by Premchand
Far away, Panditji was fortifying his body on a diet of milk and ghee. His face was flushed with a greatly rejuvenated blood flow and his body too became healthy. The country climate achieved what at one time could not be achieved by cream and butter. Although he was now not as presentable as before, he did become doubly swift and agile. There was no trace of the earlier sloth that was caused by obesity. New life was infused into him.
Winter had begun. Panditji was making preparations for returning home. Meanwhile, the village was struck by plague and three men fell sick. The old Chaudhuri was among them. Their families fled, abandoning them. Abandoning patients suffering from diseases, considered to be a curse of the goddess, was a custom in that village. Saving them was tantamount to confronting the gods, and where could they flee after such confrontation? How could they dare to snatch away God’s chosen ones? They tried to take Panditji along with them but he refused. He decided to stay put in the village and try and save the sick. In such a situation, how could he abandon the man who had pulled him out of the jaws of death? Beneficence had awakened his soul. On the third day, when the old man regained consciousness and found Panditji standing next to him, he said, ‘Sir, why have you come here? The gods have summoned me to them. There is no way I can live any more. Why should you put your own life in danger? Have mercy on me. Leave.’
This had no effect on Panditji. He would go to the three patients by turns and treat their tonsils or tell them stories from the Puranas. There were provisions, utensils and other such things lying about in the houses abandoned by their owners. Panditji used these to concoct potions and feed them. At night, when the patients slept and the entire village felt eerie and haunted, Panditji had visions of ferocious beings. Out of fear, his heartbeat would rise, but his resolve to stay back was not weakened. He had decided that either he would save these men or sacrifice himself for them. When the patients’ condition did not improve even after three days of nursing, Panditji was greatly worried. The town was ten miles away. There were no railways around, the road passed through the wilderness and there was no other transport available. Panditji was also concerned about what might happen to the patients if they were left alone. A hapless Panditji was greatly troubled. Finally, on the fourth day, when dawn was still a quarter of the night away, he left for the city on foot and reached there at about ten in the morning. He had to face great difficulty in obtaining medicines from the hospital, where the authorities were charging obnoxious rates from the rustic villagers for the medicines. Why would they give it to Panditji for free? Addressing his assistant though it was intended for Panditji, the doctor said, ‘The medicine is not ready.’
Panditji pleaded, ‘Sir, I have come from very far. Many people are lying sick. Without the medicine, all of them will perish.’
The assistant replied with irritation, ‘Why are you bothering me? I’ve told you the medicine is not ready, nor can it be prepared in such a hurry.’
Panditji pleaded again, abasing himself, ‘Sir, I am a Brahmin. May God make your children live long. Have mercy. May your glory last long.’
How can a corrupt worker have the quality of mercy? They are vassals to money. The more Panditji pleaded with him, the more annoyed he became. Never in his life had Panditji demeaned himself in this manner. At that moment, he did not have even a dime with him. If he had known that there would be such great difficulty in obtaining the medicine, he would have begged and collected some money from the villagers. Poor Panditji stood there helpless and perturbed, thinking about what he should do now. Suddenly the doctor came out of the bungalow. Panditji leapt and fell at his feet and spoke in a pitiful voice, ‘O friend of the fallen! Three men of my house are sick with the plague. I am very poor, Sir. Please give some medicine.’
The doctor was used to such poor people coming to him every day. Someone falling at his feet or crying and prostrating himself before him was nothing new. If he showed compassion on this scale, then his own worth would be reduced to that of the medicines. Where, then, would all the luxury come from? However evil, though, he was at heart, he did talk sweetly. Pulling back his feet, he said, ‘Where is the patient?’
Panditji told him, ‘They are at home, Sir. How could I get them so far?’
The doctor expressed irritation. ‘The patient is at home and you have come to get the medicine? How funny! How can I prescribe a remedy without seeing the patient?’
