Stories on the City

by Premchand

  ‘You’re an unlucky fellow. How your practice had begun to thrive! But your shenanigans destroyed it all. In the end you have to go back to teaching. You are ill-fated.’

  The next morning a pushcart was standing at Moteramji’s door and his possessions were being piled on to it. Not a single friend of his was in sight. Panditji lay writhing in pain, and his wife supervised the operation.

  Translated from the Hindi by M. Asaduddin

  Moteramji, the Editor

  1

  When Pandit Chintamani returned from his pilgrimage of several months, he went to meet his close friend Pandit Moteram Shastri. He had witnessed and heard countless new things and acquired a wealth of experience during his long pilgrimage. He was impatient to describe all this, adding spicy details of his own, to his friend. He reached Moteram’s house and, as he was going to step in, an attendant stopped him, ‘Where are you going? Stand outside. What’s your business?’

  Surprised, Chintamani asked, ‘Isn’t this Moteram’s house?’

  ‘We don’t know anything. The manager has asked us not to allow anyone to go in.’

  ‘Who’s the manager? Isn’t this Moteram’s house?’

  ‘We don’t know anything. We are carrying out the manager’s orders.’

  ‘But do tell me—who’s this manager?’

  ‘The manager is the manager. What else can I say?’

  Puzzled, Chintamani looked up and down the house to see if he had been mistaken, and then he saw a big signboard in front of the door. On it was written—‘Sona Office’. In his eagerness to meet his friend he had missed the board earlier.

  ‘Is this some office?’ he asked.

  The attendant parried, ‘Don’t you have eyes to see?’

  ‘Why are you being so arrogant? Do you think I’m a beggar? If it is Moteram’s house, go inside and tell him that Pandit Chintamani has come to see him. Show your authority to others.’

  ‘Give me your card.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The manager doesn’t allow anyone in without seeing their card.’

  ‘Go and tell him my name.’

  ‘How can I just go and tell your name? He’ll be annoyed.’

  When Chintamani saw that all his coaxing was in vain, he stood before the door and called out, ‘Moteram! O Moteram!’ The attendant grabbed Chintamani by the hand and pushed him back. ‘No one is allowed to shout here.’

  Chintamani flared up. He was going to let the attendant have it, when Pandit Moteram came out and greeted him, ‘Is that you, Chintamani? Why didn’t you send in your card? You must have seen the signboard declaring that I’m now the editor of the magazine Sona. Come on in. I don’t meet anyone without seeing their card, but you’re an old friend. I can bypass procedures for you.’

  As Chintamani went in he saw that everything had undergone a transformation. The room that had been empty earlier was now furnished with a table and chairs. The kitchen was stuffed with heaps of magazine bundles. There were clerks sitting on the veranda and writing in huge register notebooks.

  As the two fellows sat down, Moteram said, ‘When you went on the pilgrimage, I brought out a magazine.’

  ‘I see. So, you’ve given it the name—“Sona”—and you are editing it.’

  ‘Since I have brought out this magazine, there has been a stir in the Hindi world. It is less than three months old but the subscription has gone beyond twenty-five thousand. New orders are coming in every day. The post office has had to employ additional staff to deal with the orders.’

  ‘You’re lying! Twenty-five thousand! Don’t you have any fear of God? If you had said twenty-five hundred, one could still believe you. You don’t even know how to lie convincingly.’

  Moteram laughed, ‘Others also say the same thing. Whoever hears it is astonished but I’m telling you the truth. You can check the registers. If you don’t find the number of subscribers to be twenty-five thousand, you can give me the punishment given to a thief. And it’s just the beginning. Mark my words, I’ll take the subscription to one hundred thousand by the end of the year. There’s no dearth of subscribers, there is only a dearth of workers. Give me some hard-working fellows who know their job well, and then I’ll show you how you can draw subscribers. It’s all a matter of how you advertise your product. Shall I show you the register?’

  ‘Anything can be done with the registers—the names could be fake, you could’ve skipped numbers in between. Granted that you are an efficient person; I couldn’t have done even one-fourth of what you’ve achieved. But the figure of twenty-five thousand is unbelievable. Where did you find that kind of money?’

