by Premchand
2
It was nine o’clock at night. The exhausted workers had gone to sleep. Only a few idlers lingered near the Thakur’s doorstep, chatting. Gone were the times and occasions for physical valour. Now there was only talk of legal prowess. How smartly the Thakur had bribed the inspector in a case and come out clean! How very cleverly he had got a copy of a landmark judgement, even after both the clerk and the administrator had said that it could not be attained. Somebody wanted fifty for it, some a hundred. But he had acquired a copy without spending a single paisa! One had to know the ways of the world.
Just then, Gangi reached the well to draw water.
A flicker of light fell on the well. Gangi hid behind the stone platform, awaiting the right moment. The entire village drank the water of this well. No one was forbidden except for these unfortunates.
Gangi’s rebellious heart struck against the traditional restrictions and taboos. Why are they high and we low? Just because they wear a sacred thread around their neck! Each one is more crooked than the other! They are the ones who commit thefts and fraud and file false cases. Only the other day this Thakur stole a sheep from a poor shepherd, slaughtered and devoured it. Gambling goes on round the year in Panditji’s house. And Sahuji adulterates ghee with oil and sells it. They make you do the work but when it comes to wages, every paisa hurts them. How are they any better than us? True, they are better at praising themselves. We don’t go from street to street, proclaiming our worth: ‘We are superior! We are superior!’ If I happen to come to the village they eye me with lust, their heart burns with malice and yet they think that they’re superior!
There was a sound of someone’s footsteps approaching the well. Gangi’s heart started beating fast. If they saw her, the heavens would fall! They’d give her an awful beating.
She picked up the jar and rope and, stooping, quickly moved away and stood under the dark shadows of a tree. Do these people ever feel sorry for others? They thrashed poor Manghu so hard just because he refused to work for them without wages. He kept spitting out blood for months afterwards. And yet they think they’re superior to others!
Two women had come to draw water and were talking to each other.
‘The moment they sit down for food, they order us to get fresh water. No money for an additional jar.’
‘Our few moments of leisure make these men jealous.’
‘Yes, it wouldn’t occur to them to pick up the jar and fetch the water themselves. They merely order us to get the fresh water as if we’re slaves.’
‘If we aren’t slaves then what are we? Don’t you get your food and clothes from them? Somehow or the other you also manage to get ten or five rupees. In what way are slaves any different?’
‘Don’t embarrass me, sister! How I long for a moment’s rest! Had I worked as hard as this in anyone else’s house, I’d have been better off. On top of that they’d have been grateful. Here one may die of working far too much and yet no one has the decency to speak a kind word.’
Once they had filled their jars and left, Gangi stepped out of the shadows and walked up to the well. The idlers had left by then. The Thakur was ready to lock the door and go to sleep in the courtyard. Gangi heaved a sigh of relief. The coast was clear. Even the legendary prince of bygone times who had gone to steal holy water from the gods had not taken as much care and precaution as she was taking.
Softly, Gangi climbed up to the platform of the well. She had never before experienced such a feeling of triumph.
She tied the knot around the jar and quickly looked around, much like a soldier trying to bore a hole into the wall of the enemy’s fort. If caught now, there would be no room for forgiveness or leniency. At last, praying to the gods, she braced herself and lowered the jar into the well.
The pitcher disappeared into the well gently. Not a sound. Quickly Gangi drew up the rope. The jar came up to the mouth of the well. Not even a well-built wrestler could have pulled it faster.
As Gangi bent to retrieve the jar and place it on the platform, the Thakur’s door opened all of a sudden. Not even the mouth of a lion could be more terrifying.
The rope slipped from Gangi’s hand. The pitcher fell with a loud splash into the water below and for some moments the sound reverberated.
The Thakur advanced towards the well, crying out loudly, ‘Who’s that? Who’s that?’
Gangi jumped from the platform and ran away as fast as she could.
When she reached home, she saw Jokhu with the pot to his lips, drinking the same foul water.
Translated from the Hindi by M. Asaduddin
Salvation
1
Dukhi, the cobbler, was sweeping the doorway. His wife, Jhuriya, was plastering the walls of the house with cow dung. Both had just finished their work when Jhuriya said, ‘Go now and request Pandit Baba before he leaves.’
