by Premchand
Buddhu returned home after two months. His hair was long, and he looked as feeble as an old man of sixty. He now had to arrange for money for his pilgrimage. Which moneylender was interested in lending money to a shepherd? One could not rely on sheep. Sometimes an epidemic broke out and an entire flock lay dead in the span of a single night. On top of it, it was the month of Jeth, when there were no earnings from sheep. Finally, an oilman agreed to lend him money at an interest rate of two rupees. In eight months the interest would be equal to the principal amount. Buddhu did not dare borrow money on these terms. During the two months that he had been away, many of his sheep had been stolen. When his children took them out to graze, people from other villages would steal one or two sheep from the flock and later slaughter and eat them. The boys, poor things, couldn’t catch anyone, and even when they saw the thieves, how could they fight them? The entire village ganged up to fight the boys. In a month, the flock had been reduced to less than half. It was a serious crisis. Helpless, Buddhu sent for a butcher and sold the whole flock to him for five hundred rupees. From this he took two hundred rupees and set out on his pilgrimage. The rest of the money was set aside for feeding the Brahmins.
During his absence Buddhu’s house was broken into twice, but by some stroke of luck the family woke up and the money was saved.
6
It was the rainy month of Saavan. Everything had turned green all around. Jhingur had no bullocks now and had rented out his field to share croppers. Buddhu was done with his atonement, and with it had got rid of the trappings of wealth. Neither Jhingur nor Buddhu had anything left to boast about. They had no reason to feel jealous of each other.
The jute mill where Jhingur worked had closed down. He now worked as a labourer at construction sites. A very large rest house for pilgrims was being built.
Thousands of labourers worked there. Every seventh day Jhingur collected his wages and went home, and after spending the night there he would go back to the site the next morning.
Buddhu also reached the same site looking for work. The supervisor thought him too weak for hard work and employed him to carry mortar to the masons. Once when he was carrying a tray on his head to fetch mortar he encountered Jhingur.
‘Ram, Ram,’ they greeted one another and Jhingur filled the tray. Buddhu lifted it up. They went about doing their work for the rest of the day.
In the evening Jhingur asked him, ‘Are you going to cook something?’
‘How can I eat if I don’t?’
‘I munch on something in the morning. In the evening I have some sattu with water. Why fuss!’
‘You can gather some of the wood that’s lying around. I’ve brought some flour from home. I had it ground there—it costs the earth here. I’ll knead it on the rock here. You won’t eat the rotis I prepare; so I’ll just get them ready and you can make them.’
‘But there’s no pan.’
‘Don’t worry about pans. I’ll scour one of these mortar trays.’
The fire was lit, the flour kneaded. Jhingur made his half-baked rotis, Buddhu brought the water. They both ate the rotis with salt and pepper. Then they filled the chillum, lay down on the rocks and smoked.
Buddhu said, ‘I was the one who set fire to your cane field.’
Jhingur said light-heartedly, ‘I know.’
After a little while Jhingur said, ‘I was the one who tied up the calf and Harihar fed it something.’
Buddhu said in the same light-hearted tone, ‘I know.’
Then they went to sleep.
Translated from Urdu by the M. Asaduddin
Babaji’s Feast
There was a sadhu at Ramdhan Ahir’s door.
‘Son, may God bless you; have some regard for the sadhus.’
Ramdhan went inside and told his wife: ‘There’s a sadhu at the door. Let’s give him something.’
His wife was washing the dishes, preoccupied with how to manage dinner. There was not a single grain in the house. Though it was the month of Chait, darkness seemed to have overtaken everything at noon—the harvests had disappeared from the granary. The moneylender took half the share, the other half was grabbed by the landlord’s agent; the earnings from selling the husk were used to pay off the ox merchant. Only a few sieves were left for her family; when threshed, it came to a mere forty kilograms of grains.
Somehow the month of Chait passed. What would happen next . . . what would the bullocks eat? What would the people in the house eat? Only God knows! But there is a sadhu at the door. How can we disappoint him? How will he feel?
The wife said, ‘What shall I offer him? There is hardly anything left in the house.’
‘Take a look at the pot. There may be some grain or flour lying at the bottom.’
‘I cleaned out the pot yesterday to cook the meal. There is absolutely nothing left.’
‘I can’t bring myself to tell him that there is nothing in the house. Go and borrow something from the neighbour.’
‘We haven’t been able to return what we borrowed earlier. How can I ask for more?’
‘You had set aside offerings for the gods; why don’t you get that?’
‘How will we worship the gods, then?’
‘The gods don’t come asking for it. If possible, give the offerings; otherwise don’t.’
‘You think the offerings are in maunds? At most it will be a handful. Won’t other sadhus come after this? One has to say “no” sometime!’
‘At least we can meet this crisis; we’ll see what happens in the future.’
Infuriated, the wife got up and lifted an earthen pot in which there was hardly half a kilogram of flour. That bit of wheat flour had been saved very carefully for the gods. Ramdhan stood thinking for a while; then, he put the flour in a bowl and poured it into the bag of the sadhu.
Taking the flour the good fellow said, ‘Child, this sadhu will stay here today. If you give me some lentils I will cook my meal.’
