by Premchand
This is why I don’t take rupees. Who knows, perhaps it’s the postman’s doing. It’s very likely. He saw me putting the purse in the box. If I’d deposited the money I’d have a whole thousand rupees, it would have been easy to calculate the interest. What should I do? Should I inform the police? It’ll be a needless complication. The people of the whole quarter will crowd at the door. Five or ten people will have to suffer abuses and there’ll be no result. So then, should I stay put and keep calm? How to stay calm! This was no wealth I’d got gratis. If it was ill-gained money I’d say it’s gone the way it came. But every coin I’ve earned with my sweat. Me, who lives so frugally, with so much hardship, who is renowned for his stinginess, cuts corners even on essential household costs—for what? So that I can amass goods for the enjoyment of some swindler? I don’t hate silk, nor is fruit unappetizing, nor does cream give me indigestion, nor is the sight in my eyes dim that I can’t enjoy the pleasures of the theatre and the cinema. I fence in my mind from all sides in order to have a few extra coins so that when they’re needed I don’t have to go begging. I could buy some property, or if not at least have a nice house made. But this is the result of my abstinence—the money made from hard-won effort looted. It’s so unfair that I should be robbed like this in broad daylight and not a hair out of place on the head of that villain. It must be Diwali in his house, celebrations must be on, the whole lot of them must be blowing bugles.
Doctor Sahib started longing for revenge. I’ve never let any fakir, any sadhu, stand at the door. Even though I wanted to, I’ve never invited my friends home; I’ve always stayed away from relatives and associates. For this? If I could find out who he is, I’d kill him with a poisoned injection.
But there’s no remedy. A poor weaver vents his anger on his beard. Even the intelligence bureau is just so in name, they’re not capable of finding out. All their intelligence is expended in political speeches and writing false reports. I ought to go to someone who knows mesmerism; he’ll be able to solve this problem. I’ve heard that in Europe and America robberies are often traced this way. But who is such a master of mesmerism here, and besides, the answers mesmerism gives are not always to be trusted. Like astrologers, they too start taking plunges in the endless ocean of guesswork and conjecture. Some people can divine names too. I’ve never believed in these stories but there’s an element of truth in them for sure, otherwise in this day and age they wouldn’t exist. Even today’s scholars concede that there is something like spiritual power. But even if someone tells me the name, what means do I have at hand to take revenge? Inner knowledge won’t suffice as evidence. Except for the moment’s peace my heart will get, what else is to be gained from this?
Yes, I remember now. That sorcerer who sits near the river—I’ve heard stories about his feats. It seems he can trace stolen money, instantly make the sick well, locate stolen goods and cast spells. I’ve heard praises of that spell—the spell is cast and blood begins to spill from the thief’s mouth. Till he returns the goods, the bleeding won’t stop. If this meets its mark then my heart’s desire is fulfilled. I’ll get the outcome I want. The money is returned to me and the thief is taught a lesson! There’s always a crowd at his place. If he isn’t capable why would so many people congregate there? There is a glow on his face. Today’s educated people don’t have faith in these things, but among the lower classes and the society of the foolish there is a great deal of talk about him. Every day I hear stories about ghosts and spirits. Why don’t I go to this sorcerer? Even if I don’t gain anything what could be the harm? Where five hundred have gone, let two or four rupees more be squandered. The time is right. The crowd will be smaller, I should get going.
