Stories on the City

by Premchand

  Look at my husband. He inflicts miseries on me from morning till night. Ask him to get something from the market and he’ll go to a shop where no one else would even dream of going. In such shops, you find nothing in good condition. They neither give you the full weight of the commodity you purchase nor do they sell things at a fair price. It is precisely because of all these drawbacks that they have a bad name. But my husband is drawn to these shops like a magnet—it’s similar to a disease. I’ve told him time and again, ‘Go to a shop that’s doing brisk business. Their stuff gets sold quickly, and so the supplies you get there will be fresh.’ But his heart goes out to these petty, struggling shopkeepers, and they cheat him. He’ll bring home the worst quality of wheat in the market, mixed with weevils; rice so coarse that even an ox wouldn’t look at it; and lentils full of grit and so hard that they won’t soften even if you use a full stack of firewood to cook them. He’ll bring ghee that is half oil, the price of which is only a little less than pure ghee. The hair oil will be adulterated—apply it on your head and your hair will become sticky. And he’ll pay the same price for it as one would the best-quality jasmine oil. You can’t be blamed for thinking he’s scared to go to any shop that’s thriving. Perhaps he goes by the maxim, ‘Expensive hotel, tasteless food.’ My experience tells me that you get stale food only in seedy restaurants.

  If it were something that happened once in a while you could still put up with it. It annoys you no end when it happens day after day. I ask him why he goes to these wretched shops. Has he taken responsibility for their livelihood? He says, ‘When these shopkeepers see me, they call out to me.’ Wonderful! All they have to do is call him and flatter him a little, and that makes him oblivious to the rotten stuff they foist on him. I ask him, ‘Why do you go that way at all? Why don’t you go some other way? Why do you encourage these thieves?’ No answer. Silence wards off a lot of trouble.

  Once I wanted to have a piece of my jewellery redone. I knew the temperament of his lordship, and didn’t see any need to seek his help. I decided to call a goldsmith I knew. It so happened that he was present there at the moment. He said, ‘You can’t trust this pack. They’ll cheat you. I know a goldsmith. We went to the same school and when we were children we used to play together all the time. He won’t cheat me.’ I thought, Well, if he’s his friend, and a childhood friend at that, he’s sure to have some regard for that friendship.

  So, I handed him the gold ornament and fifty rupees. Only god knows what scoundrel he gave it to. I had to chase him for years together, and finally, when it did come, the gold was heavily mixed with copper. Moreover, the object looked so ugly that I detested the very sight of it. My longing for years came to this sorry end, and I could do nothing except cry over it and curse my fate. Such are his faithful friends that they wouldn’t stop at slitting his throat. And he only makes friends with destitute, half-starved, penniless creatures whose job it is to make friends with purblind people like him. Every day, one or other of these fellows turns up to fleece him, and they don’t leave until he gives them something. But I’ve never seen any of them pay back what they’ve borrowed.

  When you’re cheated once or twice, you learn your lesson; but my good man is cheated a thousand times and still doesn’t learn anything. I tell him, ‘You lent him the money. Why don’t you make him pay back? Has he left the earth?’ Silence again.

  He can never bear to decline the request of a friend. I tell him, ‘All right, don’t be rude, don’t sound unkind. But surely you can put them off a bit, can’t you? Can’t you make some excuse?’ But he can’t say ‘no’ to anyone. A friend asks him for something and it begins to weigh on him. How can he refuse? If he did, people would think he was broke. And he wants the world to think he is well-off even if he has to pawn my jewellery to give that impression. There are times when we’ve been almost penniless, but this good man can’t rest in peace until he’s squandered whatever little money I’ve saved up.

