The Complete Short Stories Read online

  A Plea for Humility

  Premchand scholarship is very much a work in progress. Textual research on him has remained bogged down by the lack of availability of original manuscripts. Scholars have tried to gather works from journals and magazines in Urdu and Hindi, and in the process committed errors because of logistical or linguistic inadequacy.26 These journals and magazines often operated on a shaky and tight budget and had very little or no editing rigour. Mistakes of the calligrapher, compositor or proofreader often went unchecked and undetected, and thus became part of the text. All this makes it difficult to arrive at a definitive version of the text. On our part, too, there is no claim to finality, only an assertion that all efforts have been made to collate texts from different sources to arrive at the final version. We request discerning scholars and readers to bring any errors and inadequacies in our versions to our notice, however grave or trivial they may be, so that they can be corrected in later editions.

  New Delhi

  November 2017

  M. Asaduddin

  Works cited

  Asaduddin, M. (ed). Premchand in World Languages: Translation, Reception and Cinematic Representations. New Delhi: Routledge, 2016.

  Gopal, Madan. Munshi Premchand: A Literary Biography. Bombay: Asia Publishing House, 1964.

  Hansen, Kathryn and David Lelyveld (eds). A Wilderness of Possibilities: Urdu Studies in Transnational Perspective. New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2005.

  Orsini, Francesca (ed). The Oxford India Premchand. New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2003.

  Rabassa, Gregory. If This Be Treason: Translation and Its Dyscontents, a Memoir. New York: New Directions, 2005.

  Rai, Alok and Mushtaq Ali (eds). Samaksh: Premchand ki Bees Urdu–Hindi Kahaniyon ka Samantar Paath. Allahabad: Hans Prakashan, 2002.

  Rai, Amrit. Premchand: A Life. Translated from the Hindi by Harish Trivedi. Bombay: People’s Publishing House, 1982.

  Rai, Amrit (ed). Vividh Prasang, Allahabad, 1978.

  Roadarmel, Gordon C. The Gift of a Cow: A Translation of the Classic Novel Godaan. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2002.

  Venuti, Lawrence (ed). The Translation Studies Reader. Second edition, New York & London: Routledge, 2002.

  Premonition

  It was a moonlit night. A pleasant breeze blew in the beautiful garden. Lying in his large terrace, Kunwar Amarnath told Manorama, ‘Don’t you worry. I’ll come back soon.’

  Looking at him helplessly, Manorama said, ‘Why don’t you take me along?’

  ‘You’ll have a tough time there. I’ll be all over the place all day long. It’s a hilly region, all jungle and wilderness, there’s no village for miles together. To top it all, there’s the fear of ferocious beasts. You won’t be able to bear it.’

  ‘You aren’t used to these hardships either.’

  ‘I’m a man! When the need arises I can face anything.’

  ‘I too am a woman, when the need arises I can also jump into the fire. To think of women as delicate is a figment of men’s poetic imagination. They may not be strong but they are so patient and brave that even the most trying of times cannot overpower them.’

  Amarnath looked at Manorama adoringly and said, ‘I agree, but something which we’ve believed for so long cannot be erased in a moment. I can never see you in pain, I’ll feel very bad. Look at the splendour of the moon!’

  ‘Don’t try to distract me. I’m not being stubborn, but my life here will become unbearable. I am in a strange state of mind. When you are not with me, all kinds of doubts creep into my mind. When you go hunting I fear for you lest your horse play the mischief. I wonder whether you’ve got hurt. When it comes to you, I’m always haunted by strange fears.’

  ‘But I am a hedonist, a pleasure seeker. You do injustice to yourself by wasting so much affection on me.’

  Manorama’s eyes said that she understood him better than she understood herself.

  Then famine struck Bundelkhand.1 People survived on the bark of trees. Hunger erased the difference between the edible and the inedible. When children were being sold for a pittance, what could be said about animals? It was a busy time for Christian missionaries—their orphanages filled with children who were continuously herded in like sheep. Maternal love was sacrificed for a handful of grain. Amarnath was the manager of the Kashi Seva Samiti. When he read about this in the newspapers, he was deeply anguished. He organized a band of young people of the Samiti and arrived in Bundelkhand. He promised Manorama that he would write a letter to her every day and return as soon as he could.

