. Mother was doing some hard thinking the while. She racked her brains to remember whether she had some time or other put any money elsewhere, but she couldn’t recall it.
Of a sudden, I had an idea.
“Mother, I know a place where there is a coin.”
“Where is it, sonny? Let us catch it before it melts like snow.”
“There used to be one in the drawer of the glass cupboard.”
“Oh, my lamb, I’m glad you didn’t tell me before, it would surely no longer be there.”
We stood up and went to the cupboard that had lost its glass pane ever so long ago; the penny was actually in the drawer I had suspected it to be in. I had been tempted to filch it for the past three days, but I never mustered enough courage to do so. Had I dared, I would have spent it on candy.
“Now we have got four pennies. Don’t worry, sonny, that’s already the bigger half. All we need is three more. And if it has taken us an hour to find four, we shall find the rest before we have a snack. That will leave me plenty of time to do a batch of washing by nightfall. Come on, let us see, perhaps there are some more in the other drawers.”
All would have been well, had each drawer contained one coin. That would have been more than we needed. For, in the prime of its life, the old cupboard had done service in a prosperous dwelling, where it had harboured many treasures. In our home, however, the poor thing contained little enough – weak-chested, worm-eaten, gap-toothed as it was.
Mother chided each drawer as she pulled it open.
“This one used to be rich – once upon a time. This one never had a thing. This one here always lived on tick. As for you, you miserable beggar, you haven’t a farthing to your name. This one won’t ever have any, we keep our poverty in it. And you there, may you never have a single one: I ask you for a penny just this once, and even so you begrudge it me. This one is sure to be the richest, look!” she burst out laughing, as she jerked open the lowest drawer, which had not a splinter to its bottom.
She hung it around my neck, and we both laughed so hard, we had to sit down on the floor.
“Wait a minute,” she started, “I’ll get some money in a jiffy. There must be some in your father’s suit.”
There were some nails in the wall upon which our clothes were hung. My mother delved into the topmost pocket of my father’s jacket, and, marvel of marvels, her fingers pulled out a penny.
She could hardly believe her eyes.
“Bless me,” she shouted, “here it is. How much does that make? Why, we can hardly manage to count them all up. One – two – three – four – five… Five! All we need is two more. Two pennies, that is nothing. Where there are five, there are bound to be two more.”
She went about feverishly searching all my father’s pockets, but alas, to no avail. She couldn’t find another. Even the merriest jokes failed to lure forth two more pennies.
My mother’s cheeks burned like two red roses with excitement and exertion. She was not supposed to work, for, whenever she did, she was taken ill. This was, of course, a special kind of work, and you can’t forbid people to look for money.
Snack-time came and went. Soon it would be getting dark. My father needed a clean shirt for the morning, and no washing could be done. Well-water alone was not enough to remove the greasy dirt.
Suddenly, mother tapped her forehead:
“How silly of me. I never thought of searching my own pocket! Now that I think of it, I shall have a look.”
She did, and sure enough, there was a penny in it. The sixth one.
A veritable fever took hold of us. Just one more penny was lacking. “Let me see your pockets, perhaps there is one in them.”
Dear me, it was no good showing them. They were empty.
It was turning dark, and there we were with our six pennies, we might as well have had none for all the use they were. The Jewish grocer granted no credit, and the neighbours were just as penniless as we. Besides, you just couldn’t go and ask for one penny!
The best we could do was to have a good laugh over our own misery.
We were in the very throes of it, when a beggar came by, wailing his sing-song prayer for alms.
Mother almost swooned with laughter.
“Stop it, my good man,” she said, “I have been idle all afternoon, for I am short of one penny to buy half a pound soap with.”
The beggar, a kindly old man, stared at her. “You are short of one penny, you say?”
“One penny, yes.”
“I’ll give it you.”
“A nice thing to take alms from a beggar!”
“Never mind, my child, I can do without it. All I need is a hole in the ground and a shovelful of earth. That will make everything well for me.”
He put the penny into my hand and shuffled along amidst our blessings.
“Thank goodness,” my mother said. “Now run along…”
She stopped short, then burst into ringing laughter.
“I can’t wash today in any case, but, just the same, it’s none too soon that we scraped together the money: it is getting dark, and I have no kerosene for the lamp.”
She laughed so hard, it took her breath away. A fierce murderous fit of coughing shook her body. She swayed on her feet and buried her face in her palms and, as I drew close to support her, I felt something warm trickling down on my hands.
It was blood, her precious, hallowed blood. That of my mother, who could laugh so heartily as few people can, even among the poor.
