by Premchand
Soon, Budh’s house could be seen. Doctor Sahib breathed a sigh of relief. He went to the door and banged the latch hard. From inside a dog answered raucously but no human word was heard. He banged the door harder and the dog became louder; the old lady woke up.
She said, ‘Who is breaking down the door so late in the night?’
‘It’s me, I was here a little while ago.’
The old lady recognized the voice; she understood that some calamity had befallen someone in the family, otherwise why would he come so late. But Budh hadn’t cast the spell yet, how had it taken effect? When she had tried to reason he wouldn’t listen. Now they were properly caught. She got up, lit an oil lamp and came out with it.
‘Is Budh Chaudhuri asleep? Please can you wake him?’ asked Doctor Sahib.
‘No, Babuji, I won’t wake him at this hour, he’ll eat me alive. Even if the Lord Sahib came to see him at night, he wouldn’t get up.’
Doctor Sahib explained the situation briefly and implored her to wake Budh.
Budh came out on his own, and rubbing his eyes, said, ‘Tell me, Babuji, what’s your command?’
Irritated, the old woman said, ‘How come your sleep broke today? If I’d tried to wake you you’d have set upon me.’
The doctor said, ‘I’ve explained the situation to the old lady, you can ask her.’
‘Nothing,’ said the old lady. ‘You put the curse, his servant had taken the money and is now about to die.’
‘The poor woman is dying. Do something to save her!’ said the doctor.
‘That’s a bad thing you’re telling me. Turning back a curse is not easy,’ said Budh.
‘Son, one’s life is at risk, don’t you know? If the curse happens to fall on the one who reverses it, then it might be difficult to survive,’ said his mother.
‘She can only be saved if you save her, please oblige me.’
‘For the sake of another’s life, should one throw away one’s own?’ asked the old woman.
The doctor said, ‘You do this work day and night, you know all the tricks. You can kill and you can bring to life. I never believed in these things but seeing the miracle you pulled off I’m left dumbfounded. You’ve benefited so many people, take pity on that poor old woman.’
Budh seemed to be melting a little, but his mother was much cleverer than him in matters of business. She was afraid he would soften and mess things up. She didn’t give Budh a chance to say anything.
She said, ‘That is all very well but we have children too. We don’t know which way things will go. It will come down on our heads, won’t it? Once your purpose is met you’ll move aside. It’s not a laughing matter to reverse a spell.’
‘Yes, Babuji, it’s a very risky job.’
‘If it’s a very risky job I don’t want it done for free, do I?’
‘How much will you give, fifty or hundred at the most? How long can we live on that?’ said the old woman. ‘Reversing a spell is putting one’s hand in a snake-hole, jumping into fire. Only by God’s grace can a life be saved.’
‘So, mother, I am with you. Say whatever you want. I just have to save that poor woman’s life. We’re losing time on talk here and I don’t know what her condition is like there.’
The old woman said, ‘You’re the one who’s wasting time. You decide the matter and then he’ll go with you. For your sake I’m taking this danger on my head, if it was anyone else I’d refuse outright. I’m drinking poison knowingly, doing you this favour.’
Every second felt as long as a year to Doctor Sahib. He wanted to take Budh with him right away. If she died, what would he mend when he got there? Money was of no account to him at that moment. He was only concerned that Jagiya be saved from the jaws of death. The frenzy of pity had made absolutely insignificant the money for which he used to sacrifice his own necessities and his wife’s desires.
He said, ‘You tell me, what can I say, but whatever you want to say, say quickly.’
The old woman said, ‘Okay, then give us five hundred rupees, the work can’t be done for less.’
Budh, looked at his mother in surprise, and Doctor Sahib felt faint. Dejectedly, he said, ‘That is beyond my capacity. It seems she’s fated to die.’
‘Let it be then,’ said the old woman. ‘It’s not as if we’re burdened by our lives. We took on the responsibility of this work because of your entreaties. Go back to sleep, Budh.’
‘Old mother, don’t be so cruel, only man comes to the help of man.’
