The Complete Short Stories Read online

  Moteram said disapprovingly, ‘This thinking of yours is false. The Jaunpuri imartis cannot compete with Agra’s motichoor and Delhi’s sohan halva.’

  ‘Prove your point.’

  ‘Prove the obvious?’

  ‘This is your foolishness.’

  ‘You’ve only gorged all your life, never known how to savour.’

  At this Chintamani threw his rug at Moteram. Moteram rose to combat and leapt towards Chintamani like an elephant gone berserk, but the crowd present there separated the two mahatmas.

  Translated from the Hindi by Swati Pal

  Black Face

  1

  They were faced with a great famine. Not a drop of rain had fallen for an entire year. Dust flew in the fields. There was neither a grain nor a drop of water. People would pull out the bark of the trees and eat it. Hot winds blew even at night, and it seemed as if the earth was spitting fire in the afternoons. The earth appeared like a volcano. Even people’s hearts had dried up. They would not ask anything from each other. Everyone was trapped in their own misery. Huge groups would gather in temples and mosques. People would weep and howl, but it seemed that it had no impact. It appeared as if there was no mercy left in the heart of the Angel of Death. Day and night, huge crowds gathered in front of the houses of fortune tellers and forecasters. Small urchins would run around naked in the streets singing ditties imploring the Cloud God to send some rain.

  A chemist came up with the bright idea that he could bring rain through a chemical procedure. People donated huge sums of money. Doctor Sahib tried to create a magnetic impact on the skies, but without any luck. Neither did Indra1 melt nor were there any rains, and the public suffered more and more with every passing day.

  2

  Helpless, one day, the people decided that they should plead in the courts of the Muslim and Hindu saints. Their services were required at this critical hour. Thousands of Hindus gathered and sat in front of the hut of Baba Durlabhdas in protest. The Muslim populace gathered at the threshold of Khwaja Rasheed Jalali. Both the saints had compassion for common people. Babaji sent for all the holy people of the country. Khwaja Sahib asked for help from the chosen religious people. Within a week, groups of sadhus and fakirs started pouring in. Never before had one seen such a sanctified and holy atmosphere in the capital. These people were famous for miracles and tricks. The public was positive that even if these saints would only lift their eyebrows, Indra would not dare go against their wishes. One day, Durlabhdas stepped out of the city with his group of saints. It was a magnificent procession. The drum-beaters were mounted on camels that led the procession. Following them were relics and pennants of various kinds. Bells rang and conch shells blew in the rear. There were groups of sadhus. Some were seated on elephants decorated with golden howdahs, some on decorated horses, while some sat on beautiful palanquins. Their disciples walked behind them, with umbrellas in hand, fanning them. A few steps behind this procession was the line of the khwaja. Although they didn’t have this royal glitz, the way they were dressed had the glory of the fakirs. After circling the entire city, the procession reached a high mound. Here these people sat down to plead with God. Some sat cross-legged to meditate while the others started reciting the Ramayana. The devotees of Lord Krishna thought that singing hymns in his praise was more than enough. Some saints started chanting the rosary. Some were engrossed in their pain and some in heavenly pleasures. Three hours went by like this. Millions of people were standing at a distance, watching this sight. On and off, they would look at the sky to see if there was any change in the clouds. The sun had reached its peak by the afternoon. The faces had begun to get redder and not a portion of a cloud was to be seen. Disappointed, people started to get down from the mound. Khwaja Rasheed Jalali called out in a loud voice, ‘Such a state of the country is the result of the injustice of the king. Till the time Raja Sahib does not lament in the durbar of God, this divine wrath will not cease. All of you should go and fall at his feet. You will only attain salvation by his intervention.’