  How long can I go on talking about his stupid deeds? I am totally fed up with him. Every day some visitor lands up from whom there’s no escape. God knows where all these good-for-nothing friends of his come from. They seem to come from everywhere and turn our home into a madhouse. It’s only a tiny house; we can hardly place two string beds. But as we don’t have a lot of bedding, we manage. Since he shares a room with the guest, he needs a bed and bedclothes. Otherwise we can’t keep up appearances. And it’s me and the children who suffer as we have to spend the night huddled together on the floor. In the summer it’s still bearable, but in the winter, it’s sheer torture. In the summer, the guests occupy the open roof and the children and I remain trapped in the cage-like house. He doesn’t understand that when this is how things are at home, he shouldn’t invite people without bedding to stay with them. By the grace of god, all his friends are of this kind. There’s not a single one who could help him with a penny should he need help. And he’s had some experience of it––extremely bitter ones. But it’s as if this creature of God has sworn never to open his eyes. He’s drawn to only penniless people. He makes friends with those whose names you’re too ashamed to mention, people whom you wouldn’t even allow near your door. There are quite a few affluent, influential people in the town, but he has no contact with any of them. He never goes to meet them. These rich people are vain, self-important and want you to flatter them. How can he go to them? No, he’ll make friends only with people who don’t have even a morsel to eat in the house.

  Once, our servant left us and we couldn’t find a replacement for some time. I wanted a competent and reliable man. But my husband just wanted to get someone as quickly as possible. The affairs of the house went on as usual, but he felt as though everything had stopped. One day he caught hold of some country bumpkin from somewhere and brought him home. One look at him and you could tell that he had come out of a jungle, but my husband praised him no end. ‘He’s obedient, honest and hard-working. He knows how to take care of things and he’s extremely well mannered.’ Well, I took him in. I don’t know why time and again I allow my husband to persuade me. It surprises me. The servant, Ghora, could be called a man only because he was a creature in human form. Nothing else about him indicated that he was one. He didn’t have any clue about how to do anything. He wasn’t dishonest, but he was an idiot of the first order. If he’d been dishonest I’d at least have had the consolation that he had some intelligence to be so. But the wretched man was an easy target of all the shopkeepers’ tricks. He couldn’t even count up to ten. If I sent him to the market with a rupee in hand, he will take the entire day to work it out but still wouldn’t be able to tell me how much he had spent on what item. I’d be left with no option but to swallow my anger. I would feel like plucking his ears off, but I never saw my lord saying even a word to him. After his bath he would fold his loincloth, while Ghora would just stand and stare at him from some distance. It made my blood boil, but he wouldn’t even notice it. And after a reprimand from me if Ghora did offer to fold it, my husband wouldn’t let him be anywhere near it. He would try to present his faults as if they were virtues, and if he couldn’t manage to do that, he’d conceal them. The wretched servant didn’t even know how to sweep the floor.

  The men’s sitting room is the only decent room in the house. When Ghora swept it, he turned everything topsy-turvy. It was as though an earthquake had swept through the floor. And he’d kick up so much dust that you would hardly be able to breathe. But my husband would sit there happily in the room as though what was happening was perfectly normal. One day I gave Ghora a sharp reprimand and an ultimatum, ‘From tomorrow onwards if you don’t sweep the room properly, I’ll fire you on the spot.’ When I got up the following morning I saw that the room had already been swept––everything was in its proper place and there was not a speck of dust anywhere. My husband laughed and said, ‘Just look at this! Ghora got up very early to sweep the room. I patiently explained to him how to do it. You do not instruct him properly, and then you scold him.’
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  Just see his ways! That too was my fault. Anyway, I thought, Well, at least there’s one thing the useless man has learnt to do properly. From that day on I found the room clean every day and I began to look upon Ghora kindly. Then one day it so happened that I got up earlier than usual and as I went into the room, what did I see? Ghora was standing by the door and his lordship was sweeping the floor with great care. I couldn’t restrain myself. I snatched the broom from his hand and landed it on Ghora’s head. I ordered the bastard to get out right away. My husband said, ‘All right, but pay him his dues.’ Wonderful! He won’t do his work properly, he’s supercilious––and my lordship wants that I pay him! I didn’t pay him a penny. I’d given him a shirt to wear, which I then snatched it back from him. This made my lordship sulk for quite a few days. He was on the point of leaving the house, and was persuaded to stay back with great difficulty.

