Given here is my translation of Premchand's short story 'Bade Ghar Ki Beti'.
Daughter of a Great House
(बड़े घर की बेटी)
Benimadhavasingh was Gauripur village's zamindar and numberdar. His grandfather,
once upon a time, was a man of great wealth. The village’s pucca water
reservoir and the temple, which were now almost beyond any repairs, were his proud
memorials. People say that once an elephant paraded at the door where now there
is only an old buffalo, which is no more than a skeleton of its old self but
which appears to produce a large quantity of milk; because someone or the other from the family keeps hovering around her with a pot.
Benimadhavasingh had gifted away more than half of his wealth to lawyers. His present annual income was no more than a
thousand rupees. He had two sons. The elder one, Shrikanthasingh, had obtained
his B.A. degree after long and great hard work, and was employed in an office.
The younger son, Lalbiharisingh, was a broad-chested, strongly-built handsom youth. He would drink up two sers of milk every morning soon after waking up.
Shrikanthasingh was an exact contrast. He had sacrificed these eye-pleasing qualities
to just two words: B.A. These two letters had debilitated his body and robbed
his face of all its brightness. That is why he loved books on medicine. He had
great faith in the Ayurvedic medicines. From morning till evening one could
hear the soft grind of the pestle moving to and fro in the mortar. He was in
regular postal contact with vaids in Lahore and Calcutta.
Shrikanth, in spite of
holding this English degree, had no
special love for English manners and customs; on the other hand, he would often criticize them and hold them in contempt. Because of this the villagers had great respect for him. During the Dussehra festival he participated in the Ramlila,
taking up the role of one character or the other. He was the founder of Ramlila
in the village. The primary object of his religious activities was the
promotion of ancient Hindu culture. He was a staunch admirer of the joint
family system. For him the lack of interest in joint family seen among women
today was harmful for the community and the country. For this reason the young
ladies of the village were his strong critics. A few among them did not
hesitate to regard him as their enemy. Even his own wife, Anandi, opposed his
views on the subject. Not because she disliked her father and mother in-law, or
her husband’s brother, but because she believed that if it was not possible to
carry on even after many compromises, it was better to part and set up one’s
own kitchen than to waste one’s life in needless everyday bickering.
Anandi was a girl from
a great upper-class family. Her father was the talukdar of a small state. A huge
mansion, an elephant, three dogs, hunter eagles, chandeliers, honorary
magistracy, and debts – all the objects of respectability for a talukdar were present here. His name was Bhoopsingh. He was a very generous and talented man, but unfortunately he had no
son. He fathered seven daughters and all of them remained alive. In the first
flush of enthusiasm he married off three of his daughters, spending generously.
But when he realized he had contracted a debt of about fifteen-to-twenty
thousand rupees, he withdrew his hand. Anandi was his fourth daughter. She was
the most beautiful and talented of his daughters. That is why Thakur sahib
loved her greatly. All parents have a tendency to love their beautiful
off-spring. Thakur sahib faced a great dilemma: Where to find a suitable match
for Anandi? He did not want to increase the burden of his debt, at the same
time he did not wish to give his daughter the feeling that she had been luckless. One day Shrikantha came to him to ask for some donations; it was
perhaps for the propagation of Hindi. Bhoopsingh was impressed by his conduct,
and married off Anandi to Shrikanthasingh with great pomp and show.
When Anandi came to her
new home she found that things were very different here. There was no trace of any
of the trappings of wealth which she had been used to since her childhood. What
to talk of an elephant or a horse, there was nothing like even a well-adorned
bullock cart. She had brought her silken slippers but there was no garden here.
There were no windows, no pucca floors, or no pictures on the walls. Here there
was just an ordinary rural household. However, Anandi adapted herself to this
new environment with such ease as if she had never been used to the luxuries of
life.
2
One day at noon time
Lalbiharisingh brought wildfowl meat and said to his sister-in-law, ‘Cook it immediately,
I’m very hungry.’ Anandi was waiting for him ready with food.