  For a week he kept his word but gradually his letters became rarer. Often the places he visited were very far from post offices. From such places it was impossible to send a daily letter. Manorama became restless with the pangs of separation. She would sit distracted in abject misery, sometimes downstairs, sometimes upstairs, and at other times in the garden. Till she received a letter she would remain fretful. When she received one it was as if rain fell on parched fields.

  But when the letters thinned even further, her already wretched heart grew impatient. She regretted listening to him, and not having gone with him. She loved books but now she didn’t want to have anything to do with them. She grew indifferent to all things pleasurable. A whole month passed like this.

  One day she had a dream that Amarnath stood at the door, crying, bareheaded and barefoot. She was horrified and raced to the door. All was calm there; she felt a little better. She woke up the manager and sent a telegram to Amarnath.

  But there was no reply. The entire day passed but no reply came. Another night passed. Manorama lay in her room, without food or water, like someone unconscious. She could only think about one thing. She could only talk about one thing. Whoever came to her room, she asked over and over again, ‘Have you got a reply?’

  All kinds of fears haunted her. She would ask the maidservants to interpret her dreams. She read a pile of tracts on the interpretation of dreams but her own remained a mystery. The maidservants tried to reassure her, saying, ‘Kunwarji is fine. If you see someone barefoot in a dream it means that he’s gone for a horse ride. No need to worry.’ But Manorama was not pacified by these words. She harped on the fact of the reply to the telegram; after all, four days had gone by.

  The arrival of a juggler to the neighbourhood is an event for the young folk. The sound of his drum is even more attractive than the tempting calls of the food hawkers. The coming of an astrologer is equally eventful. The news spreads like wildfire. Mothers-in-law land up with their daughters-in-law, mothers come with their luckless daughters. Depending on the situation, the astrologer makes his predictions. His forecasts are difficult to decipher. His constructions of fate are even more complicated and unfathomable than the lines of fate on the palm. Modern intellectuals may have devalued astrology but the power of the astrologer remains undiminished. Even those who don’t believe in him want to hear him out. Every word of his has the power to inspire hope or fear, especially his lethal predictions which fall like bolts of lightning set ablaze.

  It had been five days since the telegram was sent when an astrologer turned up at Amarnath’s doorstep. At once the neighbourhood women assembled there. The astrologer made pronouncements; his readings of fate made some cry and others laugh. Manorama got wind of it. She immediately invited him in and asked him the meaning of her nightmare.

  The astrologer looked all around as if for an answer. He leafed through volumes, made calculations on his fingers. But not finding an answer, he said, ‘Is this your ladyship’s dream?’

  ‘No, a friend’s. In my opinion, the dream is a bad omen. She says it is auspicious. What do you have to say?’

  The astrologer was again at a loss. He had no clue about Amarnath’s journey. Usually he had some idea of what had happened; this he would couple with speculation and transform into invaluable astrology. His audience bought it. Now, even the answer to his question had been vague. Disappointed with his performance, he thought it advisable to su
pport Manorama. He said, ‘What our lady says is true. This dream is a bad omen.’

  Standing there, Manorama began to tremble like the strings of a sitar. Building on the ill omen, the astrologer said, ‘A terrible misfortune will befall her husband. His house will be destroyed and he will wander across many lands in distress.’

  Manorama felt limp. She leaned against the wall, asked God for help and fell to the floor unconscious.

  The astrologer awoke to the difficulty of the situation. He realized that he was in a mess. He reassured her, told her that she should not worry at all. He would ward off the crisis. And his fees need be given only when good news arrived. He asked for a goat, some cloves and coarse thread. ‘It’s a difficult project, but with God’s grace, it’s not impossible. See, Madam, what fabulous recommendations I have got from British officials. Deputy Sahib’s daughter was not well just the other day. The doctors had given up. When she wore my special amulet, she recovered in no time. Only yesterday a bagful of cash went missing from Seth Chandulal’s house. No one had a clue where to begin the search. I made my calculations—the thief was caught. It was the work of his manager. The bag reappeared in the same way that it went.’

