Stories on the City

by Premchand

  Prabha extricated herself from Pashupati’s hands and, holding her daughter’s hand, proceeded towards the car. She didn’t listen to what he was saying or give a reply.

  6

  ‘Amma, why are you laughing?’

  ‘No, nothing.’

  ‘What are those yellowed old pages in your hand?’

  ‘These are receipts of outstanding debts.’

  ‘But they look like old letters.’

  ‘No, no.’

  The fact was that Prabha did not want to reveal the truth to her fourteen-year-old adolescent daughter. They were indeed receipts of bad debts. She had found those old letters in the pages of a book today. They resembled petals that lose their hue and fragrance when kept in books for a long time. Despite this, they reminded Prabha of the days of bliss and for this reason, they remained invaluable to her.

  Shanta understood that her mother was doing something she would rather not talk about. Delighted that her sorrowful mother had forgotten her sorrow that day and thinking that it would be better for her to stay in that state of happiness for as long as possible, she went out of the house on some pretext. Left alone in the room, Prabha started reading the letters again.

  Ah! So much had happened in those fourteen years! So many forgotten memories flooded that forsaken one that it opened the founts of pleasure and pain together.

  After Prabha had left, Pashupati had tried his best to marry Krishna, but she did not consent to it. In a state of hopelessness and rage, Pashupati left for Europe as an agent of some company. There he remembered Prabha. For some days, he kept writing letters full of pleas for her pardon and promises to come home shortly to meet her, wishing to drown the old bitterness in this new current of love. The tormented heart of the loyal Prabha once again felt glimmers of hope and her wilted desires grew! This too, however, was a game of fate. Before long, the gallant Pashupati found himself in a new love trap and his letters stopped. Today in her hand Prabha had the letters that her husband had sent from Europe, when the wounds of despair were fresh. What sweet talk! What pleasing promises! Only later had she found out that Pashupati had married an English girl. Prabha felt as if she had been struck by lightning. Her heart was broken to pieces. All her desires were thwarted. Her frail body could not bear this blow. She caught a fever and nobody had any hope that she would survive. She herself wished for death and it seemed as if death had entwined her like a serpent. Death, though, does not visit on summons. The fever abated and Prabha resumed her life of hopelessness.

  7

  One day Prabha came to know that Pashupati has returned from Europe and that the Englishwoman was not with him. In fact, she was the reason for his return. The woman had stayed his companion for twelve years and then eloped with a young Englishman. This horrid and terribly cruel blow had broken Pashupati’s back. He quit his job and returned home. His face had changed so much that even his friends could not recognize him when they met in the marketplace. He looked like an old man walking with a bent back. His hair too had turned grey.

  After his return, one day Pashupati sent for Shanta, and she started visiting him regularly. Her heart bled for him when she saw his condition.

  Meanwhile, proposals for Shanta’s marriage started coming in. But Prabha’s experience of her own married life forced her to reject these proposals. She would think, What if she ends up the same way I have? She felt that if Shanta were to be married, she would not find any peace at this later stage in her life, and even in death, she would agonize over her daughter. But finally, a proposal came from such a good family that Prabha could not say no to it. The family was extremely well-to-do and the boy too was promising. Prabha had to give her consent. The father’s consent, too, was required. Prabha wrote a letter to Pashupati about this and sent Shanta herself to deliver it. As Shanta left with the letter, Prabha went into the kitchen to attend to the cooking. All kinds of dreadful thoughts came to her mind. In the smoke rising from the stove, she detected a vision. In that vision, she saw that Shanta’s thin lips were parched and that she was trembling and just as Prabha had fallen into her mother’s lap after leaving her husband’s house, similarly, Shanta too had collapsed into her own mother’s lap.

  8

  Pashupati was spellbound when he read Prabha’s letter. He lit his cigarette and drew hard on it.

  Then he stood up and started pacing around the room, sometimes biting his moustache, sometimes scratching his salt-and-pepper-beard.