Now she had to make this new dish for him. She looked into the pot. There was
not much ghee left. Being the daughter of a wealthy house she did not know how
to be thrifty. She poured all the ghee into this dish of meat. When Lalbihari
sat to eat he found no ghee in the dal. ‘Why haven’t you put ghee into dal?’
Anandi replied that she
had put all the ghee in the meat dish. Lalbihari shouted, ‘It was brought only
the day before yesterday. How could it be used
up so soon?’
Anandi said, ‘Today there was only a quarter seer of it. And she had used it for the meat dish.’
A ravenously hungry man
is inflamed as swiftly as a dry stick of wood catches fire. Lalbihari did not
like this answer from his sister-in-law and retorted, ‘You talk as if ghee flows
like a river at your parents.’
Women can accept
abusive language, or even thrashing, but not the denigration of their parental
home. Anandi answered back, ‘Even a dead elephant is worth a million. There nais and kahars consume this much ghee every day.’
Lalbihari became red
with anger. He overturned the thali and said, ‘I feel like pulling out your
tongue.’
Anandi also lost her
temper. She said, ‘Had he been here
he would have taught you a lesson.’
Now the illiterate and
ill-mannered thakur could no longer restrain himself. His own wife was the
daughter of a small-time landlord and and he could thrash her at will. He picked
up his wooden slipper and threw it at his sister-in-law, saying, ‘I shall settle
scores with him too, about whom you are boasting.’
Anandi parried the
slipper with her hand to protect her head. But in the process she hurt her
finger badly. She rushed angrily into her room, shaking like a leaf in the
wind. A woman’s power and courage, her honour and self-respect reside in her
husband and she is proud of his strength and manhood. Anandi had no alternative
but to swallow this insult.
3
Shrikanthasingh used to
come home every Saturday. This incident had taken place on a Thursday. For two
days Anandi locked herself up in her room. She went without food and waited for
her husband. He returned as usual on Saturday evening, and sat in the open
talking of things in general and of some of the new court cases. This went on
till ten o’clock in the evening. The worthies of the village enjoyed this
gossip so much that they forgot even to eat. It was difficult for Shrikantha to
get rid of them. Anandi spent these few hours in great unease. At last the
people moved out and it was time to eat. Just then Lalbihari came to his
brother and said, ‘Bhai sahib, just
tell bhabhi to be careful with her
tongue, or something terrible will happen one day.’
Benimadhavasingh
supported his son. ‘Yes, it is wrong for women to talk back to men.’
Lalbihri said, ‘She may
be from a great family, but we’re are not low caste kahars or kurmis.’
Shrikantha asked in a
worried tone, ‘After all, what’s the matter?’
Lalbihari said,
‘Nothing at all. She got into an argument with me. In her eyes we’re nobody as
against her parental family.’
After finishing his
food Shrikantha went to his wife. She sat filled up with resentment. He too was worked up. She said,
‘Are you happy?’
Shrikanth replied,
‘Yes, I’m happy. But what’s this storm and uproar you have raised?’
Anandi’s brow became
pitted with lines. She was aflame with anger. ‘I would singe the face of the
person who has instigated you.’
‘Why’re you so angry?
What’s the matter?’
‘What should I tell
you? It’s my fate. Otherwise a village bumpkin who is not sure to be appointed a
peon wouldn’t have hurled his slipper at me and threatened me.’
‘Tell me everything
plainly. I don’t know anything.’
Anandi narrated the
story. ‘The day before your dear brother asked me to cook a meat dish for him.
There wasn’t much ghee in the pot. I used the whole of it in the meat. When he
sat down to eat he asked why there was no ghee in the dal. And he started cursing my parental home. I couldn’t control
myself and said that there this much
ghee was consumed by nais and kahars, and no one even notices this. At
this the tyrant hurled his slipper at me. Had I not stopped it with my hand it
would have hit me on the head. Ask him if what I have said is a lie.’
