by Premchand
Razia was no longer a dependent woman. She lived off her earnings.
She had a pair of sturdy bulls. She did not merely give them fodder; she also fed them two rotis every day and would stroke them for hours. Sometimes she would place her head on their shoulder and weep, saying, ‘And I tell you, you two are all that I have—you are my sons as well as my husband. My honour is in your hands now.’
The bulls probably understood Razia’s language and emotions, but they were not human beings. Lowering their heads, they would keep licking Razia’s hands to console her. When they saw her, they would look at her with a lot of fondness in their eyes; they would swing their shoulders happily, allowing her to yoke them together, and would work very hard for her. Those who have looked after bulls and loved them wholeheartedly can alone understand this.
Razia was the chaudhurain of the village now. Earlier her mind was always searching for an anchor and she could not develop freely. But now, as she came out of the shadow, she improved and matured.
One day, after Razia returned home, a man told her, ‘Did you not hear, chaudhurain, that Ramu is very ill? I heard that he has been unable to eat for ten days.’
Razia said with an air of indifference, ‘Is it an ague?’
‘No, it is not an ague. It is some other disease. He was lying on a cot outside the house. I asked, “How are you, Ramuji?” and he started crying. He is in bad shape. There is not a penny in the house for him to get medicines. Dasi has a son now. She never tried working before, and now that she has a child how can she go to work? All the blame is on Ramu’s head. And she keeps demanding ornaments and clothes—she is still a new bride!’
Stepping into her house, Razia said, ‘One has to suffer for one’s actions.’
But she didn’t feel at ease inside. She was out in a moment. Probably she wanted to ask the man something in a way that would not reveal her concern.
But the man had left. Razia looked for him everywhere, but he was not to be found. She sat on the threshold and remembered her words from three years ago when she had decided to leave Ramu’s house. At that time, she had cursed him out of jealousy. Now, there was no heartburn. Time had calmed her down. The miserable plight of Ramu and Dasi did not evoke envy any more; they deserved mercy.
She thought that if Ramu had not been able to eat anything for ten days, then certainly his situation was not good. He had never been very stout or healthy; these ten days of fasting must have weakened him further. The farms too must have been neglected. He may not have got adequate food either . . .
A woman from the neighbourhood, who came on the pretext of borrowing fire, asked, ‘Heard that Ramu is very sick. You get what you deserve. One would not turn out one’s enemy as cruelly as he turned you out of his house.’
Razia cut in, ‘No, sister, it was not like that. The poor man had said nothing. Whatever he did was because he was being controlled by Dasi; he never said anything to me on his own. Why should I speak ill of anyone? Which man does not come under the spell of women? Dasi is responsible for the state he is in.’
The neighbour went away without borrowing the fire she had come for. Instead, she turned her face away and left.
Razia picked up an earthen pot and the line to draw water from the well. It was time to feed and water the bulls, but her eyes were fixed on the road that led to Malsa, Ramu’s village. Certainly someone would come to call her. After all, how could she visit him without being asked to? People would say, ‘See! Didn’t she finally come back running?’
But Ramu must be unconscious. Being without food for ten days is not a small matter. What must his body be left with? And then, who would call her? What interest did Dasi have to do so? She could start another family. There would be hundred clients ready. Oh yes, there is someone coming. Yes, someone is coming. He looks like a disturbed soul. Who is this man? I never saw him in Malsa, but then I have not been there for so long. Some new people must have settled down there.
Suddenly a man appeared beside the well. He was possibly a wayfarer. Razia kept the pot down and advanced towards the stranger. She asked, ‘Has Ramu Mahto sent you? All right, come home But I will take some time. I have to feed and water the bulls and light the evening lamp. I will give you money; go and give it to Dasi. Tell her to send word if she needs anything.’
What did this footslogger know of Ramu? He belonged to another village. First, he was surprised, but then he understood. Quietly, he went with Razia.
