by Premchand
Chaitanya Das looked at his younger son with affection and said, ‘Why did you need to come in here? I’ve told you several times, don’t come in here, but you never pay heed to my advice.’
Embarrassed, Shiv Das said, ‘I’ll leave right now. Don’t get angry. I only wanted to ask the doctor what we should do for bhaiya now.’
The doctor said,‘There’s only one treatment left. You should send him to a sanatorium in Italy.’
Intently, Chaitanya Das asked, ‘How much will that cost?’
‘At the most, three thousand. He’ll need to be there for a year.’
‘Are you certain that he will come back cured?’
‘Not at all. This is a terrible disease, and even with ordinary diseases one cannot speak in certainties.’
‘And if he returns in exactly the same shape after we’ve spent all that money?’
‘That’s up to God. But you can take comfort in the thought that you’ve done whatever you could for him.’
4
For half the night, the debate about whether or not to send Prabhu Das to Italy raged throughout the house. Chaitanya Das’s position was that it went against logic to spend three thousand rupees on spoiled fruit. Shiv Das agreed with him, but his mother, Tapeshwari, opposed this argument with great conviction. Ultimately, the mother’s reproaches turned Shiv Das to her side in shame. Chaitanya Das was alone. Tapeshwari had manoeuvred intelligently. She tried to ignite her husband’s goodwill. She recited proverbs about the impermanence of wealth. These weapons didn’t bring her victory, so she began a deluge of tears. Chaitanya Das could not withstand the body blows of these waterworks. He acknowledged his defeat with the words, ‘Please, please, don’t cry. I will do whatever you say.’
‘When?’
‘I need to get my hands on that much money.’
‘Why not just admit that you don’t want to send him to Italy?’
‘I want to send him, but I don’t have the money right now. Don’t you know that?’
‘There is money in the bank, isn’t there? You have property that can be sold, don’t you? It shouldn’t be that hard to come up with two or three thousand.’
Chaitanya Das looked at his wife as if he might devour her, and a moment later he said, ‘You say such childish things. There is no special life-giving fountain in Italy that will immediately work its magic. When all he will be doing there is waiting for his destiny, then we should proceed cautiously. I cannot sacrifice the accumulated property of our ancestors and the money saved up in the bank for an uncertain outcome.’
Scared, Tapeshwari said, ‘But ultimately half of it is Prabhu Das’s, too.’
Chaitanya Das said mockingly, “‘Not just half, I can give him the entirety of it, but only when there is some hope for his future, when he can improve the reputation of the family and grow our fortune and use our investments to do something. I cannot be swayed by emotions into blowing away real wealth.’
Tapeshwari was left speechless. She had lost even though she had won.
Six months after this discussion, Shiv Das received his BA. Chaitanya Das mortgaged one-eighth of his property to send him to England to study law. He himself went to see his son off in Bombay. When he returned, his conscience was satisfied. He had invested money in the kind of project that held out real hope of limitless rewards. A week later, poor Prabhu Das passed away with his high ambitions.
5
Chaitanya Das was sitting at the Manikarnika Ghat with his friends watching the flames of the funeral pyre. Lines of tears glistened under his eyes. For a moment, his paternal love had defeated his economic principles. And in his heavy-heartedness, a notion kept rising up in his head—It’s possible that Prabhu Das could have become better if he had gone to Italy. Alas! I held on to three thousand rupees but let my gem of a son fall from my grasp. The notion grew stronger by the moment and his guilt, sadness, and regret turned into arrows that pierced through him. And the anguish in his heart grew into a lance. The flames in his soul burned no less white than the flames of the pyre. Suddenly, he heard the sounds of clarinets. He raised his head and saw a large group of men carrying a corpse. They proceeded along, playing drums, singing and raining down flowers. When they got to the ghat, they lowered the corpse and began setting up the pyre. One of the young men amongst them went and stood next to Chaitanya Das. Chaitanya Das asked, ‘Which neighborhood are you from?’
The young man answered, ‘We are from the countryside. We set out last night. This was our father. We don’t come here often, but our father’s last wish was to be cremated at the Manikarnika Ghat.’