Shrikantha’s eyes became
red. He said, ‘Has that boy dared to do this?’
Like all women Anandi
began to cry. Shrikantha was a very gentle and forbearing person. He seldom lost
his temper. However female tears work to add fuel to a fire. He kept tossing in
his bed. His anger did not let him shut his eyes even for a moment. In the
morning he went to his father and said, ‘Dada, I won’t be able to carry on here
any longer.’
Shrikantha had denounced
many of his friends for letting off such rebellious ideas, but today he himself
had to do it. How easy it is to preach to others!
Benimadhavasingh was
upset. He said, ‘Why?’
Shrikanth replied,
‘Because I also care for my self-respect. Your house is becoming a place of
injustice and boorishness. He who should be respectful and courteous to their
elders misbehaves with them. I am in service elsewhere and don’t stay at home.
And in my absence slippers and shoes are hurled at women. Harsh words are fine.
I won’t mind them. But I can’t keep quiet if someone hurls kicks and blows at
me.’
Benimadhavasingh made
no answer. Shrikantha had always been respectful towards him. The old thakur was
speechless before such an outburst of temper. He only said ‘Son, you’re a
sensible person and yet you talk like that. Women destroy their households like
this. It’s not proper to give them so much latitude.’
Shrikantha replied,
‘With your blessings, I’m not such a fool. You yourself know that many homes in
the village have been saved with my intervention, but I can’t accept such
unjust and inhuman conduct towards the woman for whose honour I’m answerable to
God. The truth is that I don’t want to punish Lalbihari.’
Now Benimadhavasingh
got worked up. He could not hear anything anymore. He said, ‘Lalbihari is your
brother. If he does something foolish you can catch him by the ear but…’
‘I no longer regard
Lalbihari as my brother.’
‘For a woman?’
‘No, sir. For his
cruelty and lack of sense.’
Both of them became
quiet for some time. Thakur sahib wanted to pacify his son but was not willing
to admit that Lalbihari had done something wrong. In the meantime many worthy
men of the village came there under the pretext of smoking the hookah. Many
women were very happy when they came to know that Shrikanth was willing to
break with his father for the sake of his wife. They were dying to hear the
exchange of sweet words between the two sides. There were many wicked persons
in the village who were secretly jealous of the orderly and peaceful tenor of
life in this family. They often said that Shrikantha was very timid and afraid
of his father. He was educated, so he had become a bookworm. Benimadhavasingh
did not do anything without consulting his son, but this, they thought, was
nothing but his foolishness. The wishes of these great people, it seemed, were
about to be realized. Some among them came on the pretext of smoking the
hookah, others to show the payment receipt for the land revenue. Benimadhavasingh was an old hand and could sense their thoughts. He decided that he would not
give them any chance to rejoice. Very quickly he spoke in a very gentle voice,
‘Son, I’m not against you. Do what you like. The boy has indeed committed a
crime.’
The inexperienced
graduate from Allahabad could not take any clue from this. From the debating
club he had acquired the habit of sticking to his argument, and he could not
follow the tactics employed by his father. He said, ‘I cannot live in this
house with Lalbihari.’
Benimadhava said, ‘Son,
the wise don’t take such follies seriously. He lacks understanding. He has made
a mistake, but you, being his elder, should forgive him.’
Shrikantha replied, ‘I
can never forgive him for this misconduct. If you love him so much, you let me
go. I shall take care of myself. If you want me to stay then tell him to go
away wherever he likes. This is my final decision.’