Dukhi said, ‘Yes, I’m going. Where will we make him sit?’
‘We’ll find a string cot from somewhere, right? Get it from the thakurain.’
‘Sometimes you can be very annoying! The Thakur’s family will give us a string cot, indeed! They never give us even fire to light with, and you’re talking of a string cot. If you go to the bathroom and ask for a mug of water, they won’t give it. No one will give us a cot. They aren’t like our cow-dung cakes, wood or chaff, that whoever wants them can take them. Let’s wash our own small cot and use it. It’s the summer season; by the time Baba arrives, it’ll dry.’
‘He won’t sit on our small cot. Haven’t you seen how he lives—such restrictions!’
Dukhi said somewhat anxiously, ‘Yes, that’s right. I’ll make a plate with mahua leaves. That’ll be all right. Even big people eat from leaf plates. They’re pure. Give me the pole, I’ll pluck some leaves.’
‘I’ll make the leaf plate, you go. But we still have to give him some offerings. Shall I place them on my plate?’
‘Don’t even think about it, or our entire effort will be wasted. Baba will throw away the plate. He has a short temper. When he is angry, he doesn’t even spare his wife. Remember, how he beat up his son! The poor boy still goes around with broken arms. Give the offerings on the leaf plate, but you mustn’t touch it. Go to the shop with Jhuri Gond’s daughter to get all the material. See to it that there is a full tray of offerings. Take one ser of wheat flour, half ser of rice, 250 grams of dal, 125 grams of ghee, some salt and turmeric, and place four annas on one side of the plate. In case you don’t find the Gond’s daughter, get Bhurjin to go with you. You don’t touch anything, or else it will be disastrous.
After giving instructions, Dukhi picked up his stick and a huge bundle of grass for Panditji and went to meet him. How could he go to him with a request empty-handed? But what more could he afford as a gift except a bundle of grass? Baba would be greatly displeased if he went to him empty-handed.
2
Pandit Ghasiram was a devout soul. Every morning, he began religious rituals as soon as he woke up. By eight o’clock, he’d be done with the ablutions, and embark upon the activities of daily life. He’d first prepare bhang, then make sandalwood paste and, standing before the mirror, he’d draw the tilak—two horizontal lines of the sandal paste with a round, red dot in between. Thereafter, he’d make circles on his chest and arms with the paste, take out the idols, bathe them, smear them with sandal paste, make offerings of flowers, do the aarti and ring the bells. By ten o’clock he’d finish his puja, strain the bhang and come out. By that time a couple of his disciples would already be waiting at his door. He’d get an immediate reward for his service to God. This was his means of livelihood.
Today, when he came out of his puja room, he saw the cobbler Dukhi waiting for him with a bundle of grass. The minute he saw him, Dukhi prostrated before him, and then stood up with folded hands. Seeing Panditji’s resplendent face, his heart was filled with respect. What a divine figure! A short, rotund man with a bald head, puffy cheeks and a divine glow in his eyes! The red powder and sandalwood paste endowed him with a godlike aur
a. Seeing Dukhi, he said, ‘How come you’re here today, Dukhiya?’
With a bowed head, Dukhi replied, ‘I’m getting my daughter engaged, Maharaj. I wanted to know about some auspicious moment. When will it suit you?’
Ghasi said, ‘I’m not free today. No, I’ll come in the evening.’
‘Maharaj, if you could please make it earlier. Everything’s ready. Where should I keep the grass?’
‘Place it before the cow. Take a broom and sweep the doorway. This sitting room also has not been plastered with cow dung for some time. Do that too. Meanwhile, I’ll have my meal. Then I’ll take some rest and go with you. And yes, chop this piece of wood. Then there are four bundles of dried grass lying in the barn. Get them and keep them in the storehouse.
