by Premchand
6
Both the acharya and Ratna were desperately in love. Ratna was enamoured of his virtues and he was smitten with her. If Ratna had not crossed his path again, perhaps he would have never known love! But, once met, who can be indifferent to the alluring arms of love? Where is the heart that love cannot win?
Acharya Mahashay was drowned in uncertainty. His heart told him that the moment Ratna discovered his true identity she would turn her face away from him forever. No matter how generous she may be, or how painful she considered the chains of caste, she could not possibly be free of the aversion that would naturally arise towards him. So he did not have the courage to reveal his true self to her. Ah! If it were only a matter of revulsion he would not have hesitated, but the truth would cause her further grief, pain, heartbreak and there was no telling what she might do in the situation. To strengthen the ties of love while keeping her in the dark seemed to him the highest level of deceit. This was insincerity, trickery, villainy, and it was entirely unacceptable by the mores of love. He did not know what to do—he was caught in a terrible dilemma. On the one hand, Rai Sahib’s visits became increasingly frequent and his heart’s desire was reflected in his every word. On the other hand, Ratna began to come less often and this made Rai Sahib’s wish still more evident. Three or four months passed like this. Acharya Mahashay would think, He whipped me and turned me out of the house for lying on Ratna’s bed for a few moments. When he finds out that I am the same orphan, untouchable, homeless boy, how much more anguish, self-mortification, humiliation, remorse and dismay it would cause him! How overcome would he be with remorse and the agony of a vain hope!
One day Rai Sahib said, ‘We should set a date for the wedding. During this auspicious period I want to be free of the debt of a daughter.’
‘What date?’ asked Acharya Mahashay, though he understood perfectly what Rai Sahib was talking about.
‘Of Ratna’s wedding. I don’t care for matching horoscopes but the ceremony should be held at an auspicious time.’
The acharya kept his eyes glued to the ground and said nothing.
‘You are familiar with my situation. I have nothing to give except my daughter. For whom should I have saved when I have no one else besides her?’
Acharya Mahashay was lost in thought.
‘You know Ratna well. There is no need to praise her to you. Worthy or not, you must accept her.’
Acharya Mahashay’s eyes overflowed.
‘I firmly believe that God brought you here only for her. I pray to Him to bless you with a happy life. Nothing would make me happier. After fulfilling this duty I intend to spend my time in devotion to God, the rewards of which will also come to you.’
The acharya said in a choked voice, ‘Sir, you are like my father but I am not at all worthy of this.’
Rai Sahib embraced him. ‘Son, you possess all the virtues. You shine like a jewel in this society. It is a great honour for me to have you as my son-in-law. I will go now and see to setting the date and other things and inform you about them tomorrow.’
Rai Sahib stood up to go. The acharya wanted to say something but he did not have the opportunity or, shall we say, the courage to say it. His spirit was not so strong; nor did he have the power to bear Rai Sahib’s loathing.
7
It had been one month since the wedding. Ratna’s advent had lit up her husband’s home and sanctified his heart. The lotus had blossomed in the sea.
It was night. Acharya Mahashay was lying down after his dinner—on the very bed that had caused him to be driven out of this house. The bed that had changed the wheel of his fortune.
For a month he had been searching for an opening to tell Ratna the truth. His soul refused to accept that his good fortune was the reward of his own virtues. He strove to dissolve the metal of his person in the furnace of truth to determine its real worth. But he could never find the occasion because as the moment he set his eyes on Ratna he became spellbound. Who goes to a garden to cry; a small, dark room suffices for that.
Just then Ratna came smiling into the room. The light of the lamp dimmed.
The acharya smiled and asked, ‘Shall I put out the lamp?’
Ratna answered, ‘Why, are you feeling shy?’
‘Yes, actually I am.’
‘Because I won you over?’
‘No, because I deceived you.’
‘You do not have the power to deceive.’
‘You don’t know that. I’ve kept a huge secret from you.’
Ratna: ‘I know everything.’