  ‘Don’t talk about money, it is all God’s benevolence. This is one trade where you can build a huge business without investing even a penny of your own. What you must have is style. You needn’t invest your own money. You can borrow paper from the paper merchant, you can get the printer to publish—what else do you need? If you get money in return you can pay the trader and the publisher. If you don’t, just sit and relax. Who can cause you any harm?’

  ‘How will you pay the trader and the publisher?’

  ‘That is another skill which is God’s special gift. You can’t acquire it by reading books, nor can you have it by watching others. You can call it an inheritance from your earlier birth. You know Seth Suddilal, the paper merchant. He has fed both of us several times. He is a really pious soul. I got the paper from him. I just had to ask him. He sent papers worth five hundred rupees on a cart. I don’t have a press of my own yet. I get it printed in a press owned by somebody else. I have around two dozen agents. They wander about the city and the villages to publicize it. I’m very strict with my employees. If I see them making excuses or not working hard, I lose my temper. It is as if my whole body catches fire. I feel like giving them the severest of punishments. Many have left me. This suits me fine, as I don’t have to pay them any more. I have thrashed many of them. They tremble at my sight. I need some more agents. If you want I can employ some of your friends. It’ll bring good profit.’

  ‘I have very few friends who will tolerate your immorality. If you dare raise your hand against them, they’ll fight you. But tell me one thing, how do you manage to edit the magazine?’

  ‘How do I edit? I have intelligence, that’s how.’

  ‘You were never known for your intelligence!’

  ‘How can you measure the sharpness of my intelligence? A man who can open an office without spending a penny from his pocket, a man who can become the editor of such a big magazine, whose fame is now widespread in the country—only donkeys like you can doubt the intelligence of such a personality.’

  ‘This is duplicity, not intelligence.’

  ‘You may call it duplicity, cunning or something else, but in my dictionary this is called intelligence. When a writer of a high calibre sends me an article, I make some corrections before sending it for publication. I use my red pen in a couple of places for sure. This scares the scholarly people. I’ve employed a couple of translators who can translate commentaries from Bengali, Gujarati and other languages. I give them the responsibility of my editorial. Since it doesn’t carry the name of the writer, people think that I’ve written it. Who has the time to comb through my articles? I’ve discovered the secrets of worldly success after a long time, but I won’t tell you about it.’

  Chinta protested, ‘Why, friend, why keep this secret from me? Considering that I’ve always regarded you as my guru and my elder brother, this seems very mean on your part.’

  Moteram replied, ‘All right. Promise me that you’ll get one hundred subscribers for me.’

  ‘Have I ever disobeyed your orders?’

  ‘Okay, now listen to me. The secret is that you must know how to show off. You should do it in such style that people get really impressed by you. Don’t bother if people don’t trust you or make fun of you. After you leave the scene, they’ll be compelled to think that if even one per cent of what you said was true, that’s no
t a small achievement. Exaggeration—that’s the name of the game. Don’t tell anyone that the number of subscribers is less than one hundred thousand. Declare it at the top of your voice that we’ve arranged to get articles from Western scholars. Claim that the articles and the illustrations published by you are unique, and then see how the subscribers rush to you. You dither a little and the business will be spoiled. For a moment you forget about yourself and imagine that whatever I’m saying is true to the letter. You haven’t seen my magazine. It carries remarkable articles on social reform.’

  ‘Social reform! Since when have you become a social reformer? You’re so orthodox that you don’t even eat puris bought from the market.’

  ‘Don’t ask me how I eat and how I live. When I enter this room, I turn into a pukka social reformer. When I reach home I turn into an enemy of social reform. How can you succeed if you can’t maintain this duality? You may be surprised to see that I’ve supported widow remarriage and have taken up the responsibility of preaching against untouchability and performing shuddhi. I think the Hindu society is going to the dogs because of such measures of social reform, but what can I do? I have to maintain my family some way or the other.’

  ‘Yaar, you’re very cunning. I’m impressed by your cleverness.’

