Stories on Women

by Premchand

  Irritated, she said, ‘It is better to live in a cage rather than in a big house, for in the cage, the birds live in harmony, while a spacious place befits the dwelling of fierce animals.’

  Perhaps Gurusevak could not catch the drift; he said, ‘I’d feel suffocated in this house. I’ll arrange a spacious house for you in my neighbourhood. You’ll not have to pay any rent, for it belongs to the widow of my employer. I also live in one of her houses. She has hundreds of such houses. All of them are under my charge. It is entirely my discretion to give any of them on rent or for free. I’ll get the best one repaired for you because of my love and respect for you.’

  Rupkumari understood that he was inebriated; that was why he was talking nonsense. On closer inspection, she found his cheeks swollen and his eyes getting smaller. He was stammering as well. She began to loathe his handsome, smart and innocent face which had turned shameless and brazen because of his bragging.

  After a moment, he started babbling again. ‘I respect you a lot, for you are my Badi Bhabhi. I am always at your service. Not only one, but a hundred houses could be at your disposal. I am Mrs Lohia’s attorney. Everything is in my hands—everything! Whatever I say she accepts blindly. She considers me her son. I am the owner of all her property. Mr Lohia employed me for just twenty rupees, just twenty rupees! He was very rich. But no one knew the secret of his wealth except me.

  ‘He was a smuggler. Don’t tell anyone! He sold cocaine secretly and earned lakhs of rupees. I’m doing the same business now. We have our secret agents in every city. Working under Mr Lohia has made me an expert in this business. No one dares arrest me, for I am securely in the good books of all the higher officials. I silence them with bundles of money. No one can utter a word. I sell drugs openly. I write in the accounts that I paid a thousand rupees as a bribe, whereas I had actually paid five hundred only—the rest is for me and my friends. Money is limitless and I spend extravagantly. I am not accountable to anyone. The old woman is engrossed in prayers all the time. After devouring so many mice, the cat is now seeking salvation!’

  Taking a bundle of notes from his pocket, he continued, ‘Take this as my token of love to you and bless me that I should live my whole life in the same luxurious manner. Whoever thinks of the soul and righteousness is eventually abandoned by Kuber, the Lord of wealth. And Lakshmi, the Goddess of wealth, showers her blessings only upon those who renounce their religion and honesty for her sake. Don’t get me wrong. I am not that rich. All the wealthy men are robbers and dacoits. If tomorrow, I get fortunate enough and build a dharmashala, I will be praised and admired by all. Who cares how I earn the money? I can hire any priest to sing my praises. Mr Lohia, who was an unsurpassed sinner, was given the title of Dharmabhushan, the ornament of religion, by priests—those selfish, material worshippers. This hypocrisy rules the day. A lawyer earns five hundred rupees in a half-hour argument, a doctor pockets a thousand rupees by giving a simple injection, and a gambler exacts lakhs in a day. If their income is legal, then mine is too.’

  ‘In my eyes, there is no respect for even the wealthiest of them. I know their tricks. The one who is a master swindler is successful. Becoming rich by robbing poor people is the oldest tradition of our society. I am also doing the same and this is my life’s sole aim. I will rob as much as possible and enjoy limitless wealth and will give large sums of money in charity in my old age, and one day I will become a leader. Should I count how many people have become rich through gambling and trafficking women?’

  Suddenly, Umanath came in and said, ‘Mr Gurusevak, what are you doing? Come and have your tea. It is getting cold.’

  Gurusevak was startled and tried to stabilize himself in order to act normal. But his legs faltered and he fell down. Then he collected himself to stand up, and staggering and stumbling all the while, went out of the room.