‘Do you know who I am?’
‘Yes, I’ve known for a long time. When both of us played in this garden, when I’d hit you and you would cry . . . I’d give you my half-eaten sweets and you jumped on them . . . I’ve loved you since then. Of course, at that time it was expressed as kindness.’
The acharya was astounded. ‘Ratna, you knew and still—’
‘Yes, because I knew. I probably wouldn’t have otherwise.’
‘This is that same bed.’
‘And I’ve come into the bargain with it.’
The acharya embraced her and said, ‘You are the Goddess of forgiveness!’
Ratna replied, ‘I am your handmaid.’
‘Does Rai Sahib also know the truth?’
‘No, he doesn’t. And don’t ever tell him or he will kill himself.’
‘I still remember those whip lashes.’
‘My father has nothing left now with which to atone for that. Are you still not satisfied?’
Translated from the Hindi by Meenakshi F. Paul
From Both Sides
1
Pandit Shyamswaroop was a young lawyer from Patna. He was not like the jaded young lawyers of today who are seen in smart circles, and whose physical and intellectual abilities, and visible and secret strengths seem to be concentrated on their tongues. No, our Panditji was not one of those young men who had grown old mentally. He was full of life and vigour. Although frugal with his words, his heart and mind pulsed with vitality and his hands and feet were all the more active. Once he settled on a course of action he remained steadfast. Another noteworthy quality that he possessed was that he did not take up too many tasks at one time. Those who put their fingers into many pies do not achieve anything. Stupid people might expect a fellow who is a secretary of a dozen committees and the president of half a dozen societies to do something really worthwhile. No sensible person would expect much of such an individual. All his energy and ability would be dissipated in empty talk.
Panditji understood this very well. He started a small organization for the untouchables and devoted a small part of his income and time to this noble cause. In the evenings he returned from his office, took some snacks, picked up his bicycle and went off to the villages adjoining the town. There he was seen conversing with the Chamars or chatting with the Doms about their culture in their colloquial dialects. He had no qualms in taking their children in his arms and showing them affection. On Sundays or any other holiday, he organized magic shows. Within a year, his interest in their welfare and constant companionship had led to considerable improvements in the lives of the untouchables of the region. Eating the flesh of dead animals stopped completely; and alcoholism, though not completely eradicated, was on the decline. In fact, the sundry unpleasant incidents caused by drunkenness had definitely reduced—much to the chagrin of Hamid Khan, the police inspector.
Panditji’s kindness strengthened his bond of fellowship with the untouchables. There were around three hundred wards in his district and the number of people from upper castes was no less than six thousand. With all of them, he shared a warm, fraternal bond. He joined them in their wedding celebrations and accepted offerings according to the custom. If a conflict arose, the complaint was often taken to him. It was impossible for Panditji to hear about someone’s sickness and not visit him to inquire after his health. He had some knowledge of indigenous medicine. He personally attended to the sick and even offered money
, if needed. Most often, his affection and sympathy would suffice. Such occasions didn’t require money as much as an urge for community service. His firm commitment and constant efforts brought about a radical change in the community within a year. Their homes and huts, their food and clothes, their manners and demeanour, improved very much.
The most important thing to happen was that these people learnt to respect themselves. Some boorish zamindars tried to threaten him but when they found that he was a man on a mission, they backed off. Some nincompoops tried to involve the police in the matter. Hamid Khan, the police inspector, was ready to interfere, but the Doms and the Chamars had nothing to offer him. Panditji’s bond with them strengthened with the passage of time. Finally, a time came when Panditji not only attended the wedding of their chief’s daughter but also shared a meal with them.
2
Pandit Shyamswaroop’s wife was Kolesari Devi. Like most Indian women, she loved her husband deeply. She wasn’t very educated, but living with Panditji helped her develop an awareness of the issues that concerned the nation and culture. She had just one weakness—she didn’t have much patience for people’s comments and opinions. She was not one with a very sharp tongue and she didn’t make a fuss about every little thing. But a snide remark or a sardonic comment left her deeply troubled. She lent a patient ear to whatever was said to her and did not answer back. But she had a habit of nurturing grievances in her mind. Panditji knew about this and refrained from saying anything that would hurt her. He learnt this many years ago when, in the early years of his law practice, his income was meagre and expenses had to be balanced every day.
