by Premchand
Mother, you are blessed. The devotion you have, the loyalty you possess, is difficult to find even among the gods.
Translated from the Urdu by Shaheen Saba
One and a Quarter Ser of Wheat
1
There was a village where a peasant named Shankar lived. He was simple, honest and poor. He was a straightforward person and did not interfere in anyone’s affairs. He did not know how to manipulate, and never took recourse to duplicity of any kind. He also did not care about being cheated. He had no education. He would eat if there was something to eat, if not he was content to chew cud. If there was nothing to chew he would simply drink water and go to sleep. But when guests arrived he had to leave this path of contentment. Especially if they were sadhus—then he had to worry about worldly affairs. He could have gone to sleep with an empty stomach but could not leave the sadhu hungry. He was truly a devoted soul.
One day a mahatma came and parked himself on his doorstep. His face was majestic; he was wearing a pitambar, a yellow scarf, around his neck, had matted hair on his head, a brass kamandal in hand, wooden slippers on his feet and a pair of spectacles on his face. His whole demeanour was like that of the mahatmas who frequent the houses of nobles, make rounds of temples on aircrafts, and eat delicious food to achieve excellence in yoga. In these times such mahatmas find it difficult to digest coarse wheat. Shankar was anxious about how to feed the mahatma. Finally, he decided to borrow wheat from someone. He couldn’t find wheat flour in the whole village. There were only ordinary people in the village, and no deities, so how would one find divine feed there? Fortunately, he found some wheat in the house of the village priest, a Brahmin. He borrowed one and a quarter ser of wheat grains and asked his wife to grind them. The mahatma ate that and slept soundly. When he got up in the morning he gave them his blessings and was on his way.
The Brahmin collected alms twice a year. Shankar thought, ‘What’s the point in returning one and a quarter ser of wheat? Instead, I will increase his alms. He’ll understand, and I’ll understand.’ In the month of Chait, when the Brahmin arrived to collect his alms Shankar gave him nearly one and a quarter ser of wheat and thought himself free of his debt, and did not mention the matter. The Brahmin also did not ask for it a second time. How did the simple-minded Shankar know that he would have to take birth again to pay off the debt of one and a quarter ser of wheat?
2
Seven years passed. From a priest, the Brahmin became a moneylender, and from a peasant Shankar became a day labourer. Mangal, his younger brother, separated from him to live independently. When they lived together as a joint family, they were peasants. Separated, each one of them became a day labourer. Shankar hoped they would part without bitterness, but he was helpless in the face of the circumstances. The day food was cooked separately, he cried. The two brothers turned into enemies from that day. If one cried, the other would laugh; if there was mourning in one house, the other house would celebrate. The bond of love, of blood, and of milk was snapped. Shankar had built the family honour through hard work and maintained it through his life blood. But his heart now broke to pieces to see it besmirched. He refused to eat food for seven days. He worked right through the day in the scorching sun of Jaishta, and at night he covered his face and went to sleep. The hard work and unbearable pain ate into his vitals. He fell sick and remained bedridden for months. How would he run his family? He now had only half the portion of the five bighas of family land and one ox. How could he maintain himself as a peasant? Eventually, cultivation remained only a means of family honour. For livelihood he had to become a day labourer.
One day, when Shankar was returning from his day’s work the Brahmin stopped him on the way and said, ‘Shankar, come tomorrow to settle the accounts of your loan and interest. You have owed me five and a half maund of wheat for ages, and you show no sign of paying up! What are your intentions?’
Shankar was surprised. ‘When did I borrow five and a half maund of wheat from you ? You forget I don’t owe anyone even a fistful of grains or a single paisa!’
