Stories on the Village

by Premchand

  Men and women throughout the village shook their heads in wonder on seeing the keenness of her love. At the start, nobody would believe her. They thought she would tire of it after a year or two and would find another way to go on. After all, how long could she pin her hopes on this child? But all these conjectures were proved wrong. Nobody saw Anupa deviating from her aim. Where the waters of selfless love flow, the heart harbours no place for sexual desire. Sexual desire can tempt only those who are heartless, hopeless and without purpose. A thief can do his work in darkness—not in daylight.

  Vasudev too had a passion for physical exercise. He resembled Mathura in his facial features and physique. He started going to the wrestlers’ arena. The tune of his flute would echo in the fields.

  Thirteen years passed. Preparations began for the engagement of Vasudev and Anupa.

  4

  But Anupa was not the same person who had seen a husband in Vasudev fourteen years ago. The wifely emotion had been replaced by maternal love and affection. For days now, Anupa could be seen drowning in deep thought. Her heart was sinking as the day of their engagement neared. Imagining such a drastic change in her life set her heart throbbing. She blushed at the thought of marrying a person she had nurtured as a son.

  The drums were beating at the door. All the relatives had arrived. There was ceremonial singing in the house. It was the day of their engagement. Anupa gathered her courage and told her mother-in-law, ‘Amma, I am dying of embarrassment.’

  Astonished, her mother-in-law asked, ‘Why, daughter? What’s the matter?’

  ‘I don’t want to go through with this engagement.’

  ‘What are you saying, daughter? Preparations have been made. What will people say if they hear this?’

  ‘Let them say what they want, I will continue to live with the same name with which I have been living for fourteen years. I thought that a woman cannot live without a man but God has kept my character unblemished. When my days of youth are over, why should I care? Find a girl for Vasudev and get him engaged. I will bring up his children just the way I brought him up.’

  Translated from the Urdu by Shaifta Ayoub

  Ramleela

  1

  It’s been ages since I went to the Ramleela. Today I laugh at men in short black kurtas, high-hemmed pyjamas and ugly monkey masks running around and whooping: they don’t entertain me any more. The leela at Kashi is world famous. It is said that people come from far-off places to attend it. Even I went with great expectations but found no difference between it and any other leela in a backward village. Yes, the paraphernalia in the Ramnagar leela is good. The masks of the rakshasas and monkeys are of brass, as are the maces; perhaps the crowns of the Nawasi brothers are of gold. But apart from these, it’s the usual hoo-ha and nothing else. Still, people turn up in lakhs.

  But there was a time when even I enjoyed Ramleelas. Enjoy is too slight a word. That enjoyment was no less than obsession. Coincidentally, in those days the Ramleela ground was only a short distance from home and the house where the actors dressed was next to ours. Dressing up the actors began at two in the afternoon. I used to reach there at noon itself and the energy with which I ran small errands is many times more than that with which I run around for my pension. In one room the princess was put into costume. Her body was plastered with yellow paste, her face powdered and then daubed with spots of red, green and blue. The whole forehead, brows, cheeks and legs were similarly coloured. Only one person was skilled at this job. He took turns at grooming all three characters. My work was to bring in pots of water, grind the colours and keep the fan turning. After running these errands, when the chariot rolled out, I sat behind Ramchandra, and oh the elation, the pride, the romance! I don’t get that feeling now, even when I take my seat in the white sahib’s durbar. Once when the home-member of the organizing committee approved one of my suggestions, I felt a similar feeling of elation, pride and romance. Yes, when my eldest son was nominated for the post of chief collector, similar waves of joy passed through me—but then, there is a vast difference between that and the other childlike flippancy. It was like being in heaven.