Panditji realized his mistake. How could the disease be diagnosed without seeing the patient? But it was not easy to get all the three patients so far. If the villagers helped, palanquins could be arranged. But here he had to accomplish everything on his own strength. There was no hope of getting help from the villagers. Let alone extending any help, they behaved as if they were his enemies. They feared that the rascal was going to invite some calamity by escalating confrontation with the gods. If it had been some other man, they would have killed him long ago. They, however, had developed affection for Panditji, which is why they had spared his life.
Although Panditji did not have the audacity to say anything further after hearing the doctor’s response, he gathered himself and said, ‘Sir, can nothing be done now?’
The doctor informed him, ‘You can’t get medicine from the hospital. I can give some from my own stock but that will be charged.’
Panditji asked, ‘How much will this medicine cost, Sir?’
The doctor told him the price—ten rupees—and added that this medicine would be more beneficial than the one from the hospital. He said, ‘There the medicine is old. The poor go there and get the medicine. Whoever is destined to live lives; whoever is destined to die dies. None of my concern. The medicine I will give you is the real thing.’
Ten rupees! At that moment, ten rupees seemed equivalent to ten lakh rupees to Panditji. Although he was used to spending such amounts every day on hemp and weed, now he was desperate for just a dime. He had no hope of getting credit from anyone. Although it was possible that begging, of course, might get him something, there was no way he could get ten rupees so quickly. For half an hour, he stood there in confusion. He could not think of any way other than begging but he had never had the occasion to beg. Of course, he had collected donations, even thousands on a single round, but this was different. There was a singular pride in collecting donations as a protector of the faith, a servant of the community and a rescuer of Dalits. Accepting donations was a favour done to donors. But here he must stretch out his palm like beggars, must plead and bear insults. Someone might taunt, ‘You are so healthy. Why don’t you labour? Aren’t you ashamed of begging?’ Someone else might say, ‘Go cut some grass. I will give you a good wage.’ Nobody would believe him to be a Brahmin. If only he had his silk coat and his turban with him, or even a saffron scarf, he could pull off an act. He could pretend to be an astrologer and entrap any rich merchant, and he was anyway quite accomplished in that art. But here he had none of this. Even all his clothes had been robbed. If he stood in a field and delivered a delightful speech, then perhaps he would get a few devotees but this did not occur to him at all because when adversity strikes, even the brains get stunted. He could prove the magic of his words from a podium in an ornate enclosure standing in front of a desk decorated with flowers. But who would listen to his speeches when he was in such a terrible condition? People would think it was the gibberish of a madman.
The afternoon, however, was fading. There was no time for much deliberation. If it got late and dusk fell, it would be impossible to return at night. Who knows what might happen to the patients then? He could not wait in that state of indecision any more. There was no way other than begging, no matter how much he was humiliated or how much insult he would have to tolerate.
He reached the marketplace and stood in front of a shop but could not gather enough courage to beg for anything. The shopkeeper asked, ‘What do you want?’
Panditji replied, ‘What’s the going rate for rice?’
At the next shop, however, Panditji turned more
cautious. The trader was seated on a mattress. Panditji stood before him and recited a hymn from the Bhagavad Gita. The rich trader, amazed at his clear intonation and sweet voice, inquired, ‘Where are you from?’
Panditji told him, ‘I have come from Kashi.’
Panditji then proceeded to explain the ten signs of dharma and elaborated so well on the hymn that the trader was captivated. He requested, ‘Sir, please accept my invitation and grace my house with your presence.’
A selfish man would have readily accepted the proposal but returning to the village was a more pressing concern for Panditji. He declined, saying, ‘No, Sir, I do not have the time.’
The trader persisted with his request. ‘Sir, you must grant me at least this much.’
When the trader could not get Panditji to agree to stay, he became pensive and said, ‘Then how may I serve you? Command me. Your voice was not enough to satiate me. Should you arrive here again, bless me with your presence.’
Panditji answered, ‘If you respect me so much, I will surely come.’