‘Are all these men with you?’
‘Yes, and there are more coming. There are approximately a hundred all together. It cost a fortune to get here, but at least my elderly father’s soul will be liberated. What else is money for?’
‘What illness did he have?’
Very gently, the young man spoke, as if he were talking to a close friend, ‘No one had any idea he was sick. His fever kept rising. He became as dry as thorns. He was bedridden for three years. We took him for treatment wherever anyone recommended. Chitrakoot, Haridwar, Prayag—we took him to all of these places. We didn’t spare any expense in doing whatever the doctors recommended.’
In the meantime, one of the young man’s companions had also joined them and said, ‘Sir, I tell you the honest truth, if God gives anyone a son, let it be like this one. He didn’t concern himself with the costs. He spent all of the wealth in his home on his father’s treatment. He sold even what little land he owned, but man cannot stave off death.’
Growing emotional, the young man said, ‘Money and wealth are meaningless things. They come and go, but you can’t compensate for the loss of life easily. If I’m alive, I will find a way to survive, but at least I won’t have any regrets and think, Alas! I didn’t do that, or I didn’t go to that doctor, or else he’d still be alive. There’s a saying, “Take my home and my wealth, just give my father another moment’s health.” This world of illusion and lies that goes by the name “life”, what is there of substance in it? Life is more valuable than wealth and faith is more valuable than life. Sir, I tell you the truth, if I had spared anything in my power for my father, I wouldn’t be able to keep myself from bawling today. My own pyre would taunt me. Or else this moment would feel to me as if I had paid for my own well-being with a heavy debt. As long as his soul finds peace and happiness, everything will turn out fine for me.’
Chaitanya Das hung his head as he listened to all this. Each word stung his heart like an arrow. This magnanimity revealed his own heartlessness, his soullessness, his materialism in a terrible light. The effect of this blow on his conscience could only be measured by the fact that he spent thousands on Prabhu Das’s final rites. This was the only salve possible for his afflicted heart.
Translated from the Hindi by Snehal Shingavi
After Death
1
Ishwarchandra Datt acquired his taste for writing articles for the newspaper back in college. Every day he was preoccupied with new issues. He got much more joy in seeing his name in print in the newspapers than he did in passing his exams or winning the top rank in his class. He was the leader of the extremists1 in college. It was his responsibility to critique confusing exam papers and the inappropriate behaviour of teachers in the newspaper. This had earned him a position of leadership in college. Every time it was necessary to editorialize, his name would come up for leading the charge. He was confident that he would be more successful in the vast playing field of the real world once he had left this limited one. He thought that he was destined for public life. Coincidentally, even before his name had figured on the list of students appearing for the MA exam, the editor-in-chief of Gaurav2 announced his retirement and decided that he would leave the burden of managing the paper in Ishwarchandra Datt’s hands. Ishwarchandra was beside himself with joy when he heard the news. I am so fortunate to be considered worthy of this distinction. There is no doubt that he
was aware of the seriousness of his responsibilities, but his love of fame had left him unprepared to confront the obstacles in his way. He wanted to enhance the respect, progress and responsibility of the profession. He had ambitions of bringing Indian newspapers up to Western standards.
He finally had the opportunity to make good on his ambitions. Overcome with ecstasy, he leapt into the river.
2
Ishwarchandra’s wife, Manaki, came from a rich family with a high status and she had imbibed the false pride and prestige of such families. When she heard the news, she was worried lest her husband get caught up in all this and turn his back on studying law. But when Ishwarchandra assured her that his work would not get in the way of his studying law, she didn’t say anything.