  One day a sweeper begged us to give him our cast-off clothing. Who has any clothes to spare in these times of unemployment? The rich might, but we don’t even have all the clothes we need. My lordship’s complete wardrobe will fit in a small packet and could be sent by post. And that winter we hadn’t been able to get new clothes made. I said a clear ‘no’ to the sweeper. I knew that it was extremely cold. I also knew very well what the poor must be going through. But what can you or I do except feel sorry for them? When the rich and powerful have clothes enough to fill a railway wagon, then of course the poor have to suffer the ignominy of nakedness. Anyway, I refused the sweeper point-blank. And what did my husband do? He took off his coat and gave it to him. I was furious beyond measure. It was the only coat he had. He didn’t bother to think what he would wear through the winter. The sweeper saluted him, invoked God’s blessings upon him and left. He faced the cold for some days. Earlier, he used to go for a walk every morning, but now he had to give that up. But God has given him a strange disposition. He’s not ashamed to go out wearing rags. If people laugh at him, let them. He couldn’t care less. I would die of shame, but he doesn’t even notice. In the end, I couldn’t stand it any more and got a coat made for him. I was in a mind to let him suffer the cold, but I was afraid he might fall sick. If that happened, we’d be in greater trouble. After all, he’s the breadwinner.

  He might consider himself to be a generous and amiable soul, but I do not think so. It’s simply his naivety or plain stupidity. I’ve seen the sweeper he gave his coat to, several times dead drunk, wandering in the street. He has also seen him in that condition. So, why should we pay for the fault of others? If you’re really kind and generous, first show your generosity to your own family. Or is your generosity reserved only for strangers? Doesn’t your family deserve even a fraction of it?

  We’ve lived together for so many years but he’s never bought me a present. Granted, whenever I’ve asked for something he’s never once objected to going and buying it for me, provided I gave him the money for it. He’s never felt the urge to pay for it himself. The poor fellow never buys anything for himself either; he’s quite content to make do with what I get for him. But a person does sometimes fancy something beyond daily necessities. I see other men always bringing something home for their wives––jewellery, clothes, cosmetics . . . but such indulgence is forbidden in this house. I don’t remember him ever having bought sweets or toys or a trumpet for the children. It’s as if he’d taken a vow not to. So I’d say that he’s stingy and cold-hearted, not benevolent. And I attribute his generosity to others to the fact that he’s a simpleton, he’s greedy for others’ approval and likes to show off.

  As for his amiability, let me tell you that he doesn’t mix with anyone in his office. It’s against his rules to greet them, let alone give them presents. He doesn’t call on them at their homes. And it’s none but he who faces the consequences. Others are given leave on special considerations, not he. His salary is deducted if he is on leave. Other people are promoted. He is simply ignored. If he’s even five minutes late for work, he’s slapped with a notice for an explanation. The poor man works himself to death. If there’s a difficult or complicated issue to sort out, the work is foisted on him, and he never objects. People in his office make fun of him secretly and call him all kinds of names. And no matter how difficult the task he accomplishes, no matter how tough the problem he solves, it’s written in his fate that he’ll be given the same dry grass at the end of it. I don’t call that modesty; it’s just plain ignorance of the ways of the world.

  And why should anyone be pleased with him? Reciprocity and consideration for others smoothen social relationships. If you keep your distance from people, then they’ll keep their distance from you. And once your colleagues aren’t pleased with you, that shows in office relationships. Subordinates who take extra effort to keep their superiors happy, who make sure that their superiors get some personal advantage from them, and whom their superiors can rely upon—it is they who win the favour of their superiors. Why should the superiors feel any sympathy for a man who does not seek any favour from them? After all, they too are human. How is their longing for honour and adulation to be fulfilled if their subordinates are so independent? Everywhere he’s worked, he’s been shown the door. He’s never lasted in any office beyond a year or two. He’s either quarrelled with his superiors or complained about the excess workload.