On the way, Razia asked him, ‘And what is his condition like now?’
The wayfarer speculated and said, ‘He is slightly better.’
‘I hope Dasi is not crying too much?’
‘She didn’t cry.’
‘Why should she cry? She would understand later.’
After the traveller went away after taking the money, Razia fed the bulls. But her mind was preoccupied with Ramu. Fond memories resurfaced like little starlets in her mind. She remembered the time she had fallen ill. It was ten years ago. How he had sat beside her all through the day and night. He had even forgotten to eat and drink. It came to her mind then, why not go and see him? Who will say what? Who would dare to say anything? I am not going to steal. I am going to the man I stayed with for fifteen to twenty years. Dasi would wrinkle up her nose. Let her do so. What do I have to do with her?
Razia latched the door and left the house in the care of a worker. She set off to see Ramu, trembling and hesitating, with the gift of forgiveness.
6
Ramu realized within a few days that the soul of his household had left. He knew that no matter how hard he tried, he could not get his energy back. Dasi was pretty and fashionable, but snobbish. When the first phase of passion died down, the bickering began. The farms started yielding less and whatever there was got squandered away in sundry expenses. Loans had to be taken. It was this worry and sorrow that affected his health. In the beginning, he did not bother much. What could he do by bothering? There was no money in the house. The treatment by quacks led to the disease becoming deep-rooted. Now for ten to twelve days he had been unable to eat or drink. He lay moaning on his cot, waiting for death.
His situation was such that he was certain about his future, so he rested in thoughts of the past like a vehicle that goes into reverse on finding the road ahead blocked. He kept crying, remembering Razia and cursing Dasi, saying, ‘It is because of you alone that I turned her out of the house. With her departure, Goddess Lakshmi too went away. I know that if I call her even now, she would come running, but what face do I have to call her? If she comes just once and I can seek her forgiveness, I will die happy. I have no other desire.’
Just then Razia came in. Placing her palm on his forehead, she asked, ‘How is your health? I came to know about your condition today.’
Ramu looked at her with tearful eyes but could not say anything. He folded his hands to greet her. And that was when his eyes rolled up and his hands remained folded.
7
The corpse was in the house. Razia was weeping but Dasi was worried. There was no money in the house. Wood was needed for the pyre and arrangements had to be made for refreshments for at least those who would shoulder the corpse. And how could the body be taken away without a shroud? It would cost at least ten rupees. But there were not even ten paise in the house. She was scared that she would have to sacrifice her jewellery. The ornaments weren’t even that precious! After all, what capacity did a farmer have? One could perhaps get ten rupees by selling one or two pieces. What else could be done? She called the headman’s son and said, ‘Devarji, how do I cross this hurdle? There is not a soul in the village who would place a jot of trust in me. I have some ornaments. Tell the headman to keep them as security so that we can tide over the crisis today; after that God is our keeper!’
‘Why don’t you ask Razia?’
All at once, Razia came from within, wiping her eyes. Their exchange wafted into her ears. She asked, ‘What is it? What are you discussing? Is this the time to talk; sh
ouldn’t you take the body for cremation?’
‘Yes, of course, that is what we are arranging for.’
‘There wouldn’t be any money here. Everything must have been spent to treat his illness. He has left this wretched one midstream. You run to the other house, Brother. How far is it after all. Take the keys. Tell the worker there to take out fifty rupees from the store. Tell him that it is kept on the top of the stave.’
When he left, Dasi fell to her knees weeping, holding Razia’s feet. Razia’s sisterly words touched her. She saw how kind and forgiving Razia was.
Razia embraced her and said, ‘Why do you cry, Sister? He has gone, but I am still here. Don’t worry about anything. In this very house, both you and I will live in his name. I will look after here as well as there. It is only half a mile away. If anybody asks for your ornaments, don’t give them.’
Dasi felt like banging her head and killing herself. How she had tortured Razia and made her cry, and how she had rested only after turning her out of the house!