THE CHESS PLAYERS
Premchand
Translated from the Hindi by David Rubin
Premchand (1880–1936). Born Dhanpat Rai in a village near Varanasi in Uttar Pradesh, ‘Munshi’ Premchand is regarded as one of the foremost Hindustani writers of the early twentieth century. He was drawn to books at an early age and decided to start working life as a sales boy in a book shop, so he might have access to all the books he could read. His first novels were published under the name Nawab Rai, as were his short stories, Soz-e-Watan, which was later banned as seditious by the British government, forcing him to change his name. As “Premchand”, he was one of the first Hindi writers to adopt realism in his work, and his stories chronicled the lives of the poor and the urban middle class, tackling national and social issues including corruption and colonialism. His legacy has influenced generations of writers. The scholar David Rubin credits him with creating the genre of the serious short story in Hindi and Urdu and insists that “in both languages, he has remained an unsurpassed master”.
It was the era of Wajid Ali Shah1. Lucknow was plunged deep in luxurious living. Exalted and humble, rich and poor, all were sunk in luxury. While one might arrang
e parties for dancing and singing, another would find enjoyment only in the drowsy ecstasy of opium. In every sphere of life pleasure and merry-making ruled supreme. Indulgence in luxury pervaded the government, the literary world, the social order, arts and crafts, industry, cuisine, absolutely everywhere. The bureaucrats were steeped in gross sensuality, poets in describing lovers and the sufferings of separation, artisans in creating intricate patterns of gold and silver thread and embroidery, merchants in selling eye shadow, perfumes, unguents and coloring for the teeth. All eyes were dimmed with the intoxication of luxury. No one had any awareness of what was going on in the world. There were quail fights, betting on matches between fighting partridges, here the cloth for causar2 spread out, there shouts of ‘What luck, I’ve made an ace and twelve!’ and elsewhere a fierce chess battle getting under way.
From king to beggar all were swept with the same antic spirit, to the point where when beggars were given money they spent it not on bread but on opium or madak3. By playing chess, cards or ganjifa4 the wits were sharpened, the process of thought was developed, one became accustomed to solving complex problems—arguments of this sort were presented with great vehemence. (The world is not free even today of people of this persuasion!) So if Mirza Sajjad Ali and Mir Raushan Ali spent most of their time sharpening their wits, what reasonable person could object? Both of them were masters of hereditary estates and had no worry about their income, so they could lounge around at home enjoying their idleness. After all, what else was there to do? Early in the morning, after breakfast, they would sit down, set out the board, arrange the chessmen, and warlike stratagems would begin. From then on they were quite unaware of when it was noon or afternoon or evening. Time and time again word would be sent from the kitchen that dinner was ready and the answer would come back: Get on with it, we’re coming, set the table, it would reach the point where the cook, desperate, would serve their meal right in their chamber and the two friends would go on with both activities, eating and playing simultaneously.
In Mirza Sajjad Ali’s household there was no elder, so the games took place in his drawing room. But this is not to say that the other people of Mirza’s household were happy with these goings-on. And not only the members of his household but the neighbours and even the servants were constantly making malicious comments. ‘The game’s ill-omened! It’s destroying the family. Heaven forbid that anybody should become addicted to it, he’d be utterly useless to God or man, at home or in the world! It’s a dreadful sickness, that’s what.’ Even Mirza’s wife, the Begam Sahiba, hated it so much that she sought every possible occasion to scold him. But she hardly ever found the chance, for the game would have begun before she woke and in the evening Mirzaji would be likely to appear in the bedroom only after she had gone to sleep. But the servants of course felt the full force of her rage. ‘He’s asked for paan, has he? Well, tell him to come and get it himself! He hasn’t got time for his dinner? Then go and dump it on his head, he can eat it or give it to the dogs!’ But to his face she could not say anything at all. She was not so angry with him as with Mir Sahib, whom she referred to as ‘Mir the Troublemaker.’ Possibly it was Mirzaji who laid all the blame on Mir in order to excuse himself.
One day the Begam Sahiba had a headache. She said to the maid, ‘Go and call Mirza Sahib and have him get some medicine from the doctor. Be quick about it, run!’ When the maid went to him Mirzaji said, ‘Get along with you, I’ll come in a moment or two.’ The Begam Sahiba’s temper flared at this. Who could put up with a husband playing chess while she had a headache? Her face turned scarlet. She said to the maid, ‘Go and tell him that if he doesn’t go at once I’ll go out to the doctor myself.’5 Mirzaji was immersed in a very interesting game, in two more moves he would checkmate Mir Sahib. Irritated, he said, ‘She’s not on her deathbed, is she? Can’t she be just a little patient?’
‘Come now,’ said Mir, ‘go and see what she has to say. Women can be touchy, you know.’
‘To be sure,’ said Mirza, ‘why shouldn’t I go? You’ll be checkmated in two moves.’
‘My dear fellow, better not count on it. I’ve thought of a move that will checkmate you with all your pieces still on the board. But go on now, listen to her, why make her feel hurt for no reason at all?’
‘I’ll go only after I’ve checkmated you.’
‘Then I won’t play. Do go and hear her out.’
‘I’ll have to go to the doctor’s, old man. It’s not just a mere headache, it’s an excuse to bother me.’