‘It’s because of this nature of yours that you don’t have enough to eat.’ The Brahmin then reminded Shankar of the one and a quarter ser of wheat that he had lent him seven years ago. Shankar was stunned. Oh God, how many times have I given him alms; what work of mine did he ever do? Whenever he came to my house to consult the almanac or tell the auspicious hour for some event, he always took some ‘rewards’. What selfishness is this? One and a quarter ser of grains has now taken on this monstrous proportion—it will gobble me up! If he had given me an inkling I would’ve given him the appropriate measure of wheat as repayment. Was he silent all this while so he could make more out of me? He said, ‘Maharaj, it is true I haven’t given you grains of the exact measure saying that it was to pay off your debt, but several times I have given you alms to the measure of one ser or even two ser. Today you’re asking for five and a half maund! Where can I get that from?’
The Brahmin asserted, ‘Whatever is written in the ledger stands as it is, though the rewards may be hundred fold. Five and a half maund is written against your name in the ledger, you can send anyone to examine the accounts. You pay up and I’ll strike off your name; if you don’t, it will go on increasing.’
Shankar pleaded, ‘Why are you tormenting a poor man like me? I cannot manage two square meals a day, where can I get so much wheat?’
‘You can bring it from wherever you want. I’ll not leave even a fistful of grains. If you don’t pay now, you will have to pay in the hereafter.’
Shankar trembled in fear. If the statement was made to an educated person like us, he would have said, ‘It’s all right, I’ll pay in the hereafter. The measure there would not be greater than here. At least, why should I worry when there’s no proof of the debt?’ But Shankar was neither clever nor argumentative. A debt from a Brahmin . . . if the name remained in the ledger, it meant he would directly go to hell. The mere thought made his hair stand on end. He said, ‘Maharaj, I’ll pay your debt here, why are you bringing God into it? I am being pushed around in this birth, why should I sow a thorn for the next one? But this is no justice. You have made a mountain out of a molehill. Being a Brahmin you should not have done that. If you had asked for it earlier I would have paid up, and this huge burden would not have fallen on me. I will pay up for sure, but you will have to answer before God.’
‘You might be afraid of the hereafter, why should I be? I will have my brothers and friends there. The sages and seers are all Brahmin; God is also Brahmin, whatever the situation is, they will manage it. Now tell me, when are you paying up?’
‘I do not have any in my house. I can pay you only if I borrow from someone.’
‘That does not make me very happy. It has been seven years, now I cannot spare you even a day. If you cannot return the wheat, you have to sign a bond.’
‘I know I have to pay up. You can take the wheat or you can make me sign a bond. What price will you put on the wheat?’
‘The market rate is five sers; I’ll draw the bond at the rate of five and a quarter ser.’
‘If I have to pay, I’ll do it at the market rate. Why should I be blamed for leaving the quarter?’
Sixty rupees was calculated to be the price of the wheat. A bond was drawn out for sixty rupees at a three per cent interest. If not paid within a year the rate of interest would be charged at three and a half per cent. Over and above that, Shankar had to pay eight annas for the stamp paper and one rupee for drawing the document.
The people of the entire village spoke ill of the Brahmin, but not to his face. Everyone needed the moneylender, so no one wanted to rub him the wrong way.
3
Shankar worked hard for one year. He had vowed to pay off the debt before the date was over. No cooking was done before afternoon. They used to live on gram, now they stopped that too. Rotis were made only for their son and that too at night. Shankar used to smoke tobacco worth one rupee earlier—it was his only addictio
n, which he could not do without. Now he had to sacrifice even that for the vow. He threw away the chillum, broke the hookah and smashed the tobacco bowl. He had already given up clothes to a great extent; now he only wore the barest minimum, to simply cover his nakedness. He spent the bone-chilling winter sitting near the fire. His firm resolve bore fruit beyond his expectation. At the end of the year he managed to collect sixty rupees. He had thought he would hand over the money to the Brahmin and say, ‘Maharaj, I shall pay the balance as soon as possible.’ It was just a matter of fifteen rupees. Panditji would surely agree to it. He took the money and gave it to the Brahmin who asked, surprised, ‘Have you borrowed it from somebody?’
‘No, Maharaj. With your blessings I got good wages.’