  It was the day of the Nishad-nauka-leela. I was drawn by a few boys into a game of gilli-danda and didn’t go to see the make-up. The chariot rolled out but I didn’t give up my game. I had to take my wager. Leaving the wager was a sacrifice greater than I could ever make. Had it been a simple matter of drawing a wager, I would have left long ago; but to challenge and tease the opponent is an entirely different matter. Well, the wager was finally completed. If I wanted, I could have dawdled for a little longer; there were a number of opportunities too, but I didn’t avail of them and straightaway ran to the canal. The chariot had just reached the bank. In the distance, I saw the boatman paddling in the barge. I ran but it was difficult to pass through the mass of people. Finally, when with all my strength I parted the crowd and reached the bank, Nishad had already set the barge adrift. I had such faith in Ramchandra! Not worrying about my own studies, I had tutored him so that he would not fail his exams. Although older, he studied in a class lower than me. And that same Ramchandra, who was sitting in the barge, turned his face away, as if he didn’t know me at all. Sometimes the role one plays takes on the character of the person. How can one whose eye is always fixed on his devotees overlook me? Heartbroken, I started jumping like a calf at its first yoking, running towards the canal once, then returning in search of a sympathizer; however, everyone was entranced in their own tune and no one lent a ear to my sobs of grief. I have faced a number of upheavals ever since but nothing so great as the sorrow I felt then.

  I decided that I would never talk to Ramchandra again, never offer him anything to eat; however, as soon as the barge crossed the canal and turned towards the bridge, I ran on board as if it were no matter.

  2

  Well, Ramleela got over. It was already time for the Ascension but for some reason it was being postponed. Perhaps sufficient funds had not been collected. These days no one even asked about Ramchandra. We were neither allowed to go home nor was food arranged for us. A serving of raw grain was sent from Chaudhuri Sahib’s house only at three in the afternoon. For the remainder of the day no one even offered water. In spite of this, my devotion was unwavering. He was still the same Ramchandra in my eyes. If I found any food at home, I took it to Ramchandra. The delight I found in feeding him was greater than that of having eaten myself. When I found a fruit or sweetmeat, I ran passionately to the chaupal. If Ramchandra wasn’t there, I would look all around for him, not resting until he had eaten.

  Well, the day of the Ascension arrived. A large tent was erected on the Ramleela grounds. It was gloriously decorated. A band of prostitutes had also arrived. Ramchandra’s chariot left in the evening and he was offered an aarti at every door. Based on their piety, some people offered currency notes and some coins. My father was in the police: he sought blessings without making an offering. The shame I felt then cannot be expressed. Coincidentally, I had a rupee on me. My uncle had visited us before Dussehra and presented me with this gift. I had saved the rupee but couldn’t spend it even on Dussehra. I immediately placed the rupee on the offertory plate. Father looked at me in anger. He said nothing but the look on his face showed that my audacity had stained his honour. The rounds were completed just before ten. The offertory plate was filled with notes and coins. I can’t say with surety but there must have been four to five hundred rupees on the plate. Chaudhuri Sahib had spent a little more than that. He was concerned that somehow two hundred more rupees should be collected, the easiest means according to him being a performance by the prostitutes. When the men settled down and the mehfil mellowed, Abadijan would grab the patrons’ wrists and make such gestures that the men would be shamed into paying their way out. Abadijan and Chaudhuri Sahib were trying to reach an agreement. Coincidentally, I was listening to these two people converse. Chaudhuri Sahib must have thought: What will this lad understand? But here I was, intelligence personified, and so I
understood the whole story.

  Chaudhuri said, ‘Abadijan, this is high-handedness. This is not our first dealing, is it? God willing, you will always continue to visit here. It’s just that the collections are too little this time, or I would not have pleaded with you like this.’

  Abadi replied, ‘You are trying your landlord tricks on me but you should know that nothing will come of it. Wah! I collect the money and you curl your mustachios! Good way of making money, isn’t it? With this, you will be a king in a few days and zamindari will be a trifle next to that. Why not open a brothel tomorrow! By God, you will swim in money.’

  ‘You are joking . . . I don’t have words.’

  ‘But you bully me as well. I make the likes of you dance on my fingertips.’

  ‘What do you want then?’

  ‘Half the collections will be mine, half yours. Let’s shake on it.’

  ‘So be it.’

  ‘All right, first hand over a hundred rupees. You might start making excuses later.’

  ‘Wah! An advance!’

  ‘And why not? Do you think I’ll let go of my fee? I salute your logic. Wonderful!’

  ‘You’ve set your eyes on double the fee, have you?’