On the day of sankranti, Kolesari was generous enough to distribute five rupees worth of khichri to the poor. After spending the entire day without work at the court, when Panditji returned home empty-handed, he was annoyed to see the state of things.
He said harshly, ‘I have to wander about and work hard for every single penny and here you are squandering money on unnecessary things. If this is what you wanted to do, you should’ve asked your father to marry you to a king or an emperor.’
Kolesari heard him out silently, her head down. She didn’t retort, complain or shed tears. But she fell sick with fever and liver troubles for six months. Panditji had learnt the lesson of a lifetime.
He returned home after having a meal with Ramphal Chaudhary and, within moments, the news spread all over the town. The next day, Kolesari went to take a dip in the Ganga. It was probably the Somwari Amavas. Women from other well-to-do families had also come to take a dip. When they saw Kolesari, they began to whisper among themselves and gesture at her. One of them, who appeared to come from a rich family, said to the women next to her, ‘Just take a look at this queen! Her husband goes about breaking bread with the Chamars and she comes to bathe in the Ganga.’
Kolesari overheard this. In fact, it was meant for her ears. Just as the potter’s string pierces the clay, a harsh comment pierces the heart. Kolesari was deeply disturbed. She felt as though someone had driven a sharp knife into her heart. She forgot about the bath in the Ganga, retraced her steps and returned home. It was as if a snake’s poison coursed through her body. She fed Panditji who left for the court. He had received a brief from a rich client that day. Excited at the prospect, he did not pay attention to his wife’s changed mood. In the evening, when he returned home happy, he found her lying in bed with her head covered. He asked her, ‘Kola, why are you lying in bed at this hour? Are you all right?’
Kolesari quickly sat up and said, ‘I’m fine, I was just resting.’
But this answer did not convince Panditji. If she was fine, where was the red of the paan on her lips? Why was her hair dishevelled? Why this forlorn look on her face? Why had she not ordered ice for him? These thoughts ran through Panditji’s mind.
He changed, ate a snack, chatted about his daily affairs, even cracked a couple of jokes. But these mantras did not mitigate the poison of the snake. Kolesari merely shook her head to whatever he said. The poison had shut her ears to everything. It was evening when Panditji went out for a spin. He took his bicycle and set off. But Kolesari’s melancholic face haunted him. That day, there was a wedding of the Pasis in Maajh village. He went there.
The groom’s party had come from a far-off village. They were asking for liquor be served to them; the girl’s people flatly refused to oblige them. The groom’s people also demanded that the women of the community dance at the doorstep to welcome them, as was the custom, and that the drum be beaten. The hosts said they did not follow this practice any more. Panditji’s efforts had brought about a welcome change in Maajh village. The people from the groom’s side were untouched by his influence. When Panditji reached the venue, he explained things to the guests and pacified them.
On such days, he would usually return home by nine or ten at night, as his counselling on such occasions had great impact. But today his heart was not in what he was doing. Kolesari’s forlorn, withered face flashed before his eyes. He kept wondering whether he had said something that pained her. He couldn’t remember any such thing.
‘What is troubling her, then? There must be a reason.’ Troubled by such thoughts, he returned home by seven o’clock.
3
Panditji ate his dinner and went to bed. Kolesari couldn’t eat even a morsel. She was still looking glum. Finally, Panditji asked her, ‘Kola, why are you so sad?’
‘I’m not sad.’
‘Are you all right?’
‘Of course. I’m sitting before you hale and hearty.’
‘I don’t believe you. There must be some reason for your sadness. Don’t I have a right to know?’
‘You are my master. You certainly have the right to know before anyone else.’
‘Then why this veil of secrecy between us? I don’t keep any secrets from you.’