Razia asked, ‘Make a list of those whom you owe money to and tell me. I don’t want to maintain any quarrel. Why is the child looking so weak?’
Dasia said, ‘I have no milk in me. The cow you had left behind died. The child does not get milk.’
‘Oh God! The poor thing has wilted! Tomorrow I will get a cow. I will get the entire household here. What is there to hold me back?’
The corpse was taken for cremation amidst a lot of bustle. Razia went with it. She conducted the last rites. There was feasting. It all came to some two hundred rupees. There was no need to borrow any money.
The precious qualities in Dasi too were revealed during this crisis, in this burning flame of sacrifice. The pretty coquette had turned into an icon of service.
8
Today, it has been seven years since Ramu’s death. Razia is looking after the house. She does not consider Dasi to be her co-wife; she considers her a daughter. She ensures Dasi has enough clothes before buying any for her own use. She ensures Dasi eats before she does. Jokhu goes to study now. His engagement is almost final. In their caste, marriages are fixed during childhood.
Dasi said, ‘Sister, what is the need to get ornaments made? My jewellery is all intact.’
Razia replied, ‘No, dear! I will make new ornaments for her. I can still work. When I am tired, do what you want. You are still in the age to wear fine things; you keep your ornaments.’
Nayin Thakur wistfully said, ‘Had Jokhu’s father been here today, things would have been different.’
Razia said, ‘He is not here, but I am. I will do double of what he would have done. When I die, then say Jokhu’s father is no more.’
On the day of the wedding, seeing Dasi weep, Razia said, ‘Bahu, why do you cry? I am still alive. This house is yours. You live as you like. Give me some morsels to eat, that’s it. What else can I do? My husband has died. But yours is still alive.’
Dasi placed her head on Razia’s lap and cried her heart out. ‘Sister, you are like my mother. If you were not here, whose door would I be standing at? Rats would have returned to the house. In his tenure, I had to suffer a lot. The happiness of married life, I enjoyed during your tenure. I am not crying out of sadness; I am crying over God’s kindness towards a hapless one like me; where am I and where is this prosperity!’
Razia smiled as tears rolled down her eyes.
Translated from the Hindi by Anuradha Ghosh
Two Sisters
1
The two sisters met after two years in a relative’s house.
After weeping with excitement, the elder one, Rupkumari, noticed that her younger sister, Ramdulari, was adorned in ornaments from head to toe. Her complexion looked more radiant, her behaviour more dignified and she sounded cleverer in her conversations now. A costly Benaresi sari and a jujube-red, embroidered velvet blouse had further added to her beauty. Rupkumari wondered whether she was the same Ramdulari, who looked so unkempt in her childhood and would boisterously play around with her dishevelled hair. Rupkumari had last seen her two years ago, on the day of her wedding. Even then, there had been no significant change in her appearance. Although she had grown taller, but she was as lean, idiotic and muddle-headed as ever. She would get upset at petty things. But today, she looked different, radiant—as though a flower had blossomed. Where had she concealed this beauty all this time? No, maybe it was just illusory—not genuine beauty, but rather the power of attracting others’ gaze through one’s dress and ornaments. Merely wearing silk, velvet and gold ornaments cannot make one beautiful. Still, it pleased the eyes. Many women had gathered there, but none of them could exude such an attractive and magical appeal.