He then stood up, his lips having been sealed by hesitation. He thought, The respect and welcome was extended only because I concealed my selfish motives. His eyes will turn away as soon as I express any want. Maybe he will not reject it outright, but there will be no more respect. He descended the steps and stood on the street for a moment, pondering, Where can I go now? Meanwhile, the winter day was fading like the wealth of a debauchee. He was getting frustrated with himself. Unless I beg from somebody, why would anyone give me anything? Does anyone know my heart? Gone are the days when rich men worshipped Brahmins. I must quit the hope that some good man will come and place the money in my hands. He proceeded with slow steps.
Suddenly, the trader called after him, ‘Panditji, please wait.’ Panditji stopped, thinking, Surely he is coming to request me once again to visit his house. Why could he not have brought a one-rupee note? Wonder what he wants from me at home.
But when the trader actually placed a gold coin at his feet, Panditji’s eyes welled up with tears of gratitude, and he said to himself, ‘Really? The world still has real saintly men, otherwise would this earth not sink into the abyss?’ At this moment, even if he had been asked for a litre or two of his own blood for the trader’s well-being, he would have given it gladly. With his throat overwhelmed with happiness, he said, ‘This was not required, Sir! I’m not a monk! I’m your servant.’
The trader replied politely and respectfully, ‘My lord, please accept this. This is not charity, but a gift. Even I can tell a man’s character. Many mendicants, hermits and servants of the nation and the faith keep visiting, but I don’t know why my heart never feels any devotion for them. Getting rid of them becomes my only concern. I sensed from your hesitation that this is not your profession. You are learned and holy but in the midst of a crisis. Accept this lowly gift and bless me.’
7
When Panditji left for the village after collecting the medicines, his heart was jumping with joy, celebration and victory. Even Lord Hanuman would not have been so happy at finding the sanjivani herb. Panditji had never experienced such true happiness. His heart had never felt such lofty emotions.
Very little of the day was left. The sun god was running to the west with unstoppable speed. Was He too running to give medicine to some patient? Running with great speed, He hid behind a hill. Panditji picked up his pace, as if he was determined to catch up with the sun god.
Darkness fell very soon, and a star or two became visible in the sky. The destination was still ten miles away. Just as a housewife, upon seeing dark clouds, rushes to retrieve goods spread out for drying, Leeladhar too started running. He was not scared of travelling alone but of straying from the path because of the darkness. On both sides of the road, he was quickly leaving behind several hamlets. At this hour, Panditji found these villages to be balmy. He noticed the great pleasure with which people were warming themselves around bonfires.
Suddenly, he spotted a dog. God knows where he came from and how he came to be walking on the trail ahead of him. Panditji was startled but in a moment he recognized the dog. He was Moti, the old Chaudhuri’s dog. Panditji said to himself, ‘How has he come out so far from the village today? Does he know that I am coming with medicines and does not want me to lose my way? Who is the knowledgeable one here?’ When he called out ‘Moti’ just once, the dog wagged his tail but did not halt. He did not want to waste time introducing himself. Panditji realized that God was with him and it was He who was protecting him. Now he was confident of reaching home safely.
Panditji reached home just as the clock was about to strike ten.
The illness was not fatal but it was Panditji’s fortune to be of help. Three weeks later, all three patients recovered. Panditji’s fame spread far and wide. He had rescued these men by waging a fierce battle against Yama, the god of death. He had achieved victory even over the gods. He had proved that the impossible could be made possible. He himself was now looked upon as God. People now came from far and wide to see him, but Panditji did not derive as much pleasure from his fame as from seeing the patients walk around in health.
The Chaudhuri said to him, ‘Sir, you truly are God. We could not have survived had you not come here.’
Panditji replied, ‘I didn’t do anything. It is all God’s mercy.’
The Chaudhuri said, ‘Now we will never let you leave. Go get your wife and children also.’
Panditji agreed, ‘Yes, I am of the same opinion. Now I can’t leave you and go from here.’