  Raja Prithvi Pati Singh was a man given to sensual pleasures. He was only concerned with his own luxury and comfort. He would not step out of his palace for months. There was only talk of music and festivities. All the rascals, scoundrels and useless people were his close friends. New varieties of liquor were tried every day. Foods of diverse assortments were prepared. He was only in love with poetry and that too the kind which incited the fire of passion. He himself would compose the thumri and dadra, and very often, intoxicated, he would even dance with the dancing girls. He was unaware of the calamity in his kingdom. His ministers were also selfish. It was in their vested interests to keep the real condition of the kingdom from the king. Whatever problems descended on the kingdom, money for the royal expense was managed. The common people did not have the courage to interfere in the day-to-day affairs of the state. The public was becoming disappointed with the king. They tried to tackle whatever problem befell them, but could not muster enough courage to obstruct the merriment of the king.

  But when Khwaja Rasheed Jalali spelt out that this natural calamity could not be cured unless Raja Sahib was involved, perforce, the people gathered in the grounds in front of the royal palace and started shouting slogans. The gatekeepers and soldiers tried to remove them forcefully, scared them, threatened to beat them up, but the people were ready to give up their lives. They refused to budge from there. Their unheard voices were being heard now, to such an extent that it caused a hindrance in the luxury of the king. In anger, he asked a gatekeeper, ‘Who are these people creating this ruckus?’ The scared gatekeeper replied, ‘My lord, a huge crowd of the city dwellers has gathered and is refusing to budge at any cost.’

  The king asked, ‘What do they want?’

  A minister replied, ‘Huzoor, I don’t know exactly what they desire. They are saying that it will be their good luck if they could see the king.’

  ‘Why do they wish to see me today?’

  ‘Huzoor, I tried to make them understand but they are adamant that they will not leave without being successful in their mission.’

  ‘Then shoot them and get rid of them. They should know that I rule them, and they do not rule over me. They are my subjects and it is not the other way round.’

  ‘Exalted lord! I have tried everything possible. I have a feeling that even if we open fire, they will all be killed but not move from the decision that they have made.’

  The king thought for a while and then replied, ‘That means they have a problem. Get my carriage ready.’

  A palanquin was arranged in a moment. Apparently, Raja Sahib didn’t step out of his home without a carriage. Sitting in the palanquin, he appeared in front of the people. At the sight of him people began to shout ‘Long live the king!’ The anger of all those people vanished the moment they saw their king. Moreover, they needed him at that hour and so couldn’t afford to remain angry with him. The real cause of their enthusiasm was that their hearts welled up with such devotion at the sight of the king that it swept away all their complaints against him, like the wind sweeps away dry leaves. The sound of ‘Long live the king!’ rent the air. The people pleaded, ‘Maharaja, we’re in a terrible crisis. You are our king. We will die without food and water if you don’t save us.’

  Surprised, the king asked, ‘What crisis are you talking about?’

  The people replied, ‘Lord of the impoverished! There hasn’t been a drop of rain for a year now. There is total chaos in the entire kingdom. There is no water in the ponds, the wells have dried up, so has the river. You are our master. This trouble would only be solved with your kindness.’

  ‘I have come to know of this problem today. Was there really no rain?’

  ‘Come and see our condition for yourself. Without a grain to eat, our condition is critical.’

  ‘Didn’t you all pray to the gods and perform yagnas?’

  ‘Huzoor! We have tried everything possible.’

  ‘You should have offered sacri
fices to the mahatmas and sadhus. You should have caught hold of Mahatma Durlabhdas and Khwaja Rasheed Jalali. They are godly personalities. If they want they can have the whole area flooded in an instant.’

  ‘Huzoor! Even these godly people tried their best but could not do anything.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Absolutely, huzoor!’

  ‘I have heard a lot about their miracles.’

  ‘O protector of the poor! These people sent us away saying that we must take refuge under the king, and only the king can solve our problems. This heavenly wrath can only be driven away with the king’s intervention.’

  The king laughed, and replied, ‘What can I do when such great personalities could not do anything?’

  ‘Huzoor. You are the master of this land, the ruler. If you take our prayers of survival to the divine court then we are sure that our plaints will be addressed.’