3
Having thus made up his mind, Doctor Sahib went towards the sorcerer’s house. It was nine o’clock on a winter’s night. The streets had almost emptied. The sound of the Ramayana being chanted was occasionally heard from the houses. After a while complete silence descended. There were fertile green fields on either side of the road. The wailing of jackals became audible. It seemed the pack was quite near. Doctor Sahib had generally had the good fortune to hear their melodious voices from afar. Not close up. Now, in this silence, to hear their shrieks from so near frightened him. He repeatedly knocked his stick on the ground and stamped his feet. Jackals are cowards; they don’t come near human beings. But then he thought, If any one of them is mad, then his bite will be lethal. As soon as he thought of this the memory of germs, bacteria, Pasteur Institute and Kasuali began whirring in his head. He began to take hurried strides. Suddenly, it occurred to him—What if someone from my own home has taken the money? He immediately stopped but in a moment resolved this too. There’s no harm; in fact, the family should get even harsher punishment. I can have no compassion for the thief, but I have a right to the family’s sympathy. They ought to know that whatever I do, I do for them. If I kill myself day and night it’s for them that I kill myself. If despite this they’re prepared to betray me then who could be more heedless, more ungrateful, more heartless than them? They should be punished severely. So severely, so instructively, that no one ever dares do something like this again.
Eventually he arrived near the sorcerer’s house. The lack of a crowd calmed him. But his pace had slowed down a little. He thought to himself again—If all this turns out to be a complete fraud, I’ll be needlessly shamed. Whoever hears will take me for a fool. Perhaps the sorcerer himself will consider me a fool. But now that I’ve come, let me try this. If nothing else, I’ll have tried it.
The sorcerer’s name was Budh. People called him Chaudhuri. He was a tanner by caste. His house was small and dirty too. The thatch was so low that even stooping one was in danger of knocking one’s head. There was a neem tree by the door. Beneath that an altar. A flag fluttered on the neem tree. On the altar were hundreds of clay elephants painted with sindoor. Several iron-tipped trishuls had been dug into the ground too and looked like they were spurring the sluggish elephants. It was ten o’clock. Budh Chaudhuri, a dark-complexioned, pot-bellied and commanding man, sat on a torn sackcloth drinking from a coconut. A bottle and a glass were before him.
As soon as he saw Doctor Sahib, Budh hid the bottle and, getting up, salaamed him. An old lady brought out a stool for him. With some embarrassment Doctor Sahib laid out the whole incident. Budh said, ‘Huzoor, this is no big deal. Just this Sunday the police inspector’s watch was stolen, several investigations undertaken but nothing found. They called me. I found out as we spoke. I got five rupees as reward. Yesterday the Corporal Sahib’s horse went missing. He was running around in all directions. I gave him the address where the horse was found grazing. Thanks to these skills all the lords and masters trust me.’
The doctor was not interested in this talk about the inspector and the corporal. Whatever they are in the eyes of these illiterates, they are merely an inspector and a corporal. He said, ‘I don’t just want to get to the bottom of the robbery, I also want to punish the thief.’
Budh shut his eyes for a moment, yawned, snapped his fingers, then said, ‘This is the work of somebody from the house.’
The doctor said, ‘It doesn’t matter, whoever it is.’
The old woman said, ‘Later if anything goes amiss, huzoor will think ill of us.’
The doctor said, ‘Don’t you worry about that. I’ve given it a lot of thought. In fact, if this is the mischief of someone from the house then I want to be even stricter with them. If an outsider tricks me then he deserves pardon, but I could never forgive a family member.’
Budh said, ‘So what does huzoor want?’
‘Just that I get my money and misfortune strikes the thief.’
‘Shall I cast the spell?’
The old woman said, ‘No, son, don’t go near the spell. Who knows which way it’ll fall?’
The doctor said, ‘You cast the spell, whatever the fee and reward, I’m willing to pay.’
The old woman said, ‘Son, I’m saying it again. Don’t go after the sp
ell. If something dangerous happens and this same babuji harasses you again, you won’t be able to remedy a thing. Don’t you know how hard it is to reverse the spell?’
Budh said, ‘Yes, Babuji! Think carefully one more time. I could cast the spell, but I don’t take responsibility for undoing it.’
‘Didn’t I just say I won’t ask you to undo it? Cast it now.’
Budh made a long list of the necessary items. The doctor thought it might be better to give him money instead of these things. Budh agreed. As he was leaving, the doctor said, ‘Cast such a spell that by morning the thief is before me with the money.’