  ‘Oh, rest the thought! These hundred rupees are not going anywhere. Have mad dogs bitten me that I should resort to petty thievery and slip my hand into other people’s pockets?’

  Chaudhuri didn’t stand a chance and had to kneel before Abadi. The dance commenced. Abadijan was extremely enchanting; she was young and pretty. And her coquettish gestures had even me intoxicated. She had a knack for understanding men. Everyone she sat in front of had something to offer. I doubt anyone gave her less than five rupees. She sat in front of father too. I was crushed with shame. When she grabbed his wrist, I cringed. I was convinced that father would push her hand away or even shoo her off but what was this? God! Were my eyes fooling me? Father was laughing through his moustache. I hadn’t seen such a gentle smile on his face before. Desire was dripping from his eyes. Every pore of his body was aroused. God, however, preserved my honour. Look, my father has released his wrist from Abadi’s gentle grasp. Huh! What now? Abadi put her arms around his neck. Now father would definitely thrash her. The witch had no sense of shame.

  A gentleman smiled and said, ‘Your lentils won’t cook here, Abadi. Seek other doors.’

  This gentleman spoke my mind, but I don’t know why father looked at him with distaste and fidgeted with his moustache. He said nothing but the shape of his mouth shouted it out aloud: ‘You merchant, what would you know? Here lives are sacrificed for opportunities such as these. The truth about money! Use it according to your desires. If I can’t pay more than you, I won’t show my face. Great surprise! Oh earth, why didn’t you open up? Sky, why didn’t you part? Why did death not come to me?’

  Father put his hand into his pocket. He took out something, showed it to Sethji and gave it to Abadijan. He looked so proud it seemed as if he had just defiled the grave of Haatim. Here was father, who, when he saw me make an offering of a coin, stared as if he would tear me to bits. Abadijan saluted father with an expansive smile and moved on; I couldn’t sit still any longer. My head was bent with shame. If I had not witnessed this scene, I would have had no issue. I always reported to mother what I heard out of doors. But in this case, I kept the matter hidden. I knew that it would upset her.

  The songs continued through the night. Drumbeats reached my ears. I thought, let’s go and see, but I couldn’t gather my courage. How would I show anyone my face? If anyone mentioned father, what would I do?

  Ramchandra’s farewell was scheduled for the morning. On rising from bed, I rubbed my eyes and ran towards the stage, fearing that Ramchandra had left. When I reached, I saw the cart of the courtesans preparing to depart. A number of men stood around with smiles on their faces. I didn’t raise my eyes. I walked straight to Ramchandra. Lakshman and Sita were crying. Ramchandra, his arms around them, was comforting them. I asked Ramchandra in a quivering tone, ‘Is your farewell over?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘And what a farewell! Chaudhuri Sahib said, “Go on, it’s over.”’

  ‘Didn’t you get money and clothes?’

  ‘Not yet. Chaudhuri Sahib says, “We don’t have any balance right now. Come later and collect your fee.”’

  ‘Nothing at all?’

  ‘Not a penny. He says, “We have saved nothing.” I had thought that if I got some money, I would buy a few books. Nothing! Didn’t even pay our travel expenses. He said, “How far is it? Walk home.”’

  I was so angry I felt like roughing up Chaudhuri Sahib. Money for the prostitutes, everything for the drivers, nothing for poor Ramchandra and his friends! Men who had showered ten, twenty rupees on Abadijan didn’t have even a few annas for them. Even father had spared a coin for Abadijan. Let’s see what he had for Ramchandra. I ran to father. He was getting ready for office. Spotting me, he said, ‘Why are you roaming around? Wandering during your study hours?’

  I said, ‘I went to the stage. Ramchandra was leaving. Chaudhuri Sahib gave him nothing.’

  ‘And why are you worrying yourself about it?’

  ‘How will they go home? They don’t even have money for the journey.’

  ‘Didn’t he give them anything to cover their expenses? That’s very wrong of Chaudhuri Sahib.’

  ‘If you give me two rupees, I will pass it on to them. That might be enough to get them home.’

  Father looked at me sternly and said, ‘Go, read your books. I have no money.’