  Trembling, the king replied, ‘I don’t have any hope. I am sad that all of you are plagued with these problems. But what virtue will come your way from the pleading of a king who is always surrounded by seductresses, who is unaware of the conditions of his people, who is always in a state of drunkenness, who is a victim of his libido? But I don’t want to disappoint you people. I don’t want to increase your problems with my carelessness. I am not capable of requesting God for anything. I am ashamed to ask anything of Him. But shamelessly, I will ask for mercy for all of you from Him. Rest assured.’

  3

  It was afternoon. The sun was spitting fire on the land, causing dread in the minds of the people. The scorching sand was reeking, as if the helpless land was emitting smoke. At that time, Raja Prithvi Singh stepped out of the palace. He had no clothes or jewellery on his body except a loincloth. His hair was rolled up and his face was painted with black soot. The blood-red eyes on his blackened face seemed like red silk flowers on a dark cloth. His face was withered and sad, and he was crying. He came and stood on the scorching land in front of the palace, barefoot and without his crown. His ministers tried very hard to stop him but the king had made such a firm decision that no one could dissuade him.

  When the people heard of this, they ran and gathered at the spot. There wasn’t a single soul who wasn’t moved seeing the king in that condition. They pleaded with immense fondness, ‘Please wash away this black soot. We are pained to see you in this condition.’

  The king said nonchalantly, ‘Brothers, this soot will now be washed away only by the rains that will come as God’s blessing.’

  An hour passed. The king’s face was burning like a heated pan. His eyes were emitting sparks. He was perspiring from head to toe. His brain was heating up like boiling water. People worried that the king would faint any moment. The people requested him humbly, ‘Lord of the impoverished, do not put yourself through this strain. We are ready to starve, but cannot see you in this condition.’ But the king remained steadfast in his decision, his face suffused with the glow of fortitude. He looked calm from the outside, but every pore of his body seemed to send up the prayer, ‘My subjects are in trouble, give them succour. I am a sinner, a disobedient creature in the eyes of God. I am ashamed to ask anything of you. I must pay for my sins, and not my people. They are innocent. Have mercy on them. I bow my head before you and am ready to undergo the severest punishment. If my prayers are not accepted, I’ll lay down my life on this spot, but I will not show my face to the people. I am your slave and do not have any shame in appealing to you in distress. How can I face my people who consider me their master?’

  Two hours passed. The sun was becoming more severe. The earth was being scorched. Everyone was staring at the sky but there was no sign of a single cloud.

  4

  The entire city had converged to witness this sight. There was tumult in everyone’s hearts. Tears streamed from the eyes of the people. Women were pleading to God in extreme distress. Heart-wrenching cries echoed in the palace, filling every heart with foreboding.

  Although it was three in the afternoon, the heat did not let up. The eyes of Raja Prithvi Singh had dilated, his forehead had shrunk. The effort to keep control over his body and his wits about himself took its toll on him and his delicate lips closed like petals. It seemed as if his blood had run dry; he had no life. It was only his despairing fortitude that helped him stand erect on his feet. The people had a feeling that he might fall at any time. Many believed that what stood in front of them was not the king but just his lifeless body. The heat was so intense that it was even difficult to stay indoors and bear it—the vultures would leave their eggs and fly away, the insects would crawl out of the land and die, it was impossible for any living being to stand even for a moment. Everyone was wondering how the king, accustomed to royal comforts, was standing in the blazing heat.

  Suddenly, the sound of ‘Long live the king!’ rent the air, the earth quivered, the sky moved, and it seemed as if a massive earthquake had come or two mountains had clashed. Thousands of people started rejoicing and celebrating. There was a kind of commotion in the huge crowd and many fingers pointed towards the east. A small cloud was seen on the horizon as if a lamp was flickering in the dismal atmosphere. Cannons were shot from the fort, and women started singing songs of happiness. Queens started donating alms to the poor and the needy at the royal gates. But the people were in a state of shock. The first waves of pleasure had numbed them. Controlling their emotions, they were looking at that small cloud with fear and anticipation. In a moment, it started spreading through the sky like smoke from the cannonballs. The winds were blowing. There was thunder and lightning. But these sounds seemed more melodious than the hymns being sung in praise of God. People had been restless to hear these sounds for many days. The sun was descending towards the west in great haste. It seemed as if he was scared and, looking at the army of clouds, was trying to save his own life. In a moment, it hid behind the clouds. The world was engulfed in darkness. But this darkness was a symbol of hope, of God’s creation.