  ‘Just wait and see. Now I’ll put out an advertisement claiming that all the twelve issues of the magazine in a year will be special issues, and they will be edited by well-known personalities of the world. They will be edited by Dr Tagore, Dr Iqbal, the venerable Shankaracharya, Mussolini, Lloyd George, and so on. You can imagine what an uproar it will create!’

  ‘What if these personalities do not agree to lend their names to your magazine?’

  ‘It goes without saying that they won’t agree, but the subscribers will be duped anyway. And once they become subscribers, they won’t ask us to return their money. In the following year, I’ll play some other such trick.’

  2

  As the two friends were conversing, Sona Devi came out, her anklets tinkling. Her face had such a glow that Chintamani was totally floored. The moment Sona saw Chintamani, she said, ‘Lala, you’ve come here after a long time. Have you forgotten us?’

  Chinta replied, ‘What could I do, Bhabhiji? I had gone for a pilgrimage. One must also think about the hereafter.’

  ‘You haven’t become old enough yet to think about the hereafter. You aren’t even fifty. Your friend has got a new hobby to obsess over. How I tried to persuade him not to get entangled in these responsibilities and to remain content with whatever God has bestowed on us! But he never listens to anyone. He doesn’t even have five hundred subscribers, but goes around claiming at the top of his voice that he has got twenty-five thousand of them.’

  Moteram thundered, ‘Who asked you to appear here like a witch? Go inside.’

  Chinta asked Sona, ‘You mean to say that you don’t even have five hundred subscribers? He was telling me that he has got twenty-five thousand!’

  Sona replied, ‘That is him bragging. Lying is his old habit.’

  Moteram threatened Sona, ‘Are you going away from here or not?’

  Sona challenged him, ‘No. Let me see what you can do. You can’t order me about, let me tell you. You can cheat the whole world. You’re a cheat. You’re showing me your temper! Control your temper. I’m very angry with you today. Don’t you feel any shame in supporting widow remarriage through your magazine? You have a widowed sister, why don’t you get her married off? And where are your twenty-five thousand subscribers, show me. You’ve got fake registers that you show to everybody. Lala, let me tell you about a new trait that he has developed—he has started drinking liquor.’

  Chinta was shocked. ‘Oh God! Is it true?’

  Moteram growled, ‘I will choke you to death.’

  Sona continued, ‘God knows he drinks liquor. He can drink bottles of them. He goes to the English shops stealthily like a thief, puts the bottle in his pocket and slinks away. Like a real thief. He claims that if a man drinks liquor, his intelligence is sharpened; that it helps digestion, that he enjoys it. To hell with your enjoyment.’

  Chinta asked Moteram, ‘What is this, my friend? You used to take bhang. Wasn’t that intoxicating enough?’

  Shrugging off his wife’s accusation, Moteram said, ‘Let her babble. She has lost her wits, stupid woman.’

  Sona said angrily, ‘Now you keep quiet. Or else I will expose all your misdeeds. Lala, God knows why such misfortune has befallen my family. He goes around eyeing other women. He got beaten up in a case involving a rani but he refuses to mend his ways. He styles himself as the editor of a magazine, a social reformer. He shows direction to others and gives others advice. But what about himself? He owes the paper merchant five hundred rupees, and the owner of the press comes calling every day for his money, but he lives in a world of his own. Anxiety is driving me to death.’

  Chinta tried to reassure her, ‘That may not be true, Bhabhiji. I have never seen him doing such things.’

  Sona looked at Moteram from the corner of her eye and said, ‘As many as three women are sitting in his house. Has he got enough of them? I’m telling you, don’t mess with me, I will return it hundredfold. You’ve seen the duplicity of your friend. The real register is hidden in the other room. I can show you the real figures. Come with me . . .’

  Chintamani knew this already. He immediately got up, but Moteram didn’t sit idle. He leapt up to grab Chintamani’s hand. Poor Chintamani was in a fix. On one side, Sona was pulling his hand with all her might; on the other, Moteram was using all his force to pull his other hand. Chintamani felt as if both his hands were going to be pulled apart. He began to howl.