Ramdhan returned and told his wife about the sadhu’s demand. Incidentally, there were lentils in the house. Ramdhan gave him the lentils and some salt, supplied dried cow dung for the fire and got water from the well. The sadhu prepared his rotis, cooked the lentils, took a potato out of his bag and made mashed potato. When everything was ready he asked Ramdhan, ‘Child, a spoonful of ghee is required as an offering to God; if the food is not sacred how can it be offered?’
Ramdhan said, ‘Babaji, I wonder if we have ghee in the house.’
‘Son, God has blessed you with so much. Don’t say such things.’
‘My Lord, I don’t have a cow or a buffalo. Where shall I get ghee from?’
‘Son, God gives plenty. Just go and ask the mistress of the house.’
Ramdhan went and told his wife, ‘He’s asking for ghee; he came begging but he cannot eat his food without ghee!’
The wife said, ‘Then take some lentils to the shopkeeper and get some ghee for him; when you have done so much why are you grudging him this?’
The ghee came. The good fellow took out a small altar for the god, tinkled the bell and helped himself to the offering. He ate his fill and, stroking his belly, lay down near the threshold. Ramdhan picked up the cup, the plate and the ladle for washing.
There was no proper dinner in Ramdhan’s house that night; they had only lentils and that was what they ate.
As he lay on his bed Ramdhan thought, Even these fellows are better off than me!
Translated from the Hindi by Saroj Kumar Mahananda
The Basis of Life
1
There was not a single young man as well built as Mathura in the whole village. He was around twenty years old. His whiskers were just starting to show. He would take the cows to graze, drink some milk, do his exercises and practise wrestling and then spend the rest of the day roaming around the market playing his flute. He was married but had no children yet. The household had many arable fields to its name. He had many brothers older than him as well as younger. All the brothers worked tog
ether in the fields. The whole family was proud of Mathura. He would get the best food and had to do the minimum amount of work.
Whenever he needed money for undergarments and loincloths, it was given to him immediately. The whole family wanted Mathura to become a great wrestler and beat his competitors in the ring. All this pampering had gone to his head and made him impudent. Not caring about the cows straying into other people’s fields, Mathura would just be busy working out in the wrestling arena. If anyone ever complained, his demeanour would change quickly. In a thundering voice he would say, ‘Do whatever you want.’ No matter what, Mathura would never leave his wrestlers’ arena to look after his cattle and nobody dared to confront him because of his stature. They just pulled long faces.
It was summer. The lakes and ponds had dried up. A severe loo was howling. It just so happened that a bull appeared in the village and consorted with the cows. He would spend his whole day with the cows. But during the night he would enter the village to indulge in all sorts of mischief. He would butt the oxen tied to the stumps with his horns. He would gore a wall under construction or upset a household’s pile of garbage. By day the farmers worked hard to grow vegetables and irrigate their lands, but by night the bull would destroy all the fields. He was beaten with sticks and driven out of the village many times but he kept reappearing. People couldn’t figure out how to solve this problem. The bull couldn’t harm Mathura’s cows as his house was located in the middle of the village. An uproar erupted in the village but Mathura was not bothered at all.
Finally, when matters came to a head, the people surrounded Mathura and said, ‘Brother! Tell us, should we stay in the village or should we leave? What is the use of staying here when our fields are no longer our own? These cows of yours will be the end of us and here you are engrossed in your own world. If God has given you power and strength, you should use it to protect others. You should not grind us up and eat us. The bull comes because of your cows and it’s your duty to chase him away. But you turn a deaf ear as if it’s none of your concern.’
Mathura’s heart bled for them. A strong and powerful person can often have deep sympathies. He said, ‘All right, go, today I will chase away the bull.’
One man said, ‘Chase him away as far as possible, otherwise he will come back again.’
Placing his stick on his shoulder, Mathura replied, ‘Now he will never come back again.’
2
It was a scorching afternoon and Mathura was chasing the bull away. Both were drenched in sweat. The bull kept trying to return to the village. But Mathura, sensing his intention, would not allow him to come back. Every now and then the bull would become mad with anger and turn around to attack Mathura. But Mathura just continued to hit him back with the stick until the bull fled again. Sometimes both ran into the fields of arhar lentils and sometimes they ran into the bushes. Mathura’s feet were now bleeding from running on the arhar stumps. His dhoti had got caught in the bushes and was torn. But Mathura was blind to everything but his task of chasing the bull away. Village after village would come and go. Mathura had decided that he would not rest till he had chased the bull away across the river. His throat became parched and his eyes reddened. Sparks seemed to fly off his body. He was breathless but he did not rest for a moment.
Only after running for over two hours did he catch sight of the river. This was the place where it would be decided who would win and who would lose. It was here that both had to display their fighting skills. The bull thought that if he went into the river, Mathura would surely kill him. He would stake his life on returning to the village. Mathura thought that if the bull returned to the village, all his hard work would be in vain and the whole village would make fun of him. Both were waiting for an opportunity. The bull wanted to run fast, leaving Mathura behind, and return to the village. But Mathura gave him no opportunity to do so. Mathura had put his life on the line. A little mistake could cost him his life, so much so that he would not stand again if his foot slipped. Finally, the human prevailed over the animal. The bull was left with no option but to plunge into the river. Mathura went after him and beat him so much that his lathi broke.