‘But there are only sixty rupees!’
‘Yes, Maharaj, take this now. The rest I’ll pay in the next two or three months. Please release me.’
‘You’ll be released when you pay every paisa of mine. Go and bring me fifteen rupees.’
‘Maharaj, show me some mercy. I do not have anything to eat in the evening. I live in this village; I’ll pay you sometime in the future.’
‘I do not appreciate these excuses, nor do I care for such glib talk. If you do not pay the entire amount, you will have to pay interest at the rate of three per cent from today. You can keep your money with you or leave it here.’
‘All right. Please keep the amount I’ve brought you. I’ll go and try to manage fifteen rupees from somewhere.’
Shankar tried everyone in the village but no one gave him money. This was not because they did not trust Shankar or they did not have money to lend. It was because no one had the courage to interfere with the Brahmin’s prey.
4
Reaction after an action is a principle of nature. When Shankar could not free himself after the hard work of an entire year his hope turned into despair. He realized that even after undergoing so much hardship if he could not collect more than sixty rupees, he had no other means through which he could earn double the amount. If he had to carry the burden of debt on his head how did it matter whether the burden was big or small? His enthusiasm waned and he began to despise hard work. Hope begets enthusiasm, hope is strength, hope is life. It is hope that moves the world. Devoid of hope, Shankar became listless. The necessities of life that he had ignored the entire year could not be ignored any more. There was a limit to the patches he could stitch on his rags. Now if he got some money, he bought clothes or some foodstuff. He’d smoked tobacco earlier, now he added hemp and weeds to it. He was no longer worried about paying off the loan. He behaved as though he had no debt at all! Earlier, he’d go to work without fail even if he was sick. Now he looked for excuses to shirk work.
Three years passed in this way. The Brahmin did not ask him to pay up even once. Like an expert hunter he wanted to target his prey unawares. To forewarn the prey was against his principle.
One day Panditji called Shankar and showed him the accounts. After deducting the sixty rupees that Shankar had paid earlier, the balance now stood at one hundred and twenty.
‘I can’t pay this much money in this birth, I’ll pay you in my next birth.’
‘I’ll take it right in this birth. If not the principal, you must pay the interest.’
‘I have just one ox, take it. I have a hut, take it. What else do I have?’
‘What shall I do with your ox or hut? You have a lot to give me.’
‘What do I have, Maharaj?’
‘If nothing, you at least have your own self. After all, you go to work for others for wages. I also have to employ labourers for my fields. You can work for me to pay the interest. Whenever it is convenient, you can pay the principal. Honestly, you cannot go to work to other places as long as you haven’t paid my money. You have no property of your own. How can I leave such a huge debt without any security? Who can guarantee that you’ll pay me interest every month? When you couldn’t pay me the interest by working elsewhere, how can you pay the principal?’
‘Maharaj, I’ll work to pay the interest, but what shall I eat?’
‘You have your wife and sons. Will they sit idle? As for me, I’ll give you half a ser of maize every day, and you’ll get one blanket per year. A mirzai, too. What else do you need? It’s true that others give you six annas a day. But I do not require your full services. I am keeping you so that you can pay back the loan.’
Shankar thought deeply for some time. Then he said, ‘That means bonded labour for life!’
‘Call it slavery or labour, I’m not going to leave you as long as you haven’t paid back the loan. If you run away, your son shall pay. Of course, it’s a different matter when you are no more.’
There was no appeal against this decision. Who was there to bail him out? There was no refuge. Where would he run? He started working at the Brahmin’s household from the next day. Just for one and a quarter ser of wheat he had to wear the fetters of slavery on his feet for life. If the poor fellow could derive some consolation it was from the thought that it was the consequence of his deeds in his previous birth. His wife had to do the kind of jobs she had not done earlier. The children had to beg for every morsel. Shankar could do nothing except watch all this helplessly. Like a curse from a God he couldn’t shake off the burden of the wheat grains from his head for the rest of his life.