But very quickly, Ishwarchandra realized that being an editor was very invidious work that quickly overran all the other things in the mind. He thought of it as a means of entertainment and an instrument to increase his fame. He wanted to use it to do something useful for his community. He hadn’t even given any thought to how much he would earn. But once he got in the boat, he knew that the journey would not be as easy as he had thought. With all of the revising, correcting and editing of articles, corresponding with writers, finding interesting topics and worrying about staying ahead of his partners, he never had the chance to study. He would sit down to study in the morning, resolving not to get up until he had finished a hundred pages, but as soon as the mail arrived, he fell upon it eagerly, and the book remained unread. Again and again he would vow to study regularly and not spare more than a certain amount of time for editorial work. But as soon as the bundle of papers arrived, he would lose control over himself. Everything worked its magic on him: the carping letters to the editor, the arguments in the journals, the arguments and criticisms, the poetic brilliance of the poets, the eloquent craft of the writers, and all the rest. On top of that, the problems with the printers, the worry about increasing the number of subscribers and the hopes of making his newspaper wholly beautiful all made his life even more difficult. Occasionally, he would be filled with regret—I got tangled up in these problems for no reason—and then all of a sudden it was the day of the exam and he was completely unprepared for it. He couldn’t take his exams. He tried to console himself, thinking, I am just getting started in this work, that’s why there are all these hindrances. By next year, I will have this work under control and then I can sit for the exams without any worries! It’s not difficult to pass after all! Idiots who cannot even write a simple composition pass the exam, how can I possibly not pass? When Manaki heard his explanations she was beside herself with rage—‘I knew this obsession would ruin you. That’s why I tried to stop you so many times, but you never listened to me. Now that you have sunk yourself you are going to take me down with you.’ His father, too, was angry. His friends tried to make him understand—‘Put your work on hiatus for a while and pass your law exams, and then you can carry on with your idealist work.’ But Ishwarchandra thought it was cowardly to run away once you had stepped on to the battlefield. True, he was determined that he would prepare body and soul for the examinations next year. So, just as the new year began, he got his law books and the prescribed syllabus together, began keeping a diary, and tried to restrain his distractible and cheating mind, but when does simple fare ever taste good after tasty snacks!
Where were the manoeuvres in law, the passion, the blows, the excitement, or the commotion! Every day, now, Ishwarchandra was lost. While he was doing the work that he wanted to, he could find an hour or two out of the day to look at his law books. But this stupor had drained his mental faculties. His muscles had atrophied. He began to realize, I am not cut out for law, and this realization made him treat the law with indifference. A contentment began to grow within. He began to find comfort in the ideologies of fate and superstition.
One day, Manaki said, ‘What’s the matter now, are you bored with the law again?’
Restlessly, Ishwarchandra replied, ‘Yes dear, I can’t focus on it.’
Sarcastically, Manaki said, ‘Is it very difficult?’
‘It’s not difficult, and even if it was difficult I wouldn’t have been scared by it, but I find the practice of law detestable. The more I get to know about the inner workings of lawyers, the more I hate the profession. There are hundreds of lawyers and barristers in this city but there is not one among them who has enough compassion in his heart not to sell himself for personal gain. Deceit and hypocrisy are the defining principles of this profession. It does not exist without them. And even if some individuals do take part in the nationalist struggle then it is only to beat their own drums in self-promotion. Our entire lives become dedicated to chasing after pleasure. How unfortunate are the educated classes of our nation who are jumping on this bandwagon. This is the reason that there is no improvement in our national institutions. We can never really accomplish any work that our hearts are not in, and become captains only out of a desire for fame and personal gain. It is the injustice of the present social condition that this profession has been ranked so high. This is the worst aspect of colonial civilization: A country which is unable to generate revenue on the basis of its own talents but enjoys the fruits of others’ labours. Unable to become a honeybee, it makes it its life’s mission to become an ant instead.’
Irritated, Manaki said, ‘You never used to criticize lawyers like this before!’
Ishwarchandra responded, ‘I didn’t know what I was talking about then. I was dazzled by its superficial shimmer.’
‘I do not understand why you love being an editor so much. Every time I meet an editor, he’s constantly crying over his misfortunes. If it’s not appealing to your subscribers for more subscriptions, then it’s complaining about people not paying their bills. I dare you to tell me of me a single man with an advanced degree going into this profession. The kind of person who edits a newspaper is the kind who has no ambition, who has neither a certificate nor a degree, and who contents himself with coarse bread instead of dying of starvation. People go abroad—to become doctors or engineers or civil servants—but I’ve never heard of anyone going abroad to become an editor. Why get an education? What’s it to anyone if you abandon your ambitions and live out your life as an ascetic? Unless of course we are talking about crazy people.’