Budh said, ‘No, Babuji, I’m prepared in every way to do your work. She said five hundred, you reduce it a bit. But yes, keep the danger in mind.’
The old woman said, ‘Why don’t you go and sleep? If money is dear to him, isn’t your life dear to you? If tomorrow you start spitting blood then nothing can be done. Who will you leave your children to? Do you have anything in the house?’
Hesitating, Doctor Sahib said two hundred and fifty rupees. Budh agreed, the matter was settled, the doctor and he set out for his house. He had never experienced such spiritual happiness before. The man who goes to court and returns having won the lost case could not be happier. He went along with a bounce in his step and kept telling Budh to walk faster. When they got home they found Jagiya at the brink of death. It appeared that her every breath would be her last. His mother and wife were both sitting tearful and hopeless. They gave Budh a desolate look. Doctor Sahib couldn’t stop his tears either. When he bent towards Jagiya a teardrop fell on her withered, yellow face.
The situation had made Budh alert. Putting his hand on the old woman’s body, he said, ‘Babuji, I can’t do a thing now, she’s dying.’
Doctor Sahib said entreatingly, ‘No, Chaudhuri, for God’s sake start your mantra. If her life is saved, I’ll remain your slave for life.’
‘You’re asking me to deliberately eat poison. I didn’t realize that the gods of the spell were so angry right now. They’re sitting inside me and saying, if you snatch away our victim we’ll swallow you.’
‘Get the gods to come around somehow,’ said the doctor.
‘It’s very difficult to get them to come around. Give me five hundred rupees, then she’ll be saved. I’ll have to exert great effort to bring down the curse.’
‘If I give you five hundred rupees, will you save her life?’
‘Yes, I promise.’
Doctor Sahib went like lightning into his room and, returning with a purse of five hundred rupees, placed it before Budh. Budh looked at the purse victoriously. Then he put Jagiya’s head in his lap and began moving his hand over it. He would mutter something and say, ‘Chhoo, chhoo.’ For a second his face became scary and what looked like flames leapt from it. He began to writhe repeatedly. In this condition he sang a song off-key, but his hand remained on Jagiya’s head. At last, after half an hour, like a dying lamp that has been replenished with oil, Jagiya’s eyes opened. Her condition improved slowly. A crow’s cawing was heard and she turned over and sat up.
7
It was seven o’clock and Jagiya was in a sweet slumber. She looked well. Budh had just left with the money. Doctor Sahib’s mother said, ‘Before we knew what was happening, he took off with five hundred rupees.’
The doctor said, ‘Why don’t you say that he brought the dead to life? Is her life not worth even that much?’
‘Check if there are five hundred rupees in the alcove or not.’
‘No, don’t touch that money, let it stay there. She’d taken it to go on pilgrimage, it’ll go towards that end alone.’
‘All this money was in her fate only.’
‘Only five hundred was in her fate, the rest was in mine. Thanks to it I learnt a lesson I won’t forget all my life. You won’t find me tight-fisted over the necessary things any more.’
Translated from the Hindi by Anjum Hasan
A Dhobi’s Honour
1
Bechu Dhobi loved his home and village as much as every man did. He ate simply, often barely half his fill, but h
is village was still far more precious to him than the whole world. Though he had to suffer the abuses of the old peasant women, the honour of being called Bechu Dada by the young wives was also his. He was always invited to every occasion of joy or grief; especially at weddings, his presence was no less essential than that of the bride and the groom themselves. His wife would be ceremonially worshipped inside the house; he would be welcomed graciously at the doorstep. Wearing peshwaz, bells tied to his waist, one hand beating the mridang, one hand on his ear, when he would lustily sing the traditional viraha and bol extempore, along with the troupe of singers and musicians, his eyes would glaze over with pride. Yes, Bechu was quite content with his lot as a washerman. But sometimes, when the atrocities of the zamindar’s men became unbearable, he would long to run away from the village.