  Rupkumari heaved a sigh of relief. She felt suffocated, as if the air in the room was nauseating. The ugliness of the things that had attracted and fascinated her a few days ago were now revealed in their stark reality. The entry of such ideas like selfishness, dishonesty and trickery in her life—till now lived with simplicity, sacrifice and devotion—was akin to the invasion of a herd of bulls into a garden. She did not want worldly pleasures and riches at such a heavy cost. No, not at all. Now she would never compare her fate with that of Ramdulari’s. She was happy with her lot. She pitied Ramdulari as she was selling her soul for material pleasures. But her sister was also helpless and Gurusevak could not be blamed either. Apparently, the fault rested not with them, but rather with society where wealth was worshipped so outrageously, where a person’s worth was assessed by his bank accounts and lavish lifestyle; where temptation ruled at every step, and where base thoughts of jealousy, hate and exploitation were flagrantly encouraged. And it should not surprise one if Ramdulari and Gurusevak too were driven by the same pressures.

  Just then Umanath asked his wife, ‘What was Gurusevak blabbering about? I bade him farewell lest the police may be after him. Otherwise, I too would have been in trouble.’

  Rupkumari replied in an ashamed tone, ‘He was bragging about his smuggling business.’

  ‘He even asked me to meet Mrs Lohia.’

  ‘No, you better stick to your clerkship. We are better off as we are.’

  ‘But a clerkship does not offer such luxuries. Why not take leave for one year and experience the pleasures of Gurusevak’s world?’

  ‘All such luxuries don’t attract me any more.’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Yes, wholeheartedly.’

  After a minute’s silence, Umanath spoke again, ‘Had I told you the same story, would you have believed me or not? Tell me honestly.’

  ‘No, never. I could’ve never imagined that anyone can dispense poison to others in order to benefit himself.’

  ‘I found out the whole story from the sub-inspector. I made Gurusevak drink heavily so that he would vomit the truth himself in his inebriated state.’

  ‘Perhaps you too were tempted.’

  ‘Yes, I was tempted. I still am. But where would I learn the shrewdness required to earn in this business?’

  ‘God forbid you should never learn such skills. I pity that poor man. I don’t know whether he reached home safely.’

  ‘Don’t worry. He left in his own car.’

  Rupkumari stared at the ground for a moment and said, ‘Take me to Ramdulari’s home. I might be of some help to her. The garden of pleasure in which she is strolling in right now is surrounded by demons on all sides. Maybe I can save her.’

  Umanath saw that Rupkumari’s visage was brimming with pity and concern for her sister.

  Translated from the Hindi by Shaifta Ayoub and Kalyanee Rajan

  A Positive Change

  1

  There was a village by the name of Beera in the Patna region. An old, helpless Gond woman known as Bhungi lived there. She didn’t have an inch of land or a home to live in. She only had a parching oven. The villagers were accustomed to having just one meal a day of parched grains or gram flour. That’s why there was always a crowd around Bhungi’s oven. She ate whatever grains she earned from parching the grains of others. Sometimes she ground them and ate the powder. She slept in a corner of the shack beside the oven. She woke up early in the morning to gather dry leaves from all around to light the oven. One always saw a mound of leaves close to the oven. She lit the oven in the afternoon. But on Ekadashi and Poornmasi, the oven was not lit, and on the days when Thakur Veer Singh, the zamindar of the village, ordered her to parch his grains, she had to go to bed hungry. Not only did she have to parch Thakur’s grains free of cost, she also had to fetch water for his household. She lived in his village and, hence, he had the right to extract work from her without payment. This could not be considered injustice. The only injustice was that he never gave her a tip. He felt that if he had to pay her something, then what was the point of unpaid labour? After all, the farmer had the right to make his oxen work the fiel
d the entire day and then tether them to the pole without giving them fodder. And if he did not do that, it was not because of his kindness but because of sheer necessity. Thakur, in principle, was averse to paying wages. He had no concern for Bhungi because she wouldn’t die even if she went hungry for an entire day. Old people did not die so easily; they were adept at giving the slip to the Angel of Death. And, God forbid, even if she chose to kick the bucket then, in her place, another Gond woman could easily be installed at the parching oven.