Dukhi immediately set to work. He swept the doorway and plastered the sitting room with cow dung. By then it was noon. Panditji went to have his meal. Dukhi had not eaten anything since morning. He felt the stab of hunger, but he didn’t have anything to eat and his house was a mile away. If he went home to eat, then Panditji would get angry. Poor fellow! He suppressed his hunger and started chopping the wood. It was a hard trunk with a huge knot in the middle, on which many more like him had already tried their hand. But the trunk was still intact and could withstand many more such attempts. Dukhi was used to cutting grass and taking it to the market. He had no experience of chopping wood. He could cut the grass easily, but here, even though he hit the block with all his might, it made no dent on the wood. The axe bounced. Drenched in sweat and overcome by exhaustion, he sat for a while, panting, and then got up to strike again. His hands felt weak, his feet started trembling, he was unable to stand straight and he felt darkness descend before his eyes. He was dizzy, but he continued working. If only he could get a chillum and some tobacco, he could muster some energy. But where could he get a chillum and tobacco from? Only Brahmins lived in that area. Brahmins do not smoke tobacco like we lowly people do. Suddenly, he remembered that a Gond too lived in that village. He was sure to have tobacco and chillum. He immediately ran to his house. Well, his hard work paid off. The Gond gave him tobacco and a chillum, but there was no fire. Dukhi said, ‘Don’t worry, brother. I’ll ask Panditji for some. They’re still cooking.’
So saying, he left with the tobacco and a chillum. Standing before Panditji’s doorway, he said aloud, ‘Master, could I get some fire to light a chillum?’
Panditji was having his lunch. His wife asked, ‘Who’s this man asking for fire?’
‘Oh, it’s that fool Dukhiya, the cobbler. I told him to chop the wood. We do have fire, give it to him.’
His wife raised her eyebrows and said, ‘You’re so lost in books all the time that you’ve no sense of religion. Anyone can come to our house, be it a cobbler, a washerman or any other low-born man. It’s more like an inn than a Hindu household. Tell him to go to the barber, or I’ll scorch his face with the burning wood. How dare he ask for fire?’
Panditji tried to explain to her, ‘If he has come inside the house, how does it matter? He has not touched anything. The earth is pure. Give him fire; after all, he’s doing our work. If a woodcutter had been hired for the job, he’d have charged at least four annas for the same work.’
His wife roared, ‘But why did he come inside the house?’
Panditji said in a resigned tone, ‘It’s his misfortune, what else!’
‘All right, I’ll give him fire, but if he dares to come inside the house again, I’ll scorch his face.’
Dukhi heard this conversation. He now regretted visiting the pandit. She’s right—how could a cobbler come into a pandit’s house? These people are very pure, that’s why the world respects them. They aren’t mere untouchables like us. I’ve grown up in this village, yet I didn’t understand this!
When Panditji’s wife came out with the fire, he felt as though he had received a blessing from heaven. He folded his hands, touched his head to the ground and said, ‘Mother, I’ve made a big mistake by entering the house. But it is a cobbler’s sense! Had we not been so stupid, we wouldn’t have been kicked around.’
Panditji’s wife was holding the burning wood with tongs. Her face was covered in a veil. She threw the live fire towards Dukhi. A big spark fell on Dukhi’s head. He quickly stepped back and started shaking his head. He said to himself: ‘This is the punishment for polluting a holy Brahmin’s sacred house.’ How promptly God has punished him! This is why the world is so scared of pandits. People steal money, but never a Brahmin’s. If they do, they’ll be ruined; their body parts will begin to rot.
He came out, had his chillum and set to work. The sound of the axe hitting the trunk could be heard.
When the spark fell on Dukhi, the pandit’s wife felt pity for him. When Panditji finished his meal, she asked, ‘Should I give this cobbler something to eat? The poor fellow has been working for a long time. He must be hungry.’
Panditji gave the proposal some thought and asked, ‘Is there any roti left?’
‘Two or three must be left.’
‘What use are two or three? He’s a cobbler, he’ll gobble up a lot of them, you’ll need at least one ser of flour for that much.’
His wife covered her ears and said, ‘Oh God! A ser of flour! Forget it!’
Panditji now said bravely, ‘If there’s some bran in the house, then mix it with flour and make two thick rotis for him. That’ll fill his belly. Fine bread doesn’t quench the hunger of these low-born people. They need coarse bread.’
His wife said, ‘Leave it! Who’s going to take all that trouble in this heat?’