Karinda Sahib had four or five peons. Each of them had large families. Bechu had to wash all their clothes for free. He did not have an iron. To iron their clothes he had to beg and plead with the dhobis of other villages. If he ever took back the clothes unironed, he would have to face hell for it. He would be thrashed, have to stand for hours in front of the chaupal, and such abuses would rain down on him that passers-by would cover their ears and women would lower their heads in shame.
It was the month of Jeth. All the nearby ponds and lakes had dried up. Bechu would have to leave for a distant lake while it was still dark. Even there, the dhobis already had their slots fixed. Bechu’s slot fell on the fifth day. He would load his bundle of washing and arrive there long before dawn. But it was not possible to stand in that scorching Jeth sun beyond nine or ten. Even half the load wouldn’t get washed. He would bundle up the unwashed clothes and return home. The simple village folk would listen to his story of woe and quieten down; they would neither abuse him nor beat him up. They too had to work the plough and hoe the fields in that fierce Jeth sun. The soles of their feet, too, were cracked and sore; they knew his pain. But it wasn’t so easy to please Karinda Sahib. His men would forever be standing on Bechu’s head. ‘You don’t bring the clothes for eight-eight days on end,’ they would say grimly. ‘Is this winter or what? Clothes get grimy and smelly with sweat in a day here, and it makes no difference to you.’ Bechu would fold over himself, beg, plead and somehow manage to pacify them.
Once, nine days passed, and their clothes were still not ready. They had been washed but not yet ironed. Finally, helpless, Bechu reached the zamindar’s chaupal with the clothes on the tenth day. Fear had frozen his limbs. As soon as Karinda Sahib saw him, he went red with rage. ‘Why, you rascal, do you want to live in this village or not?’
Bechu put the bundle of clothes down on the wooden platform and said, ‘What to do, Sarkar, there’s no water anywhere—and neither do I have an iron.’
Karinda: ‘Everyone in the world has water except you. There’s no cure left for you except to throw you out of the village. Scoundrel! Fooling the midwife with a bloated stomach—no water, no iron indeed!’
Bechu: ‘Malik, the whole village is yours; if it pleases you, let me stay, if it pleases you, throw me out, but don’t taint me with this accusation. That is a custom common to city dhobis. I have spent a lifetime serving you. But whatever the mistakes and lapses may have been on my part, my intentions have never been bad. If anyone in the village says that I have done such a thing, I will accept my fault.’
It is futile to try and reason with a tyrant. Karinda Sahib abused and cursed him some more. Bechu too pleaded and swore in the name of justice and mercy. The result was that he had to consume turmeric and jaggery for eight days to relieve the pain of the thrashing he received. On the ninth day, somehow or the other, he washed the remaining clothes, collected his belongings and, without a word to anyone, left for Patna in the night. He was deprived of the fortitude necessary to take leave of one’s old customers.
2
When Bechu arrived in the city, it was as if there was already an empty space waiting for him. He only had to take up a room on rent, and things started falling into place. At first he nearly fainted on hearing how much the rent was. In the village, he wouldn’t even get this much for a month’s washing. But when he learnt the rates for washing here, the rent didn’t bite so much. In just one month he had more customers than he could count. There was no dearth of water. He was true to his word, and still free of the ills of city life. Sometimes, the earnings of a single day would exceed what he’d earn in a year back home in the village.
But in just three or four months, the ways of the city began to influence him. Earlier, he used to drink coconut water. Now, he got a bubbly hookah. His feet, once bare, were attired in shoes, and the unpolished grain he was accustomed to began to cause indigestion. Earlier, once in a while, on some festive occasion, he would have a little liquor. Now, to beat exhaustion, he started drinking every day. His wife acquired a taste for ornaments—‘The other dhobins go about all dressed up here, am I any less than them?’ she would say. His boys would get excited every time a peddler came by hawking his wares and run out as soon as they heard ‘Moongfali! Halva!’
Meanwhile, the landlord raised the rent. Even straw and oil cakes were as dear as pearls here. A good bit of his earnings went into feeding the two bulls that carried his load of dirty clothes for washing. So whatever he would have managed to save over several months earlier now vanished. Sometimes, the expenses would mount higher than his earnings, but no means of thrift would come to mind. Eventually, his wife started whisking away his customers’ clothes and renting them out to others on the sly. When Bechu came to know, he was furious. ‘If I hear one more complaint, there’ll be no one worse than me! It was this accusation that forced me to leave the village of my forefathers. Do you want us to be banished from here as well?’