  2

  It was the month of Chait and was one day before the festival of Sankranti. That day, in Bihar and other districts, people partook of gram flour from newly harvested grains and also gave it away as alms. People had not lit the stoves in their homes. Bhungi’s oven was teeming with people. She didn’t have a moment to spare. She was getting annoyed with customers for showing undue haste and said, ‘I’ve just one pair of hands, not two. And if I don’t parch the grains well, you’ll call me names!’ In the meantime, two big baskets of grains arrived from the thakur’s house with the order to parch them immediately. Bhungi was alarmed. It was already afternoon, and it was difficult to parch all the grains before sunset. If she had had one or two more hours of work, she could have earned enough grains to last the following eight days. But God didn’t show her this much pity. Instead, He sent her these angels of death! Now she had to burn herself at the oven through the night. On top of it, they’d find fault with her for no reason—‘the grains have decreased in amount’, ‘you haven’t parched them enough’, ‘you’ve parched them too hard’, ‘you’ve taken too much time’. She put aside both baskets despairingly.

  The servant warned her, ‘Don’t be late, you’ll regret it.’

  Bhungi replied, ‘You can sit here and wait. When I finish parching, take them along. Chop off my hands if I touch anybody else’s grain before finishing yours.’

  ‘We don’t have permission to sit here, but see to it that they’re roasted by evening.’ Warning her, the servant went away and Bhungi started parching the grains. The other customers raised a clamour: ‘We’ve been waiting for two hours and you haven’t parched our grains. How will we have flour tomorrow?’

  Bhungi said peevishly, ‘What can I do? It’s Thakur’s job. If I don’t do it where will I live? Didn’t you have a tongue in your head? Why didn’t you ask his servants that if they dumped such a huge quantity of grain on me, how could I parch yours?’

  Helpless, people picked up their baskets and walked away. Bhungi became busy in her work with frantic energy. But it was no joke to parch grains weighing about a maund, especially when during the course of the work one had to leave the roasting and rake the embers to keep the oven warm. By late evening she hadn’t finished even half the work. She feared that the zamindar’s servants would be on their way. And as soon as they arrived they’d start abusing her. She became even more frantic. Her gaze was fixed on the doorway while she kept working the oven. The sand cooled down and the grains came up half-parched. Her hands were frozen from working the heavy iron ladle continuously. She didn’t know what to do and began to weep. ‘I don’t know why God has forsaken me! So many people die every day, even death has forgotten me. Those who suffer in this world aren’t shown any mercy in the other world too. Who cares for me? I shed my blood to earn some grains. But Thakur is always after my life, simply because I live in his village. Is this small patch of land worth so much? There are so many plots that lie fallow in the village, so many households that lie deserted. Those lands do not produce kesar, then why should I live under threat all the time? And at the slightest excuse they threaten to dig up my oven and throw me away. If I had somebody to protect me then I wouldn’t have to put up with their threats.’

  She was engrossed in such thoughts when the two servants arrived and asked, ‘Have you roasted the grains?’

  Bhungi said fearlessly, ‘I’m doing it. Can’t you see?’

  ‘The whole day is over and you haven’t yet finished parching the grains? And are you parching the grains or just wasting them! These are just half-parched, how will anyone make flour out of them? Just wait and watch how the thakur deals with you today.’

  The consequence was that the same night the oven was pulled out and the hapless widow was left without shelter.

  3

  Bhungi had no means of livelihood now. With the destruction of the oven the villagers also were much inconvenienced. Many families had to go without food during lunch. The people went to Thakur and pleaded with him to allow Bhungi to run the oven, but he couldn’t care less. ‘She’s a devil and a pig-headed crone. She’ll come to her senses if she has to starve for a couple of days. She has spoilt a sackful of my grains. Must be thinking what harm can I do her! She doesn’t know that it is because of me that she has been living here peacefully.’ Hearing these harsh words from Thakur the people went back to their homes.

  One of them said, ‘Why show his authority to a woman who’s almost dead? He should show it to someone who is his equal.’

  A second one said, ‘All his authority consists of exploiting the poor. He trembles at the sight of the government emissaries; what to speak of his peers. Well, we live in his village. He can treat us the way he likes.’