  The astrologer was holding forth on his magical powers while Manorama lay unconscious.

  Suddenly, she sat up, called the manager, and said, ‘Prepare for the journey, I’m going to take the evening train to Bundelkhand.’

  On reaching the station, Manorama sent Amarnath a telegram: I’m coming. His last letter said he was in Kabrai, so she booked a ticket for Kabrai. But she had been sleepless for many days. The moment she sat on the train, she fell asleep, and as soon as she fell asleep, unwanted fears took the form of nightmares.

  She saw a vast expanse of sea in which a wrecked boat bobbed up and down on the stormy waters. A boat without a sailor or sails or oars. The waves would sometimes toss the boat around. But then suddenly Manorama could see a man on it. The man was none other than Amarnath, bareheaded, barefoot, crying. Manorama trembled like a leaf. The boat would capsize any minute. She woke up with a loud scream, her body drenched in sweat, her heart pounding. She immediately got up, splashed her face with water and decided to fight sleep. What a terrible sight! Great God—you are my sole refuge. Look after him!

  She craned her neck out of the window. The stars were streaming across the sky. Her watch showed that it was noon. She was surprised that she had had such a long sleep, even though she felt at that moment that she hadn’t slept a wink!

  She picked up a book and tried to concentrate. Soon, the train reached Prayag. It was time to change trains. Once again she opened the book and this time she began to read aloud. But she could not fight sleep. Her eyelids grew heavy and her head began to nod. Yet another vision came to her.

  She saw the peak of a mountain merging with the sky. The trees at the top looked like saplings. Dark clouds hung low. Lightning crackled with deafening force as it struck here and there. At the top sat a bareheaded man. His tears were clearly visible. Manorama had a sinking feeling it was Amarnath. He wanted to come down but could not find a foothold. He turned ashen. All at once there was a clap of thunder, a flash of light, and Amarnath became invisible. Manorama woke up again with a scream. Her heart beat fast, her head spun. The moment she woke up her eyes streamed with tears. She stood up and with folded hands began to plead with God: ‘Lord, these terrible dreams of mine, who knows what he’s going through. You are a friend of the needy, have pity on me. I have no desire for wealth or property. I’ll be happy living in a hut—all I want is for him to be well. Please grant this little wish of mine.’

  She again sat in her place. The beauty of the sunrise and the cool, pleasant breeze enchanted her. The night was over after all. Now she could stay awake. And there were so many things to see among the mountains. Herds of sheep along the hilly tracks, somewhere in the foothills were a herd of deer, and somewhere else a sea of fluttering lotuses. As Manorama gazed at it, she fell into a trance. But God knows when her unfortunate eyes closed once more.

  She saw Amarnath riding across a bridge. Below, a river raged; the bridge was narrow, the horse occasionally neighed and tried to break free. Manorama’s hands and feet froze in fear. She began to shriek at the top of her voice: ‘Get off the horse, get off the horse.’ She leapt towards him and her eyes opened. The train sped along the platform of some station. Amarnath stood on the platform, bareheaded, barefoot. Manorama’s eyes were still filled with that terrible dream. When she saw Amarnath, she was afraid he would fall off the horse and slip into the river below. She immediately flung out her hands to catch him. When she was unable to do so, in that sleepwalking state, she opened the door of the carriage, and, reaching her hands out towards Amarnath, stepped off the train. She was startled. She felt as if someone had flung her up into the sky and slammed her to the earth. She felt a sharp shock and then lay unconscious.

  It was Kabrai station. Amarnath had received the telegram and come to the station. But this was a mail train and didn’t stop there. Seeing Manorama fall, her arms outstretched, he had leaped towards her, shouting. But her fate was already sealed. Manorama had sacrificed herself at the altar of love.

  Three days later, he reached home, bareheaded, barefoot and broken-hearted. Manorama’s dream had indeed come true.

  Who could stay in this loveless place? He bequeathed his entire wealth to the Kashi Seva Samiti and now he roams all over the world, bareheaded, barefoot, like the man in Manorama’s dream. The astrologer’s prediction came true as well.