‘Whatever it is, you really must indulge her.’
‘Very well, but let me make just one more move.’
‘Absolutely not, until you’ve gone to her I won’t so much as touch a piece.’
When Mirza Sahib felt compelled to go to his wife the Begam Sahiba was frowning, but she said with a moan, ‘You love your wretched chess so much that even if somebody were dying you wouldn’t think of leaving it! Heaven forbid there should ever be another man like you!’
Mirza said, ‘What can I tell you? Mir Sahib simply wouldn’t agree. I had a most difficult time of it putting him off so I could come.’
‘Does he think everybody is just as worthless as himself? Doesn’t he have children too or has he just let them go to the dogs?’
‘He’s utterly mad about chess,’ said Mirza. ‘Whenever he comes I’m compelled to play with him.’
‘Why don’t you tell him off?’
‘He’s my equal in age and a couple of steps above me in rank, I’m obliged to be courteous with him.’
‘In that case, I’ll tell him off! If he gets angry, let him. Is he supporting us, after all? As they say, “If the queen sulks, she’ll only hurt herself.” ‘Hiriya!’ she called her maid, ‘Go out and take up the chessboard, and say to Mir Sahib, “The master won’t play now, pray be good enough to take your leave.”’
‘For heaven’s sake, don’t do anything so outrageous!’ said Mirza. ‘Do you want to disgrace me? Wait, Hiriya, where are you going?’
‘Why don’t you let her go? Anybody who stops her will be simply killing me! Very well, then, stop her, but see if you can stop me.’
Saying this, the Begam Sahiba headed for the drawing room in high dudgeon. Poor Mirza turned pale. He began to implore his wife: ‘For God’s sake, in the name of the holy Prophet Husain! If you go to him it will be like seeing me laid out!’ But the Begam did not pay the slightest attention to him. But when she reached the door of the drawing room all of a sudden, finding herself about to appear before a man not of her household, her legs felt as though paralyzed. She peeked inside, and as it happened, the room was empty. Mir Sahib had done a little shifting of the chess pieces and was now strolling outside in order to demonstrate his innocence. The next thing that happened was that the Begam went inside, knocked over the chessboard, flung some of the pieces under the sofa and others outside, then clapped the double doors shut and locked them. Mir Sahib was just outside the door. When he saw the chessmen being tossed out and the jingling of bangles reached his ears he realized that the Begam Sahiba was in a rage. Silently he took his way home.
Mirza said, ‘You have committed an outrage!’
She answered, ‘If Mir Sahib comes back here I’ll have him kicked out straightaway. If you devoted such fervour to God you’d be a saint. You’re to play chess while I slave away looking after this household? Are you going to the doctor’s or are you still putting it off?’
When he came out of his house Mirza, instead of going to the doctor’s, went to Mir Sahib’s and told him the whole story. Mir Sahib said, ‘So I guessed when I saw the chess pieces sailing outside. I took off at once. She seems to be quick to fly off the handle. But you’ve spoiled her too much, and that’s not at all the way to do things. What concern is it of hers what you do away from her part of the house? Her work is to look after the home. What business does she have with anything else?’
‘Well, tell me, where are we going to meet now?’
‘No problem, w
e have this whole big house, so that’s settled, we’ll meet here.’
‘But how am I going to placate the Begam Sahiba? She was furious when I sat down to play at home, so if I play here it could cost me my life.’
‘Let her babble, in a few days she’ll be all right. But of course you ought to show a little backbone yourself.’
*
For some unknown reason Mir Sahib’s Begam considered it most fitting for her husband to stay far away from home. For this reason she had never before criticized his chess-playing, but on the contrary, if he was late in going she reminded him. For these reasons Mir Sahib had been deluded into thinking his wife was extremely serious and humble. But when they began to set up the chess board in the drawing room and Mir Sahib was at home all day the Begam Sahiba was very distressed. This was a hindrance to her freedom, and all day long she would yearn to be at the door looking out.
Meantime, the servants had begun to gossip. Formerly they had lain around all day in idleness, if someone came to the house, if someone left, it was no business of theirs. Now they were living in fear all twenty-four hours of the day. Orders would come for paan, then for sweets. And, like some lover’s heart, the hookah had to be kept burning constantly. They would go to the mistress and say, ‘The master’s chess games are giving us a lot of trouble. We’re getting blisters on our feet from running all day. What kind of a game is it that starts at dawn and goes on till evening? Diversion for an hour or two, that’s enough for any game. Of course we’re not complaining, we’re your slaves, whatever you command naturally we’ll do it; but this game is positively sinister! Whoever plays it never prospers, and surely some disaster will befall his home. It can reach the point where one neighbourhood after another’s been known to go to rack and ruin. Everybody in this part of town is gossiping about it. We have eaten your salt, we’re grieved to hear bad things about the master, but what can we do?’