  Bhungi somehow managed to pass some days. She had earned more grains on the day of Sankranti. When they finished she began to starve. Several people advised her to go to another village and settle down. ‘We’ll go there to build a shack where you can run your oven. You can stay in peace. All zamindars aren’t alike.’ But Bhungi didn’t agree. She had spent fifty years of her difficult life in that village. She had fallen in love with each tree and plant of the village. She knew all the children of the village and they also knew her. The entire village seemed like her house. She had seen many ups and downs in her life in that village. Now, at the very end of her life, she couldn’t sever her connection with it! The mere thought of it seemed to give her pain. She would rather stay and suffer in that village than leave it for the comforts of another.

  An entire month passed in this way. It was early in the morning. Thakur Veer Singh, along with two or three of his servants, was going around collecting taxes. He didn’t trust his agents, and didn’t want to share the customary gifts of money given by tenants to a landlord. Sometimes he’d say, ‘What’s left in being a landlord? After paying off the government and the expenses of the court, one is left with less than ten rupees out of a hundred. We can’t but depend on extra income for all the pomp and show.’ He looked around himself arrogantly, smiled at the greetings of his subjects and walked away. He had great authority and was held in awe by his subjects. Women used to draw their veils and turn away their faces at the sight of him. People sitting on doorsteps stood up in his honour, adjusting their turbans. Some concealed their coconuts from his sight. Wandering around the village with such swagger he walked past Bhungi’s oven. As his gaze fell on the oven he was filled with rage. The oven was being made anew. The old woman was placing heaps of clay on it swiftly. She had probably started working in the dead of the night and wanted to finish it off before sunrise. It was the day of the deity’s worship. As per custom, Bhungi wanted to feed sattu to all the unmarried girls of the village on her chabutara. She always parched grains in her oven on this occasion. She didn’t charge anything for her labour. If the oven was not ready that day how would she parch the grains? If the grains are parched in some other village the deity might get angry and the village might be visited by some calamity. If the thakur got angry, it didn’t matter. The deity must be pleased. If the thakur was displeased the worst he could do was dig up the oven. However, if the deity was displeased, the entire village would suffer. The thakur himself was a devotee of the Goddess; he wouldn’t dare act against her wishes. Even the king is scared of the Goddess, what to speak of Thakur? These thoughts led her to repair the oven. She was so lost in her work that she didn’t realize the presence of the thakur. Suddenly, she heard a voice say, ‘Who gave you permission?’

&n
bsp; Startled, Bhungi looked up to see Thakur standing in front of her. She couldn’t reply.

  Thakur repeated his question, ‘Who gave you permission?’

  Bhungi answered fearlessly, ‘The deity.’

  ‘I’m the owner of this village, not the deity,’ Thakur thundered.

  Bhungi touched her heart with her hands and said, ‘Thakur, don’t utter such words. The deity is the owner of the whole world, what to speak of you and me.’

  Thakur said to his servants, ‘What a cantankerous old woman! She wants to scare me in the name of the deity and lower my status in the eyes of others. Smash her oven.’

  His servants didn’t dare do this. Thakur was now furious. He called his servants all kinds of names, got down from the horse and gave a mighty kick to the oven. The clay was still wet, it flattened out. As he aimed a second kick, the old woman stood right in front of him and it fell on her back. She stumbled to the ground with her face down. Now, she was also angry. She stroked her back with one hand and said, ‘Thakur, if you don’t fear humans at least fear the gods and deities. What will you gain by destroying me thus? Will you dig up gold from this palm-sized land? I’m saying this for your own good. The curse of the poor will harm you. Don’t hurt me so much.’

  Thakur asked, ‘I hope you won’t want to build an oven here again.’

  ‘What will I eat if I don’t build an oven?’

  ‘It is not my responsibility to provide for you. Get out of the village.’

  ‘Why should I go? If a subject ploughs a piece of land for twelve years he becomes a shareholder. I have turned old living in this hut. My father and mother-in-law and their fathers and forefathers all have lived in this very hut. Now only Yamdoot1 can take me away from here.’