3
Now Mathura was very thirsty. He bent down and began swallowing water as though he was going to drink up the whole river. All his life he had neither liked water much nor drunk so much of it. Now, who knows whether he drank five or ten litres. But the water was warm, so his thirst was not quenched. Again he leaned into the river and drank until there was hardly any space left inside him, even to breathe. Then he put his wet dhoti across his shoulders and started for home.
He had hardly walked five or ten steps when the stomach cramps began. He thought it may have happened because he had run all the way to the river. He thought the pain would subside after some time. But the pain only grew more severe and it became difficult for him to walk further. He sat under a tree. He writhed in pain and rubbed his body against the ground. Restless, he would press his stomach, then stand up and sit down again. But the pain grew worse. In the end he started groaning and crying out, but who was around to pay any attention to his wailing? There was not a single village in sight. Neither man nor animal could be seen. Finally, in the stillness of the afternoon, after much writhing and wailing, Mathura succumbed to death. We can endure the worst mishap but we cannot put up with the slightest change in our daily routine. The giant-like youth who could chase a bull for many miles could not endure an assault of the elements. Who knew that his race with the bull would turn out to be a race to death? Who knew that it was death that was chasing him in the form of a bull? Who knew that water, without which life ceased to exist, would work as poison for him?
In the evening Mathura’s family members started searching for him. When they finally saw him, it seemed as if he were taking an eternal rest.
One month passed. The villagers were preoccupied with their own affairs. After much weeping and wailing, Mathura’s family members consoled themselves. But how could the unfortunate widow stop her tears? The curtains of her eyes may fall but her heart would weep continuously. ‘How can I survive in this house now? For what should I live?’ Only saints or vagabonds can live for themselves. How would Anupa have known this art? She needed a purpose in her life. She wanted a reason that would give meaning to her life and of which she would feel proud. Nobody in the family was willing to get her remarried. They thought it would defame them. But that wasn’t the only reason. The family was even more reluctant to get her remarried because of her skills: she was an expert at housework, clever at bargaining and an admirably beautiful woman. On the other hand, Anupa’s parents were trying their best to match her up with someone. When they succeeded in finding a good household for her, Anupa’s brother came for the ritual farewell, to send her to her second husband’s home.
Panic spread through the whole household. They said, ‘We will not let her leave this house.’ Stubbornly, Anupa’s brother said he would not rest till he saw his sister remarried. Men from the entire village gathered and a panchayat was called. It was decided that Anupa should be given the discretion to choose. She could leave if she desired, or she could continue living in the same house. Her in-laws were sure that Anupa would not agree to remarry so quickly. She had often said so.
But when asked this time, she said she was ready to go. Finally preparations were made for her departure. A palanquin was ready. Women from the whole village came to catch a glimpse of it. Anupa stood up and fell at her mother-in-law’s feet and pleaded with folded hands. She said, ‘Amma! Forgive me if I have hurt you through any of my utterances. My heart yearned to live here forever but God’s will is different.’
She uttered these words and fell silent.
Her mother-in-law was overwhelmed with compassion. She blessed her, ‘Daughter! Stay happy wherever you go. If we had not been ill-fated, nothing would have compelled you to leave this house. God has given us everything. But we are helpless before what He has deprived us of. The whole problem would have
been solved had your brother-in-law been of a suitable age. If your conscience permits, consider him as your own. Nurture and raise him. I will get you engaged to him once he grows up.’ She asked her youngest son, Vasudev, ‘Son! Will you marry your sister-in-law?’
Vasudev was not more than five years old, but he was getting married now. It was already settled. He exclaimed, ‘Then will she not go to that other house?’
‘No, when she’s going to be married to you, why should she go?’
‘Then I will marry her.’
‘All right! Ask her if she will marry you.’
Vasudev went and sat in Anupa’s lap and blushed while asking, ‘Will you marry me?’
And he started giggling. But Anupa’s eyes brimmed with tears. Hugging Vasudev, she asked her mother-in-law, ‘Amma, are you speaking from your heart?’
‘God knows my intention.’
‘Is he mine from today?’
‘Yes, the whole village stands witness to it.’
‘Then tell my brother to return home, I will not accompany him.’
Anupa needed a reason to live and now she had it. Service fills human life with emotions and becomes the reason for living.
Anupa started nurturing Vasudev with devotion. She would massage him with various unguents and oils. She would dip rotis in milk and feed him. Whenever she went to bathe in the pond, she would not only take Vasudev with her but also give him a wash. He would accompany her to the fields. Within a few days he grew so attached to her that he would not leave her even for a second. He even forgot his mother. Anupa was the only one he would ask if he wanted to eat something. If he got beaten in the fields, he would come weeping to Anupa. Only Anupa could make him go to bed and make him rise. When he fell ill, it was only Anupa who would take him to Badlo Ved’s house and make him have the medicines.