  Translated from the Hindi by Swati Pal

  The Murder of Honour

  1

  I have read the incredible and strange tales of the wonders of fortune in legends and histories. I have witnessed kings becoming beggars and beggars turning kings. Destiny is a deep secret. Women picked up as morsels from the streets were placed on thrones of gold while those intoxicated by the wine of wealth, and before whom destiny itself bowed, were reduced to dust in the wink of an eye. But the story of my sufferings has no precedent. Alas, when I recall those incidents of the past, my hair stands on end and I’m left wondering how and why I’m still alive. Beauty is the source of all desires, and oh! How many desires I had in my heart! But alas! They all perished at the hands of someone’s cruelty. How could I have known that a day will come when the one who was ready to give up his life at my smallest gestures would insult and debase me in this manner?

  It has been three years since I first stepped into this house, which was a blooming garden at that time. I was the nightingale of this garden, flying in the air, singing merrily perched on its trees. I slept on a bed of roses. Saeed was mine and I was Saeed’s. We played the game of love by the side of the pool whose water was clear as crystal and sang the songs of passion along the rows of its flowers. The garden was host to our amorous trysts. Passing the wine of ecstasy, we addressed each other. He would tell me, ‘You are my life,’ and I would respond with, ‘You are my beloved.’ Our estate was huge. We had no worries. No sorrows existed; life, for us, was pleasure personified, an insatiable hunger. It was a magical spring where the flowers of desire bloomed and happiness reigned. The world was in tune with us, the sky our friend, and fortune in our favour.

  One day, Saeed said to me, ‘My love! I have a request to make. Take care that your smiling lips do not turn it down. I want to gift all my property, all my estate, to you. For me, your love is enough, which is my greatest blessing. I want to erase my identity and become a fakir at your doorstep. You be my Noor Jahan and I will be your Salim, and spend my life drinking from the coral cups of your hands.’ My eyes brimmed, happiness at its peak, transformed into tears.

  2

  But hardly had a year passed when I began to notice a change in Saeed’s demeanour. Though there hadn’t been even a hint of discord or unpleasantness between us, Saeed just wasn’t the same any longer. The one who had been unwilling to part with me for even a moment now stayed away for nights on end. There was no eagerness in
his eyes, no yearning in his manner, and no warmth in his behaviour.

  I cried bitterly over his indifference for many days. The memories of our lost love would torment me. I had heard that love was everlasting. Had that eternal spring dried up so soon? Alas, no! It was still gushing, but it flowed in a different direction now. It was nurturing another garden. In due course I too began avoiding Saeed. Not for the lack of feeling, but because I could no longer bear to look at him. The moment I would set my eyes on him, memories of the thousand miracles of love would flash before me and my eyes would well up. I still felt attracted towards him. At times I would be overcome with a desire to fall at his feet and plead, ‘My dearest, why this coldness, this cruelty? What wrong have I committed?’ A curse on this ego, it stood like a wall between us.

  Gradually, the love in my heart changed into longing. The patience of a defeated soul became the succour for my aching heart. For me, Saeed was a forgotten melody of the spring that was over. The pain in my heart soothed and the flame of love extinguished. Not only this, I lost respect for him as well. At no cost would I suffer and pine for one who dirties the waters of the sacred temple of love.

  One evening, as I lay reading a novel in my room, a beautiful woman entered. It seemed as if the room was aglow, shining with the brightness of her beauty, as if it had just been whitewashed. Her perfect refinement, her heart-warming elegance, her mesmerizing charm! How could I praise her? I was overawed to an extent that all my own claims to beauty were reduced to ashes. I was wonderstruck. Who could this lovely woman be and why was she here? As I was about to rise involuntarily to greet her, Saeed entered the room, smiling. I immediately understood that this beautiful woman was his sweetheart. My pride got the better of me and I did get up, but with my head erect and stiff. The admiration in my eyes had been replaced with scorn. To me, she was no longer the Goddess of beauty, but a poisonous snake. I sat down on the bed again, opened my book. She stood for a while, looking at my photos, then left the room. She cast a look at me before leaving. Her glance was like a shower of sparks, and the fire of murderous revenge seemed to burn in her eyes. The question which cropped up in my mind was: Why did Saeed bring her here? Did he want to smash my pride?