3
Smoking had sent some energy into Dukhi’s hands. For another half an hour, he continued to work the axe. After that, he sat down holding his head, completely exhausted.
Just then the Gond who had given him tobacco came there. He said, ‘Why’re you bent on killing yourself, old man? You won’t be able to chop this knot. You’re trying in vain.’
Dukhi wiped the sweat off his forehead said, ‘I still have to carry a cart full of dried grass, brother.’
‘Did you get something to eat? Or they know only how to get someone to work? Why don’t you go and ask them?’
‘What’re you talking, Chikhuri? Can we digest a Brahmin’s food?’
‘You’ll digest it all right. First, you should get some! He had his lunch, went off to sleep and ordered you to chop the wood. Even a landlord gives something to eat. Even a ruler gives some minimum wages when you’re forced to work. He’s worse than them all and yet pretends to be a holy man!’
‘Softly, brother. If they hear, it’ll be disastrous.’
Saying this, Dukhi took hold of the axe and began to strike the trunk once again. Chikhuri pitied him. He snatched the axe from Dukhi’s hands and for around half an hour worked the axe with all his strength. But there wasn’t even a single crack on the knot. Then he threw away the axe and left, saying, ‘You won’t be able to cut this, even if you give your life.’
Dukhi wondered why the knot was not giving way. There isn’t even a crack. How long can I go on hitting it without making any dent? There’s a lot of work to be done at home, something or the other always crops up that requires one’s presence. But what do they care? Well, let me go and carry the chaff. I’ll tell him—Baba, I couldn’t cut the wood today; I’ll come tomorrow and finish the job.
He picked up a basket and began to carry the chaff. The field was at least two furlongs away from there. Had he filled the basket to the brim, the work would have got over quickly. But who would’ve lifted it then? So, he carried the heap in small quantities. By the time he finished, it was already four o’clock. Panditji woke up. He washed his face and hands, shoved a paan into his mouth and came out. He saw Dukhi sleeping with the basket of chaff on his head. Raising his voice, he said, ‘Hey, Dukhiya, so you’re sleeping, eh! The wood is still intact! What have you been doing all this while? You spent the entire day to carry a fistful of chaff! On top of it, you’re sleeping. Pick up the axe and split
the trunk. You can’t even chop a little piece of wood! And you expect me to pick an auspicious moment for you? Don’t blame me. That is why it is said, the moment a lowly person gets enough to eat he becomes spoilt.’
Dukhi picked up the axe once again. He forgot what he had planned to say. He was starving. He had not eaten anything since morning. He found it difficult to stand up. His heart was sinking, but he reasoned with himself and strove on. He’s a pandit; if he doesn’t think of an auspicious moment, then all will be ruined. That’s why he is held in such esteem. Everything depends on the auspicious moment. It can make or break anyone’s life. Panditji came and stood near the knot and egged him on. ‘Yes, hit it hard, hit it some more, hit harder, oh, hit it with some more power, don’t you have any strength in your hands—hit it, why do you just keep standing there, wondering? Look, it’s about to split! Hit in the crack!’
Dukhi was not in his senses. Some unknown power was making his hands work. As if all that fatigue, hunger, weakness had vanished. He was surprised at his own strength. Every stroke of the axe was like a thunderbolt. He kept on working in that frenzy for another half an hour. So much so that the piece of wood split and the axe fell from Dukhi’s hands. Overpowered by hunger and thirst, his tired body gave way and he collapsed.
Panditji called out, ‘Get up and strike it some more. Cut it into small pieces.’ But Dukhi did not get up. Panditji did not think it right to trouble him any more. He went inside, bathed and came out wearing the pandit’s habit. Dukhi was still lying down. Panditji called out loud, ‘Will you just keep lying here, Dukhi? Come, let’s go to your house. I hope you’ve got all the stuff ready?’
Dukhi still did not get up.
Now Panditji began to have some doubts. As he went close, he saw Dukhi’s body lying stiff. Panicking, he ran back and told his wife, ‘Dukhi seems to have died.’
His wife was shocked and said, ‘Wasn’t he cutting the wood right now?’