  Suddenly, he came and stood close to Shanta and, in a trembling voice, said, ‘How can I say “no” to a family that your mother has approved? She must have consented after much thought. May God bless you with eternal bliss. The only regret I have is that when you go to your own house, your mother will be left alone. There will be nobody to wipe her tears. Think of a way by which your mother’s agony is relieved and I too do not wander around aimlessly. You alone can think of such a solution. It is possible that I would not have been able to tell you of my heart’s feelings out of shame and embarrassment, but now that you are leaving, I have no choice but to cast aside my hesitation. Your mother loves you and will never deny your request. Tell her of my condition which you have seen with your own eyes. Go. May you have boundless fortune!’

  Shanta clung to her father’s breast, weeping. And this prematurely aged man, after having borne the consequences of his depravities, was now shedding tears of remorse and guilt, wetting Shanta’s hair.

  Could the loyal Prabha deny Shanta’s plea? This thread of love brought the two broken hearts together.

  Translated from the Hindi by Vikas Jain

  Moteramji Shastri

  1

  Who didn’t know Pandit Moteramji Shastri? He observed the attitude of the government officials and acted accordingly. When the Swadeshi Movement was on, he had opposed it vigorously. During the Self-Rule Movement too he had obtained a certificate of loyalty from the government officials. But when, even after all these efforts, his fortune did not change and he found no escape from his daily drudgery as a teacher, he finally decided to take matters into his own hands and carve for himself a new destiny. He went home and said to his wife, ‘Rote-teaching these old parrots is addling my brain. What have I gained by imparting the gift of knowledge for so long? How can I hope for anything better in the future?’

  Concerned, his wife replied, ‘We do need some means to fill our bellies.’

  ‘You always worry about where your meals will come from. Hardly a day goes by when I am not invited to a ritual feast as a Brahmin, and even if people criticize me for it, I always bring a portion of the food for you. Even today I do have a number of acolytes. But if all I do my entire life is just feed my belly, what will I have achieved? We must enjoy some of the pleasures that this world has to offer. I have decided to become a vaidya.’

  Taken aback by this sudden declaration, his wife asked him, ‘You want to become a vaidya, but have you ever studied Ayurvedic medicine?’

  ‘I don’t need to study Ayurveda. In this world knowledge is not as important as intelligence. There are only a few simple tricks that one must know, and that’s it! Today onwards I am going to add Bhishagacharya—Doctor of Ayurveda—before my name. Who’s going to care if I am actually one or not? People have more important work to do than test my medical knowledge. I’ll have a huge signboard put up with the following words printed prominently: “Secret diseases of men and women are treated here with utmost confidentiality.” I’ll keep three or four paise-worth of myrobalan and other herbs pounded and sieved. That should be quite enough for this purpose. Yes, and I’ll have advertisements placed in the newspapers and distribute flyers. In them I will quote from letters of imaginary dignitaries from far-off places like Ceylon, Madras, Rangoon and Karachi. They will vouch for the efficacy of my medicine. No one is crazy enough to go roaming around to find out whether people bearing such names really exist in these places or not. Then you’ll see how my practice thrives!’

  His wife asked, ‘But if you give m
edicine without any knowledge of it, how will it help people?’

  ‘I couldn’t care less if it doesn’t help. It’s a vaidya’s job to prescribe medicine; he hasn’t taken up the responsibility of defeating death. Besides, everyone who falls ill doesn’t die. I tell you, people who don’t take any medicine get better on their own once the disease runs its course. Vaidyas get undeserved praise. Out of five patients, even if one recovers, I will certainly get the credit for it. If the other four die, well, they aren’t going to come back to complain about it. I’ve thought hard about it and decided that there is no better job for me than this. You know very well that I write newspaper articles, and I can compose poetry. I’ll write some pieces in the papers on the importance of Ayurvedic medicine, with a couple of verses thrown in here and there. I’ll write in an entertaining way, and then you’ll see how many idiots get caught in my trap. Don’t think for a moment that I have just been rote-teaching old parrots all these days. I’ve been observing the tricks of all the successful vaidyas in this town, and finally I have learned the secrets of their success. God willing, one day you will be decked in gold from head to toe.’