5
Shankar worked as a bonded labourer for the Brahmin for twenty years before he died. He still had a debt of one hundred and twenty rupees against his name. Panditji did not consider it proper to blame him in the court of God. He was not that unjust or cruel. He grabbed Shankar’s young son. He still works in his house. No one knows when he will be released, or whether he will be released at all. Only God knows.
Dear reader, do not think that this narrative is an imaginary one. It is true. The world is not devoid of such Shankars and such Brahmins.
Translated from the Hindi by M. Asaduddin
The Woman Who Sold Grass
1
Mulia came in with bundles of freshly cut grass, her wheatish complexion flushed and her large intoxicating eyes filled with apprehension. Seeing her, Mahaveer asked, ‘What happened, Mulia, how are you feeling today?’
Mulia didn’t answer, her eyes were teary.
Mahaveer came closer and asked, ‘What happened, why don’t you tell me? Has someone said something? Has mother scolded you? Why are you sad?’
Mulia said, sobbing, ‘Nothing. What could have happened? I’m fine.’
Mahaveer looked at Mulia from head to toe, ‘Are you going to cry in secret? Won’t you tell me?’
Dodging the question, Mulia said, ‘There’s got to be something to tell, what should I say?’
Mulia was a rose in that desert. She had a wheatish complexion, doe-like eyes, an elongated chin, slightly rosy cheeks, long pointed eyelashes and unusually sparkling eyes that clearly reflected a pain, a mute anguish. Who knows how this angel had descended into that home of Chamars! Was her soft, flower-like body made to carry a basket of grass on the head for selling? There were people in the village willing to dance to her tunes, who yearned for a glance from her, who would feel uplifted by even a single word from her but she had been there longer than a year and no one had seen her glance at or talk to these youths. When she stepped out with her grass, it felt as if the light of dawn, dressed in gold, was going past, evenly scattering its rays. Seeing her, some serenaded her, others put their hands to their hearts but Mulia went by silently with her eyes lowered. People would exclaim with amazement, ‘Such pride! And what is special about Mahaveer anyway? He is not in the prime of his life; God knows how she lives with him!’
But that day something had happened which other women of this community might keep secret, but for Mulia it was like a stake through her heart. That morning the fragrance of mango blossoms danced in the breeze, the sky seemed to shower gold on the earth. When, with the basket on her head, Mulia stepped out to cut grass, the rays of the morning sun transformed her dus
ky colour into gold. Suddenly, Chain Singh appeared before her. Mulia wanted to slink away but Chain Singh grabbed her hand and said, ‘Mulia, don’t you feel any pity for me at all?’
Mulia’s flower-like face ignited like a volcano. She wasn’t the least bit afraid and didn’t hesitate for a moment; she put down her basket and said, ‘Leave me or I’ll shout.’ Chain Singh experienced something new that day. What use was beauty and grace in lower-caste women if not to be playthings for the upper castes? He had achieved many such feats but Mulia’s countenance, her anger and pride, shocked him out of his wits. Embarrassed, he let go of her hand. Mulia strode ahead. In the heat of the battle you don’t feel the pain; it’s only later that it hurts. Having walked some distance, Mulia realized how angry and afraid she was, how helpless, and her eyes filled with tears. She tried to hold them back but soon she was sobbing. If she hadn’t been so poor, who would have dared to insult her! She kept crying as she cut the grass. She knew Mahaveer’s temper. If she told him, he’d be out for the Thakur’s blood, and who knows what would happen then! She got goosebumps at the very thought of it. That’s why she didn’t answer Mahaveer’s questions.
2
The next day Mulia did not go to cut grass. Her mother-in-law asked, ‘Why don’t you go? All the others have gone.’
Mulia lowered her head and said, ‘I won’t go alone.’
‘Do you think you’ll be carried off by a tiger?’ her mother-in-law said in a rage.
Mulia bent her head even further and said in a low voice, ‘Everybody teases me.’