His wife answered, ‘But it is you who can’t do without liquor for even a day. Do I get the money to blow up on myself? And yes, leave something for household expenses before you go, I’m not getting any sweets out of this.’
But gradually, the matter of ethics began to bow its head before necessity. Once, Bechu lay ill with fever for many days. His wife took him to the vaid in a palanquin. The vaid wrote down a prescription. There was no money in the house. Bechu looked at his wife with desperate eyes and asked, ‘What now? Must the medicine be bought?’
‘I’ll do as you say.’
‘Can’t you borrow from someone?’
‘I’ve borrowed from everyone I could; it’s become difficult to walk in the mohalla nowadays. Whom to ask now? What work I can do myself, I do. I can’t cut myself up into pieces and die, can I? A little extra money used to come in, but you put a stop to that too. So what say do I have then? The bulls have been hungry for two days. If I get two rupees, I could feed them.’
‘Fine, do what you wish, but make do somehow. I have now learnt—an honest man cannot make a living in the city.’
From that day on, the ways of other city washermen were followed in his house.
3
A lawyer’s cleric, Munshi Dataram, lived in Bechu’s neighbourhood. Sometimes, during a break, Bechu would go sit with him. It was a matter between neighbours, so no accounts were kept for his washing. Munshiji would always receive Bechu graciously, hand him his chillum to smoke, and if some delicacy had been made at his place, he would have it sent for Bechu’s boys. But yes, he would make sure that these little gestures did not exceed the cost of the washing.
It was summer, the season of marriages. Munshiji had to go for a wedding. He got a long pipe made for his hookah, bought a well-oiled chillum and pointed-toe salimshahi shoes, and borrowed a rug from his lawyer sahib and a gold ring and buttons from his friend. He didn’t have much difficulty procuring all these things. But he was embarrassed to borrow clothes for the wedding. There was no scope for getting new ones stitched. It was no easy matter to get made-to-order breast-pocketed kurtas, silk achkans, tight-ringed chunnatdaar nainsukh pyjamas and a Benarasi turban. These items would cost a handsome amount. Buying silk-bordered dhotis and
a shawl of Kashi silk was also no trivial matter. He kept worrying about all this for days. In the end, he could think of no one other than Bechu to bail him out.
When Bechu came and sat by him in the evening, Munshiji humbly said, ‘Bechu, I have to attend a wedding. I have managed to collect everything else I need, but getting new clothes made is a problem. Money is not a concern; by your good wishes these hands are never empty. The profession is also such that no matter what fee you ask for, it is less; some poor fool or another with a fat purse is always there to fleece. But you know the rush of weddings these days—tailors don’t have a moment’s respite, they charge twice the normal rates, and even then they make you wait for months. If you have any clothes suitable for me, I’ll just borrow them for two or three days and somehow get it over and done with. What does it cost anyone to give an invitation? At the most, they might get it printed. But why don’t people ever consider the fact that the invitees too have to make preparations, overcome so many difficulties? If there was a custom in one’s community that he who sends an invitation must also be the one who arranges for everything necessary for the invitees to attend, then people wouldn’t send out these marriage invitations so thoughtlessly. So tell me, you’ll help me out, won’t you, Bechu?’
Out of obligation, Bechu said, ‘Munshiji, how can I ever refuse you? But the thing is that there are so many weddings these days that customers are also getting impatient for their clothes and sending for them two or three times a day. It shouldn’t happen that while I give you the clothes here, the owner shows up at the door asking for them.’
Munshiji answered, ‘What’s the big deal in delaying delivery for two or three days? You could easily delay them for weeks if you wished—not put them through the furnace yet, not ironed them yet, the washing ghats are shut—you don’t have any dearth of excuses. Won’t you even do this much for your neighbour?’