‘Don’t you worry,’ Budh said.
4
It was eleven when the doctor took off from there. The winter night was bitterly cold. His wife and mother were both up, on the lookout for him. To while away the time they had put a brazier between them which affected their minds more than their bodies. Coal was an item of luxury for them. The old maid, Jagiya, lay nearby, huddled under a piece of torn matting. Now and again, she would get up and go into her small, dark room, feel around for something in the alcove and then return to lie down in her place. ‘How late is it?’ she’d ask repeatedly. She’d start at the slightest sound and look around her with worried eyes. It surprised everyone that the doctor was not back at his usual time. He rarely went out at night to see patients. Even if some people had faith in his treatment, they dared not enter this alley at night. And he had no taste for cultural clubs and societies, or for the company of friends.
His mother said, ‘I wonder where he went, the food has gone completely cold.’
‘If a person goes somewhere he informs and goes. It’s past midnight,’ said Ahalya.
‘Something must have hindered him. Otherwise, when does he go out of the house?’
Ahalya said, ‘I’m going off to sleep, he can return when he likes. Who’s going to sit and keep watch all night?’
They were talking thus when Doctor Sahib returned. Ahalya stayed where she was; Jagiya stood up and stared at him in fear.
‘Where were you held up for so long today?’ his mother asked.
‘You’re all sitting pretty, aren’t you! I am late but why should you care? Go, sleep happily, I’m not fooled by these superficial demonstrations. If you got the chance you’d cut my throat, and you’re making an issue of this!’
Pained, his mother said, ‘Son! Why do say these hurtful things? Who is your enemy in the house to think ill of you?’
‘I don’t consider anyone my friend; all are my enemies, the destroyers of my life. Otherwise, would five hundred rupees vanish from my table as soon as my back was turned? The door was bolted from outside, no stranger came in, the money disappeared as soon as I put it there. Why should I consider them mine, those who are thus bent on slitting my throat? I’ve found out everything, I’m just returning from a sorcerer. He clearly said it’s the doing of someone in the house. It’s fine—as you sow, so shall you reap. I’ll show you how I’m no well-wisher of my enemies. If it was an outsider I’d perhaps have let him go but if the family for whom I toil day and night deceives me like this, they deserve no leniency. See what shape the thief is in by tomorrow morning. I’ve told the sorcerer to cast the spell. The spell is cast and the thief’s life is at risk.’
Jagiya said agitatedly, ‘Brother, a spell endangers life.’
‘That’s the thief’s punishment.’
‘Which sorcerer has cast it?’ she asked.
‘Budh Chaudhuri.’
‘Arré Ram, there’s no taking down his spells.’
When the doctor went into his room, his mother said, ‘The devil eats the miser’s wealth. Someone scavenged away five hundred rupees. For that amount I could have visited all seven dhaams.’
Ahalya said, ‘For years I’ve been fighting for bangles. Good thing it’s my curse.’
‘Who on earth will take his money in the house?’
‘The doors must have been left open, some outside person made away with it.’
His mother said, ‘How is he so certain that it’s one of us who stole the money?’
‘Greed for money makes a man suspicious,’ said Ahalya.
5
It was one in the morning. Doctor Sahib was having a terrifying dream.
Suddenly, Ahalya came and said, ‘Please come and have a look at what’s happening to Jagiya. It looks like her tongue has gone stiff. She doesn’t say a thing. Her eyes have glazed over.’
The doctor sat up with a start. He peered around for a moment, as if wondering if this too were a dream. Then he said, ‘What did you say? What’s happened to Jagiya?’
Ahalya described Jagiya’s condition again. A faint smile appeared on the doctor’s face.
He said, ‘The thief has been caught. The spell has done its work.’
‘And what if it was someone from the family who’d taken it?’
‘Then they’d be in the same state, they’d learn a lesson for life.’