  Saying this, he sat on his horse. From that day, my respect for father diminished. I stopped caring about his scolding. My heart said, You have no right to advise me. I shrank from his sight. I did exactly the opposite of what he said. Of course, the loss is mine, but then my conscience had been touched by revolutionary ideas.

  I had two annas on me. I took the money and, with great shame, gave it to Ramchandra. The joy he felt on seeing the coins was enough for me. He broke down, as if a long-drawn thirst had been quenched.

  The idols took the two paise and left. Only I remained to assist them out of the hamlet.

  After seeing them off, my eyes were moist but my heart was filled with warmth.

  Translated from the Hindi by Shalim M. Hussain

  1 ‘Munshi Premchand ki Kahani Unki Zubani’ in Zamana (Premchand Number), 1938. Reprinted by National Council for Promotion of Urdu Language, July 2002, p.54.

  2 ‘Premchand ki Afsana Nigari’, Zamana: Premchand Issue, February 1938; rpt. National Council for Promotion of Urdu (New Delhi, 2002), p. 173.

  1 The complete mantra appears later and is translated thus: ‘The eternal, the utmost, the fulfiller of all desires/It is for Ram’s grace that the heart aspires.’ The centrality of this mantra is emphasized in the Urdu version when the narrator refers to it as the only sign of life in Mahadev, who is otherwise described as a ‘moving statue’. He even tries zealously to teach this mantra to the parrot. A few more lines are added in the Urdu version, mildly caricaturing Mahadev as a toothless, bent-backed ‘lone warrior in the battlefield of life’.

  Notes

  A Night in the Month of Poos

  First published in Hindi as ‘Poos ki Raat’ in Madhuri (May 1930), and later included in Mansarovar 1 (1936). Later published in Urdu with the same title and included in Prem Chaleesi (1930). Now available in Kulliyaat-e Premchand 13 (2003).

  The endings of the stories in Urdu and Hindi are radically different from each other. Their implications have been explained in the Introduction to this anthology.

  The Urdu story ends with the following paragraph which is missing in the Hindi one:

  ‘I’ll not pay the rent, I tell you. We till the land to live, not to die.’ ‘Jabra is still sleeping. He never sleeps this much.’

  ‘Go and tell Sahna that the animals have eaten up the crop. We won’t give a paisa.’

  ‘The night was terribly cold.’ ‘What I say and what you hear!’

 
‘You want Sahna to call me names again? What does he care about all this! Whether the animals eat up your crop, fire burns it or the hail kills it, he simply wants his money.’

  ‘Give up tilling, I say! We’ve had enough of it!’

  Halku said despairingly, ‘I too feel the same way, that I should give up working the land. Really, I mean it. But my heart sinks when I think of becoming a day labourer. I’m a farmer’s son, I shan’t be a day labourer. I won’t do anything that will hurt the dignity of the land. Jabra, hey Jabra, will you keep sleeping? Come, let’s go home.’

  Translated from the Urdu by M. Asaduddin

  The Shroud

  First published in Urdu as ‘Kafan’ in Jamia (December 1935). Now available in Urdu in Kulliyaat-e Premchand 14 (2003). In Hindi, it was published in Kafan (1937).

  Idgah

  First published in Urdu as ‘Idgah’ in the anniversary edition of Ismat (1993), and later included in the volume Doodh ki Qeemat (1937). Now available in Urdu in Kulliyaat-e Premchand 14 (2003). In Hindi, it was published in Chand (August 1933), and later in Mansarovar 1 (1936).

  The Funeral Feast

  First published in Hindi as ‘Mritak Bhoj’ in the collection Prerna (January 1932), and subsequently collected in Mansarovar 4 (1939). It was published in Urdu in the collection Zaad-e Raah (1936) as ‘Zaad-e Raah’. Now available in Kulliyaat-e Premchand 13 (2003).

  Titled ‘Zaad-e Raah’ in Urdu and ‘Mritak Bhoj’ in Hindi, there are significant differences between the Urdu and the Hindi versions of ‘The Funeral Feast’. Apart from an additional three or four lines found at the end of the Urdu version, the difference in the name of a character, the varying terms of address and a perceptible difference in the narrative at some points are also worth mentioning.