  Suppressing her delight, his wife cackled, ‘I’m past the age when women crave for jewellery. I’ve no desire for it now. But tell me one thing—you don’t even know how to prepare medicine, how will you prepare extracts and essences from the herbs when you don’t even recognize them?’

  ‘Sweetheart, you really are a fool! A vaidya doesn’t need any of these things. Even a pinch of ash from a vaidya can turn out to be an essence and elixir. All that is necessary is a bit of pomp and show. I’ll need a fairly large room with a dhurrie on the floor, and a dozen or so glass tumblers and bottles in niches in the walls. Nothing else is required; my wits will do the rest. My articles written in a literary style will have great impact, just you wait and see. You know very well how skilfully I use poetic devices in my writings. There’s no one in the world today who can get past me in the use of figures of speech. After all, I haven’t spent the days of my life simply digging grass! A dozen or so people come to me merely to discuss poetry. They will be my agents. They will bring patients to me. Just wait and see, my practice will thrive not because of my knowledge of Ayurveda but thanks to my way with words.’

  His wife was not convinced. ‘I am scared that you will end up losing your students as well. You will be neither here nor there. Teaching children is written in your destiny. Kicked from all sides, you will be compelled to rote-teach the same parrots again.’

  ‘Don’t you have any faith in my ability?’

  ‘Because you’ll be deceiving people there too. I’ve got sick of your lies. Why do you want to pretend to be something you’re not and can never be? You could not become a leader, and didn’t, and kept lamenting over it. But you do not give up your deceitful ways. I’m really fed up. I want you to lead your life like a decent human being. Live a simple and honest life. But when do you ever listen to me?’

  ‘Then what use will I ever make of my gift of the gab?’

  ‘Why don’t you become a flatterer to some aristocrat? You will recite a few beautiful verses in his praise and he’ll be pleased with you and will definitely give you something. Why do you have to pretend to be a vaidya?’

  ‘I know of tricks that even the forefathers of vaidyas don’t know. And all of them keep roaming around for just one or two rupees. I will charge five rupees, with conveyance extra. This will make people believe that I must be a great vaidya, otherwise I wouldn’t charge such high fees.’

  His wife now felt somewhat convinced. She said, ‘Finally you’ve said something sensible. But you must understand that you won’t be able to make much of an impression here, you’ll have to move to a town which is far away.’

  Moteram laughed. ‘Don’t I know that? We’ll set up business in Lucknow. Within a year my profession will thrive so much that all the other vaidyas will disappear from the scene. I know many other tricks. I won’t even start treating a patient until I have observed him two or three times. I’ll say that until I am closely familiar with the nature of the patient, I will not be able to treat him. What do you say to that?’

  His wife beamed and said, ‘Now I’m impressed. Your medical career will certainly thrive, there’s no doubt about it. But don’t try your tricks on the poor, or you’ll make a fool of yourself.’

  2

  A year passed.

  Bhishagacharya Pandit Moteramji Shastri made a name in Lucknow. He of course knew his figures of speech well; in addition he could also sing and play a little. On top of that he was a specialist of intimate diseases—the literati of Lucknow made him the toast of the town. Panditji recited poetry to them, made them laugh and fed them potent herbs, and the aristocrats, who always hankered after medicines of potency, praised him to the skies. In just one year he’d established his reputation to such a degree that it appeared as though he was the sole doctor of secret diseases in Lucknow. In some cases, he kept the identity of his patients secret. He became especially popular among pleasure-loving widowed ranis and indiscreet aristocrats given to sensual pleasures, and he considered himself unmatched.

  His wife, however, kept on exhorting him not to get mixed up with the ranis and their problems, warning him that he would regret it one day.