If a mirror were nearby, Rupkumari would have certainly appraised herself in it. No doubt, she had seen herself in the mirror just before leaving home and tried her best to beautify herself as much as she could. But now, unable to conjure a clear image of her own embellished face, she was becoming impatient to catch a glimpse of herself again. Now, she would compare her beauty with Ramdulari’s and try to unravel the mystery behind the latter’s allure. Though she carried a small mirror in her make-up kit, she was not in the habit of using it or beautifying herself in front of others, lest the women misunderstand her. There must be a mirror somewhere, and definitely so in the drawing room. She went into the drawing room and saw her reflection in the life-size mirror there. There was no one in the room at that time. The men were out in the courtyard, and the women were busy singing. She minutely scrutinized each part of her body. She could not spot a single blemish either on her face or in her entire form. But the former freshness, the seductive attraction and the loveliness was missing. Surely, it was absent. She could not delude herself. But what was the reason for this unfortunate lack? Perhaps Ramdulari’s youth had just blossomed whereas her own had withered a long time ago. But this thought could not pacify the conflict in her mind. She could not live eclipsed thus by Ramdulari. Men are such blockheads! None among them has the ability to assess true beauty. They are just after youthful flatteries and overexcitement. They fail to see, despite having eyes. What have these to do with real beauty? Beauty is nine days’ wonder. True beauty transcends time.
If Ramdulari were to dress up in Rupkumari’s clothes, all the magic of her beauty would disappear. She would look like a hideous witch. Who could make these foolish men understand all this? But the family that Ramdulari had married into was not very well off. Indeed, the clothes and jewellery that had come from her in-laws at the time of the wedding was very disappointing. Besides, there was nothing that could have indicated or assured her future happiness. Her father-in-law was a public attorney of a state, while the groom was merely studying in a college. So from where could she have found such a windfall during these last two years that could explain her prosperity? Who knows—maybe she had borrowed the jewellery from someone? And she might have borrowed her clothes as well. Some women have the habit of pretending to be richer and better off than they really are. Let such pretensions remain with Ramdulari. I am better off the way I am.
The fever of fashion is increasing every day. There may not be sufficient food to eat at home, with the husband earning no more than twenty-five to thirty rupees from quill driving, but the wife comes out of her home, all dressed up, as if she were some princess. She would bear the complaints of tailors and cloth dealers, the frowns and volleys of angry words hurled by her husband, she would weep or become annoyed—but nothing would dissuade her from continuing to make a fashion statement. Even family members might be laughing at her pretentious ways, but she was clearly too unashamed and stood unmoved by any such criticism. No matter how much one laughed at her, she was far too shameless to give any heed to it. She just aimed at attracting men whenever she appeared in the public. Ramdulari must have borrowed her jewels and dress from someone, the shameless woman that she is!
Now Rupkumari’s sense of self-respect brightened her face. So what if she had no jewels and good clothes; she ne
ed not hang her head in shame in front of anyone. She need not hide her face from anyone. Her real treasures were her two sons. May God bless them with long lives! Her happiness lay in their welfare. Merely having good food and good clothes for oneself is not the main source of fulfilment in one’s life. No doubt she came from a poor family, but they were well respected; they were not unjust to anyone, nor did anybody curse them.
She went out again into the veranda after cheering herself up in this manner. Once she was there, she noticed Ramdulari looking at her with pity.
Ramdulari asked, ‘Has your husband been promoted, sister, or is he still rotting on seventy-five rupees?’
Rupkumari’s heart was on fire. ‘Such pride!’ she whispered to herself, as if Ramdulari’s own husband was a lord. She retorted arrogantly, ‘Of course he got a promotion! He is now in the hundred-rupee grade. One should be thankful for this. These days, even people who have qualified MAs can hardly get a job. Your husband must be pursuing his BA, is he not?
Ramdulari snorted and said, ‘He left his studies, sister! Further education would’ve only marred his prospects. He works as an agent in a company and earns two hundred and fifty rupees per month, along with some commission. He also gets five rupees per day as travelling expenditure. In a way, his income is roughly five hundred rupees every month. He spends almost a hundred and fifty rupees on his own self, sister. A person in such a high position has to maintain a suitable standard of life. Out of the remaining amount of three hundred and fifty rupees, I get a hundred for my personal expenditures, and the household is managed smoothly from the remaining two hundred and fifty rupees. What would have he done by passing his MA examination?’