‘You’d kill in pursuit of five hundred rupees?’
‘Not for five hundred rupees—if need be I can spend five thousand—but just as penalty for deception.’
‘You’re so heartless.’
‘If I cover you in gold from head to foot, you’ll start thinking of me as an angel of goodness, won’t you? I’m so sorry I couldn’t take this testimonial from you.’
Saying this, he went into Jagiya’s room. Her condition was far worse than what Ahalya had described. There was death shadowing her face, her hands and feet had stiffened, and there was no sign of a pulse. His mother was repeatedly splashing water on Jagiya’s face to bring her back to her senses. The doctor was shocked at her condition. He ought to have been pleased with the success of his remedy. Jagiya had stolen the money so there was no need for any more proof. But he had no idea that a spell could work its effect so quickly and was so murderous. He’d wanted to see the thief go down on his knees and moan in agony. His desire for revenge was being more than fulfilled and yet it was a bitter morsel to swallow. Instead of feeling happy, the tragic scene wounded him. In arrogance we exaggerate the extent of our heartlessness and cruelty. What eventually happens is so much more consequential than we think. The idea of the battlefield can be so poetic; the poetry of the battle cry can generate so much heat in us. But seeing the scattered limbs of the crushed corpse, which man does not shudder? Pity is man’s natural virtue.
Apart from this, he had no idea that a frail soul like Jagiya’s would be sacrificed for his rage. He had believed that the blow of his revenge would fall on some spirited person; he even considered his wife and son deserving of this blow. But to kill the dead, to trample on the trampled? He felt this contrary to his natural inclination. This action of Jagiya’s should have been forgiven. One who scrabbled for bread, longed for clothes, the house of whose desires was always dark, whose wishes had never been fulfilled—it’s not surprising if such a person is tempted. He immediately went into the pharmacy, mixed into a new blend all the best medicines effective for reviving a person and poured it down Jagiya’s throat. It had no effect. He brought out a defibrillator and tried bringing her back to consciousness with the help of that. In a little while her
eyes opened.
Looking at the doctor with a scared face, the way a boy looks at his teacher’s stick, she said in a wan voice, ‘Hai Ram, my liver is on fire, take your money, there’s a pot in the alcove, that’s where it is. Don’t roast me on coals. I stole this money to go on pilgrimage. Don’t you have any pity, setting me on fire for a handful of rupees? I didn’t think you such a blackguard. Hai Ram.’
Saying this she fainted again, her pulse died, her lips turned blue and her limbs stiffened.
Looking at Ahalya meekly, the doctor said, ‘I’ve done whatever I could, it’s beyond me now to revive her. How did I know that this accursed spell is so destructive? If it happens to kill her, I’ll have to repent all my life. I’ll never be free of the knocks of conscience. What should I do, my mind isn’t wor
king.’
‘Call the civil surgeon, perhaps he can give her some good medicine. One shouldn’t knowingly push someone else into the fire.’
‘The civil surgeon can’t do much more than what I’ve already done. Her condition is worsening every moment. God knows what mantra that murderer said. His mother kept trying to convince me but in my anger I didn’t pay her any attention.’
His mother said, ‘Son, call the one who’s put the curse. What to do? If she dies, her murder will be on our heads. She’ll torment the family forever.’
6
It was almost two in the morning; a cold wind pricked the bones. The doctor took long strides towards Budh Chaudhuri’s. He looked around uselessly for an ekka or tonga. Budh’s house appeared to be a long way off. He kept feeling that he’d lost his way. I’ve come this way often, I’ve never passed this garden, or seen this letterbox by the road, and the bridge was by no means there. I’m definitely lost. Who should I ask? He was annoyed at his memory and ran in the same direction for a while. Who knows if that wretch will be around at this hour, he must be lying in a drunken stupor. And what if, back home, the poor thing has passed away? He often thought of turning in some other direction but his inner voice didn’t let him move from the straight path.