  But Moteram was undeterred, despite the repeated warnings. Among Panditji’s devotees was the rani of Birhal. The raja had left for his heavenly abode, and the Rani Sahiba was afflicted by some chronic disease. Panditji used to go to her home five times a day. The Rani Sahiba didn’t want him to leave her side even for a moment. If Panditji was even a little late in arriving, she would become agitated. A motorcar stood constantly at his door. Now the Panditji had undergone a sartorial transformation. He wore a long coat of fine muslin, tied a Banarasi silk turban and showed off his leather shoes. He and his high-spirited friends rode around in the motorcar with great pomp and show. He had got a few of them appointed to some posts in the Rani Sahiba’s court. How could the Rani Sahiba ever refuse a request from her messiah?

  One day Panditji had one hand on the Rani Sahiba’s fair-skinned wrist to feel her pulse, while his other hand felt the speed of her heartbeat, when suddenly a number of club-wielding men burst into the room and fell upon him. The Rani fled to another room and closed the door. Moteram was beaten mercilessly. Panditji was himself a strong, powerfully built man and always carried a stick with him, but what could he do when he was set upon by several men at once without warning? He fell at the feet of all his assailants by turns. He kept screaming ‘Hai! Hai!’ but they were brutal and showed him no compassion.

  One of them kicked him hard and said, ‘Chop off the nose of this villain.’

  Another said, ‘Smear his face with soot and lime and let him go.’

  A third said, ‘So Vaidyaji Maharaj, what do you prefer? Would you like your nose chopped off or your face painted black?’

  Panditji replied, ‘Please, Sirs, I’m dying. Do anything, but please do not chop off my nose.’

  ‘Will you come here again?’ asked the first man.

  ‘Not even by mistake. Hai, I’m dying.’

  ‘Make yourself scarce from Lucknow today itself. Or else, you’ll face the music!’ said the second man.

  ‘Sarkar, I will leave this very day. I swear to you by my sacred thread. You’ll never see my face here again.’

  ‘All right, everyone, let’s all give him five kicks each and let him go,’ said the third.

  ‘Arré, Sarkar! I’ll die, please have mercy on me.’

  ‘Hypocrites like you are better dead. So let’s start,’ said the fourth.

  They began to kick him five times each. Each kick made a thudding sound. It was as though someone was beating a kettledrum. After every kick, Moteram yelled out ‘hai’ like a reverberating echo!

  Once the five-kick ritual was over, the men dragged Moteramji outside and sent him home in the motorcar. As he was leaving, they warned him that he would be administered some more o
f the treatment if he did not disappear by the morning.

  3

  Moteram entered his house limping, moaning and leaning on his stick, and threw himself on to a charpoy. Alarmed, his wife asked, ‘What happened to you? Why are you looking so distraught? Hai, hai, what’s happened to your face?’

  ‘Hai, Bhagwan! I’m dying.’

  ‘Where does it hurt? It is for this reason that I told you not to eat so much rabri. Shall I give you digestive salts?’

  ‘Hai, the wicked fellows have almost killed me. That wretched low-born bitch is the one responsible for me being in this condition. They have knocked the stuffing out of me.’

  ‘So, you’ve been thoroughly bashed up? Yes, that’s what it is. And you were rightly served. You are fit for kicking. I exhorted you not to keep going to the rani’s place, but when do you listen to me?’

  ‘Hai, hai! Whore, you too are abusing me at this moment? I am in a bad shape and you are bad-mouthing me. Go and tell someone to bring a pushcart, we have to run away from Lucknow tonight. They’ll kill me in the morning if they find me here.’

  ‘No, you still haven’t had enough of this place. Stay here a few days more and enjoy the air. How contented our life was when you used to teach those boys! But no, you had to think of becoming a vaidya. Good, you’ve learnt a lesson you’ll never forget as long as you live. Where was the rani when they were thrashing you? Couldn’t she protect you?’

  ‘Hai, hai! That witch ran away. All this happened because of her! I never imagined such a thing could happen, otherwise would I ever have agreed to treat her?’