  The clouds thundered again. Drops of rain began to fall. With dedication and love, the people ran towards the king and fell at his feet. The king was still standing straight. His blackened face was being washed by the raindrops and his face resembled the moon coming out through the clouds. There was a spiritual glow on his face and his eyes had a divine spark. He had sworn that his blackened face would only be washed in the rain, and it had happened exactly as he wished. This was because there was fortitude as well as the belief of divine intervention and God’s help. Before this day, the country had never witnessed such happiness, such relief, and such peace.

  Translated from the Hindi by Saba Mahmood Bashir and M. Asaduddin

  Banter

  Wife

  I really am very unfortunate, otherwise would I have to witness such disgusting scenes every day? Not only do I have to see them, what is worse is they have become part of my everyday life. My father is a highly esteemed Brahmin whose decisions in all serious religious matters and beliefs are considered infallible. In my home, we wouldn’t put even a drop of water in our mouths before taking a bath or before our prayers. Once, I had high fever and had to take my medicine without a bath, which I regretted for months. The dhobi was never allowed to even set foot in our house. And the chamarin was not permitted to even sit in the passageway. And I simply detested playing with the sons of weavers. But here, it seems I have arrived in a world wholly corrupt. My husband is a very kind and capable man. My father was impressed by his qualities and had me married to him. How would he know that these people were simply godless? Forget sandhya and prayers, people here don’t even bathe regularly. Muslims and Christians walk in and out of the sitting room at will. And my husband sits right there, drinking water, tea and milk. He even eats sweets there. Just yesterday, I saw him drinking lemonade. And the groom, who is a Chamar, comes straight into the house and takes gram out of the sack. I have heard that my husband visits his Muslim friends’ houses and eats and feasts there. I just can’t stand such immorality. I’m fil
led with a sense of loathing. Sometimes, when he comes close to me, holds my hand with a smile and seats me next to him, I wish that the earth would give way and swallow me. I rue the style of life I’m compelled to live. O Hindu community! Have you made slavery to man the prime duty of a woman? Our thoughts, our beliefs, even our religions are of no value!

  * * *

  Now I can’t take it anymore. I want to resolve this today, once and for all. I want to get out of this vicious circle. I can’t stand this life even for an hour more. I have decided to take refuge with my father. Today, there is an intercommunity feast here. My husband is not only participating in it, he is also one of the main organizers. It is the result of his hard work and inspiration that this heretic atrocity is being perpetrated. People of all castes are sitting together and eating. I have heard that even Muslims are eating along with the others. O! Why don’t the heavens fall? Won’t God take on an avatar and come down to earth to protect our faith? Can one imagine a greater distortion of the faith? The Brahmins eat only what their closest kin cook; they do not even eat what other Brahmins have cooked. This great community has reached such a state of decadence that Brahmins now do not hesitate to eat with Kayasthas and Muslims. On the contrary, they see this as a sign of communal pride and unity.

  Husband

  When will that auspicious hour arrive when the women of our country will be educated and help us men unite the nation? When will this religious parochialism disappear? For how long will we remain trapped in the wiles of the Brahmins? For how long will marriages remain captive to family prestige? When will our people understand that in a marriage, compatibility matters more than family lineage? Had this been so, I wouldn’t be Vrinda’s husband, nor she my wife. There is a world of difference between our thoughts. She doesn’t often express herself openly, but I am sure she simply detests my liberalism. Sometimes I feel she does not even want to touch me. It’s not her fault; rather it is the fault of our parents who have placed us in this oppressive situation. Nevertheless, I’m happy that Vrinda has confidence in herself. Even in difficult circumstances, she clings to her ideas firmly, even if her ideas happen to be wrong.