Kolesari lowered her eyes and asked, ‘Do I hide things from you?’
‘So far, you haven’t, but today you’re definitely hiding something from me. Look into my eyes. People say that women can gauge a man’s love in an instant. Probably you haven’t yet understood the depth of my love. Believe me, your melancholic face has made me restless the whole day. If you don’t tell me now, I’ll assume you don’t trust me.’
Kolesari’s eyes filled with tears. She looked at him and said, ‘Will you remove the thorn that rankles my heart?’
Shyamswaroop was stung.
He sat up, filled with all kinds of apprehensions and managed to say tremulously, ‘Kola, you are being unfair to me by asking such a question. I am yours and all that I have is yours. You shouldn’t have any misgivings about me.’
Kolesari realized that she had said something she didn’t mean, so she quickly corrected herself. ‘God knows that I’ve never doubted your love. I asked the question because I thought when you know the reason for my sadness, you might laugh it off. I know that I shouldn’t be saying this. I also know it’ll hurt you deeply to agree to my request. That is why I wanted to hide my feelings from you. I would’ve forgotten all about it in a few months. But your entreaties have forced me to speak up. Do you realize what’ll happen to me when you really believe that I don’t trust you? It is your plea that is forcing me to speak.’
‘Come on, tell me without fear. I can’t bear the suspense any more.’
‘Please stop mixing with the untouchables and eating with them.’
Just as an innocent prisoner, condemned by the judge, lets out a deep sigh, Panditji also heaved a deep sigh in total puzzlement and lay down on his bed silently.
Then he stood up and said, ‘All right. I shall obey your order. My heart will bleed, but let that be. But tell me one thing, is this your idea or has someone put you up to it?’
‘Women mock me. I cannot put up with this. I have no control over their tongues, they can say anything. But I have some rights over you, so I made the request.’
‘All right. What you say will be done.’
‘I have one more request to mak
e. I’ve told you candidly what was in my heart. Men are not as bothered by people’s jibes as women who are weak. Our hearts are weak; harsh comments affect us deeply. But don’t pay attention to this. Don’t be violent to yourself to protect me from people’s taunts. I’ll put up with them. If they hurt me too much, I’ll stop going out and meeting these women.’
Shyamswaroop hugged Kolesari and said, ‘Kola, I can’t take it that you have to listen to people’s taunts because of me. I won’t allow your sensitive heart to be wounded by taunts. Should your heart be filled with pain, where would my love find shelter? Now, cheer up and sing me your favourite song.’
Kolesari’s face lit up with joy. She picked up the harmonium and began to sing in a sweet melodious tone.
Piya milan hai kathin bawri . . .
Love’s union is difficult, O my crazy heart . . .
4
A week passed and Panditji did not visit the villages. It was his life’s mission to form a fraternal bond with the untouchables, to make them aware about their self-worth as human beings and to pull them out of the cesspool of ignorance and superstition. Whenever a spanner was thrown in the works, derailing his hopes, he was sad and distressed.
Human beings enjoy life as long as they feel they are doing something worthwhile. Of course, there are many in this world who do not know what their social or personal responsibilities are. But then it is wrong to call such people humans. Those who become accustomed to doing wrong things cannot refrain from them, even if they know what they are doing is wrong. And if fair means are not available, they take recourse to foul means to get what they want. You may warn or threaten a gambler as much as you want but he won’t give up playing the game. You may throw a drunkard in prison, but the moment he is set free he will rush to the pub. Wicked deeds have their own excitement. But the passion for doing good excites one many times over. His daily chores would keep Panditji occupied through the day but, come evening, when it was time for the activities closer to his heart, he felt restless. He had to be violent to his true self by giving preference to his personal duty over his social responsibility. When he sat alone in the evening in his little garden, he would argue with himself. At times, he became terribly annoyed at his own helplessness and felt like walking up to Kolesari and telling her firmly that he couldn’t sacrifice the good of the community for personal interest.