‘The purpose of life is not just to accumulate wealth.’
‘You just criticized lawyers by pointing out that they are growing fat eating other people’s incomes. Editors eat other people’s incomes, too.’
Ishwarchandra retorted, ‘Perhaps we do eat other people’s incomes, but we also care deeply for them. We are not looting them like lawyers.’
Manaki countered him, ‘You’re being unfair. Lawyers, too, make sacrifices for their clients. Their incomes are just as kosher as editors’. The only difference is that one is a mountain stream and the other is a trickling gutter. One of them carries along pure water each day, while the other moves garbage. At the most, it will carry water for an hour or two when it rains.’
‘First of all, I don’t agree that lawyers’ earnings are kosher, and even if I do accept that fact, I can never accept that they are all noble people sleeping on beds of flowers. Every person’s fate catches up with them. There are so many lawyers who give false testimonies to fill their bellies. There are such few newspapers in this country precisely because the economic status of managing editors is not very good. In Europe and in America, people have become millionaires running newspapers. In the world today, the leading figures in all the advanced countries are either newspaper editors or journalists or owners of newspapers. There are so many billionaires who have built their fortunes on the foundation of newspapers . . .’
Ishwarchandra wanted to prove that there was no better route to wealth, fame and respect than running a newspaper, but even more important was the fact that it gave one a real chance to defend truth and justice. But Manaki wasn’t moved in the slightest by this oratory. She didn’t have the insight t
o see things at a distance. Manaki could not see a single example of a successful editor before her.
3
Sixteen years had passed. Ishwarchandra had created a name for himself in the world of editors; he had written important books for the nationalist movement, had brought out a new daily newspaper and had earned the respect of several officials. His eldest son had earned a BA. The younger ones were studying in lower classes. A daughter was married into a wealthy family. It seemed as though his life had turned out very well, but his economic situation was still a cause for concern. His expenses had outstripped his income. He had had to sell off around a thousand rupees’ worth of his family’s assets, and on top of that he was always worried about being in debt to the bank for something or the other. Nor did he have any credit in the market. Sometimes it got so bad that he had to avoid the market streets. And now he constantly regretted his youthful lack of foresight. The feeling of service to the nation was still strong in his heart but he observed that he did all the work and the lawyers and the merchants got all the credit. He was still considered a junior partner. Even though the entire city knew that he was the spirit of the public life, it was a fact that none ever expressed this. These were the reasons why Ishwarchandra began to hate his editorship. Day by day, his enthusiasm waned, but he could come up with no way to escape this prison. His work possessed no vitality, nor did his writing have any force. His indifference peeked from the pages of both his newspaper and his magazine. He had turned over all the work to his assistants. He worked very little. True, both publications were now well-established so there was no discernible drop in subscriptions. He was living off his reputation.
But in this age of conflict and struggle it was impossible to remain indifferent. Several competitors rose to challenge Gaurav and their fresh energy stole a march over it. Its share of the market began to dry up. The public welcomed the competition gladly. They began to grow. Even though they had the same beliefs, the same writers and the same topics, the newcomers brought new life to the old issues. And seeing their energy, Ishwarchandra was also excited to give one more push to his stalled car, but not only did he lack energy, there was no one around to lend him a hand. His eyes looked around helplessly until they were resigned. Oh! I spent my entire life doing social work, I ploughed and tended to my fields, paid no heed to whether it was night or day, I burnt in the sun, I was drenched in the rains, and after all of this effort, when it is time to harvest, I don’t even have the strength to carry my sickle. Other people who were nowhere to be seen at the time are now filling their granaries with grain while I stand like a fool. He had total confidence that if he had an enthusiastic youth working under him, Gaurav could still defeat its competitors. He still had a large following in high society; the circumstances were in his favour. All he needed was fresh blood. He could not find anyone more suited to this task than his eldest son. He was also interested in this line of work, but his fear of Manaki’s anger made him bite his tongue. Two years passed without him raising the issue, and things had come to a head: Either he would have to throw in the towel with Gaurav or he would have to commit himself to returning it to its prior status.