  Sona said, ‘Okay, Lala, you hold him tight. I’m bringing the register. Don’t let him off.’

  She hurried into the other room, leaving the two friends engaged in the wrestling match.

  Moteram said, ‘I’ll break all your bones.’

  Chinta retorted, ‘I’ll bury you in your grave.’

  ‘I’ll trample all over you.’

  ‘I’ll make pickle out of you.’

  ‘I’ll tear your stomach.’

  ‘I’ll break your nose.’

  The two friends were now lying on the floor, engaged in the verbal duel. Sona brought out the register containing the names of the subscribers. Chintamani saw the last figure. It was five hundred and eighty. He said, ‘What do you say, my friend? You were making such tall claims. What now?’

  Moteram cried out, ‘This wife of mine is the very image of my accumulated sins in the past life. Now my honour is in your hands. Please do not tell anyone.’

  Chinta reassured him, ‘No, friend, I’m not such a fool. But you must do one thing. You must add my name in the magazine. Both of us will be editors. You can place your name on top and my name below. Do you accept my condition?’

  Moteram said solemnly, ‘Yes, I agree.’

  Translated from the Hindi by M. Asaduddin

  The Murderer

  It was a winter night. The roads were deserted as early as ten and the streets were wrapped in silence. Putting the meal plate before her young son, the old widowed mother said, ‘Where do you keep wandering the whole night, son? The meal kept out for long, gets cold. The whole world has gone to bed. There is not enough fire in the house that I should sit before it and keep myself warm.’

  Dharamvir was a good-looking, sturdy youth. Dragging the plate closer, he said, ‘It is not even ten, Mother! Who can help if the lifeless people here drown themselves into sleep so early! In Europe, they keep moving about till twelve or one. One should learn from them how to enjoy life. None of them would think of getting to the bed before one.’

  The mother asked, ‘Then they would be waking up as late as eight or ten in the day.’

  Being defensive, Dharamvir said, ‘No, they get up at six. We are used to sleeping for long hours. From ten to six it is eight hours. If one sleeps for eight hours out of the twenty four, then there is not much work
you can expect from one. The lesser one sleeps the better it is. Our group has included this point in its manifesto that the members will sleep just for a little more than three hours.’

  The mother was fed up with the talk relating to the group. Do not eat this, do not eat that, do not wear this, do not wear that, do not marry or have a family, do not take a job to be servants to others. What is this group up to? Will it make people end up as monks? And where are the ones who have discarded the world and the ones who are the real seers? Most of them are slaves to their desires and saints in name alone. This new restriction even on sleeping! He just finished the tour of three months. God knows where he keeps wandering. Now, to eat at twelve! And who knows if dinner is skipped. She said with a tone of protest, ‘It is because of all this that one can count every single bone in your body. What business does this group of yours has after all? Do they do anything meaningful or simply impose restrictions on others?

  Dharamvir said, ‘The group does the same work as you. Your purpose is to serve the community, so is ours.’

  The old woman was a keen and devoted participant in the freedom struggle. Ten years ago, her husband had been sentenced to jail for giving a revolutionary speech. His health had deteriorated and he passed away while behind bars. Since then, the woman had devoted herself selflessly and earnestly to social work. Initially, her son was also one of the volunteers but over the last five months, he had joined this new group and was considered one of its active members.

  The mother asked suspiciously, ‘So, does your group have an office?’

  ‘Yes, we have one.’

  ‘How many members are there in all?’

  ‘So far we have only twenty-five members. But our twenty-five members are capable of doing what even your twenty-five thousand men can’t do. Look Mother, you don’t share this with anybody, otherwise I will be in trouble. I don’t think picketing and demonstrations will get us freedom. That is an open declaration of one’s weakness and helplessness. The way to freedom is not through hoisting flags and singing songs. People here don’t use their minds. A man says that this is how we get Swaraj and we follow him with our eyes closed. The man is misguided and also leading others astray. People can be happy in their heart of hearts believing that they are getting closer and closer to freedom. But I find all this childish. When children cry, they are given sweetmeats and toys. This is what these people will get. The real gain is what we are ready to pay for.’