  He claims that he looks after his extended family. He has several brothers and nephews. They never ask about his well-being, but he cannot stop thinking of their needs. One of his brothers is a tehsildar and he takes care of all the family property. He lives in great style. He’s bought a car and has several servants, but he never thinks of writing letters to us. Once we were in a really tight spot financially. I said to him, ‘Why don’t you ask your respectable brother?’ He said, ‘Why should I bother him? He too has got to meet his needs. How much can he save after all?’ I kept pressing him till he was compelled to write. I don’t know what he wrote in the letter, but there were no expectations that money would arrive, and none did. After some days, I asked him whether his great brother had found time to answer his letter. He sounded annoyed and said, ‘He would have got the letter only last week. How can you expect a reply so soon?’ Another week went by, no answer. And then there was a noticeable change in his behaviour. He never gave me the chance to question him further about it. He looked too pleased with himself. He would return home from his outside jaunts in perfect spirits, and had some jokes to share with me. He was evidently making a lot of effort to keep me in good humour—flattering me and praising my family. I knew very well what he was up to—all this was merely to ward off any questions from me about his illustrious brother. In his endeavour to divert my attention from the matter at hand, he would talk to me about national, economic, moral and cultural issues in elaborate detail, with his thoughtful commentary on them that would have astonished even a learned professor. But I was not one to be palmed off like this.

  When another two full weeks had passed and the last date to send the insurance premium to the company was approaching as inexorably as death, I asked him, ‘What’s the matter? Has your great brother taken the trouble to say something? Or, hasn’t the letter reached yet? After all, we too have our share in the family property, don’t we? Or are you the offspring of one of the family’s maidservants? Ten years ago, the property was earning a profit of five hundred rupees annually. Now it must be earning at least a thousand. But we’ve never seen even a penny of it. At a rough estimate, we should get two thousand. If not two thousand, let it be one thousand, and if not one thousand, five hundred, or two hundred and fifty, or if nothing else, let him give the amount needed for the insurance premium. A tehsildar earns four times the amount we do. On top of it, he takes bribes. So why shouldn’t he pay us what’s our due?’

  He began humming and hawing. ‘The poor man is renovating his house. He has to spend quite a bit on the hospitality of visiting friends and relatives.’ Wonderful! It’s as though the property exists purely for managing the expenses incurred on these
things! And my good man is not good enough at inventing convincing excuses. If he’d asked me I could have provided him with a thousand. I’d have said that his house with all his belongings had been gutted in a fire; or that his house had been broken into and the thieves had decamped with everything; or that he’d invested ten thousand rupees in grain, but had to sell it at a loss; or someone had filed a lawsuit against him which had made him bankrupt. Even the excuses he can think up are very poor ones. He has such poor imagination—and yet he pretends to be a writer and a poet. I cursed my fate and tried to forget about it. I finally borrowed money from a neighbour’s wife and managed to tide over the crisis. After all this, when he begins to sing the praises of his brothers and his nephews, it makes me fly into a rage. May God save us from brothers like his, who are as wicked as Joseph’s brothers.

  By the grace of God we have two sons and two daughters. Should I call it God’s grace or God’s wrath? Each one of them is a little devil, mischievous to the core. But this good man will never so much as give them a stern look.

  One day, our eldest son was wandering outside like a vagabond and hadn’t returned home even after the clock had struck eight. I was deeply worried, but his lordship was sitting there nonchalantly reading the newspaper. I moved forward, snatched the paper from his hand and said, ‘Why don’t you go out and look for him? See what scrape he’s got himself into, the brat? Don’t you have any concern? You didn’t deserve to have children. This time when he comes home give him a good thrashing.’ Hearing this, he looked angry. ‘Isn’t he back yet? He’s really gone to the dogs. This time I’ll pluck his ears off. I’ll flay him alive!’ And went off in great rage to look for him.