8
Having found the battlefield vacant, the mullahs had been exercising great influence in the nearby villages. Village after village was converting to Islam. Meanwhile, the Hindu Sabha had also withdrawn. No one was courageous enough to venture this way, though sitting afar, people were firing ammunition at Muslims. How to avenge Panditji’s murder was their gravest concern. Officials were being regularly petitioned that the matter be investigated and the response was always that the assassins had not been traced. The collection for Panditji’s memorial also continued unabated in the meantime.
But this new light left the mullahs pale. A god who could resurrect the dead, who could sacrifice his own life for the welfare of his devotees, had incarnated in the village. This accomplishment, this potion, this miracle was not available to the mullahs. How could vacuous arguments of paradise or fraternity counter such glowing beneficence? Even Panditji was now not the same Panditji who had been arrogant about his caste and learning. He had learned to respect the Shudras and the Bhils. Embracing them did not make Panditji cringe any more. It was only when they had found darkness at home that they had turned to the Islamic light. Now that their own houses were flushed with the light of the sun, why would they need to go elsewhere? Sanatan dharma emerged victorious. Temples were being built in every village and conch shells and bells could be heard at dawn and dusk in these temples. People’s conduct started changing on its own. Panditji did not make anyone pure. Now even the name of the ritual, shuddhi, embarrassed him. He questioned himself, What purification can I accord to them? Let me first purify myself. I cannot insult such pure and sacred souls with the pretence of shuddhi.
This was the mantra that he learned from the Chandals and it was through the power of this mantra that he achieved success in protecting his own religion.
Panditji is still alive, but now he lives with his whole family in that very province, with those very Bhils.
Translated from the Hindi by Vikas Jain
The Lashes of Good Fortune
1
Boys, whether rich or poor, are known to be particularly cheerful. Their playfulness does not depend on wealth or familial circumstances. Nathua’s parents were dead and the orphaned boy was usually found hanging about Rai Bholanath’s gates. Rai Sahib was a compassionate man and, occasionally, he would give Nathua the odd paisa. Enough food was left over in Rai Sahib’s kitchen to fill the stomachs of many orphans like him. Now and then, Nathua was a
lso handed old clothes belonging to the boys in the family. So, even though he was an orphan, Nathua was not unhappy. Rai Sahib had rescued him from the clutches of a Christian. He did not care about the fact that Nathua would get some material comfort and schooling at the Mission; his only concern was that Nathua remain a Hindu. To him, the leftovers of his house were more blessed than the freshly cooked meal at the Mission. Sweeping his many rooms was better than getting schooled by the Christians. He must remain a Hindu, in whichever condition. If he turned Christian he would be lost forever.
Nathua had no other work except for cleaning Rai Sahib’s bungalow. After his meal he played around the whole day. Nathua’s work decided his position in the caste hierarchy and he was assigned a place in the sweeper community. Therefore, the other servants called him an untouchable, a bhangi, but he didn’t mind. The poor boy was not aware of the effects this name could have on him and he saw no harm in being a bhangi. While sweeping, he often found some money or other things on the floor with which he could buy cigarettes. Even as a child he had acquired a taste for tobacco, cigarettes and paan in the company of other servants.
There were many boys and girls in Rai Sahib’s household, for dozens of nieces and nephews lived with him. But he had only one daughter, whose name was Ratna. She was educated at home by two tutors and a British woman who came to teach her English. It was Rai Sahib’s ardent desire that Ratna be accomplished and skilled so that, like the Goddess Laxmi, she would bring prosperity and fortune into her husband’s home. He did not allow Ratna to mingle with the other children. She was given two rooms to herself—one to study in and the other to sleep.
People say that too much affection makes children wilful and naughty. But, in spite of being pampered, Ratna was well behaved and decent. She did not call the servants ‘hey you’ haughtily. She was not even rude to a beggar. She gave money and sweets to Nathua and sometimes also chatted with him. So the servant boy had become quite free and informal with her.