Lalbihari stood at the
door listening to his brother. He had great respect for his brother. He had
never had the courage to sit on a cot facing his brother, or smoke the hookah
or chew paan in his presence. He respected his brother even more than his
father. Shrikanth also had great affection for him. He did not remember having
ever rebuked him. Whenever he returned from Allahabad he would always bring
some gift for him. It was he who had gifted the pair of dumbbells to him. Last
year when, on Nagapanchmi day, Lalbihari had floored a wrestler far stronger than him, he had gone
right into the ring to embrace him and had distributed five rupees. Hearing
such harsh words from his brother, Lalbihari felt ashamed of himself. Tears
welled up in his eyes. Undoubtedly, he was regretting what he had done. A day
before his brother was to return he was nervously debating within himself how
he would react to the incident: How he would face him, how he would respond to
his questioning and how he would look in his eyes. He had thought that his
brother would just admonish him, but he found his brother going ruthlessly
against his wishful thinking. And in his heart he believed that his brother was
being unfair to him. If Shrikantha had called him aside, rebuked him or even
given a few slaps he wouldn’t have been so hurt, but Lalbihari was totally
shaken to hear that his brother wouldn’t even like to see his face. He went
into the house crying. He went into his room, dressed up, wiped his eyes so
that no one should notice that he had been crying. He came and stood at
Anandi’s door and said, ‘Bhabi, bhaiya has decided that he does not wish
to live with me in this house. He does not want to see my face, so I’m going
away. I would never show my face to him. Forgive me for my misconduct.’
Lalbihari’s throat
choked with emotions as he said these words.
4
4
As Lalbihari stood in
front of Anandi with bowed head, Shrikantha came in, his eyes red with anger.
When he saw his brother waiting there he turned his eyes in hatred and walked away, as if
running away from even his shadow.
Anandi had complained
against Lalbihari, but now she was regretting it. She was generous by nature.
She had never imagined that things would go that far. She was irritated at her
husband for having lost his temper. And she was afraid he might ask her to go
with her to Allahabad. What would she do then? And when she heard what
Lalbihari had just said, all her anger against him disappeared. She started
crying. There is nothing better than tears to wash off the bitterness in one’s
heart.
When Anandi saw
Shrikantha she said, ‘Labihari is crying.’
Shrikantha said, ‘So
what?’
‘Call him in. My tongue
should singe. Why did I raise this quarrel?’
‘I won’t call him.’
‘You’ll regret. He is
completely broken down. He might go away.’
Shrikantha did not get
up. In the meantime Lalbihari said again, ‘Bhabhi,
say my goodbye to bhaiya. Since he
does not wish to see my face, I won’t show it to him.’ Saying this Lalbihari moved towards the door.
Anandi walked towards him and caught him by the hand. Lalbihari turned his face
towards her and said, ‘Let me go.’
‘Where would you go?’
‘Where no one would see
my face.’
‘I won’t let you go.’
‘I’m not fit to live
with you people.’
‘In my name, don’t take
even one step.’
‘I won’t stay in this
house until I’m sure bhaiya has
forgiven me.’
‘I swear by God that I
harbour no ill-will towards you.’
Now Shrikantha’s heart
also melted. He came out and embraced his brother. Both the brothers began to
cry like children. Lalbihari said, ‘Bhaiya,
never say again that you won’t see my face. Except that, I shall happily accept
any punishment from you.’
Shrikantha replied in a
trembling voice, ‘Lallu, forget all
this. Such an occasion would never arise.’
Benimadavasingh was
coming in. He was overjoyed to see the brothers embracing each other.
Joyfully, he said,
‘That’s what the daughters from great houses are like. They set things right.’
Everyone in the village
who heard this story began to shower praises on Anandi. ‘Daughters from great
houses are indeed like that.’
(Zamaana, Urdu, December 1910. First story published under the
adopted name Premchand) ---
My
Comments
‘Bade
Ghar Ki Beti’ is among Premchand’ earliest stories.
It was published in 1910 in ‘Zamana’
and was the first story he published under his adopted name Premchand. As is
usual with Premchand, the subject of the story is a social question, the joint
family in this case. It is very interesting to note that the threat to the
joint family was already an issue at the beginning of the last century. But in
the story, as it must have been in contemporary life then, it remains only a
threat and the story’s resolution saves the family in question from
disintegration. And that seems also Premchand’s message. The joint family is
under threat but it would be a bad thing if it broke up. That’s why the title,
‘Bade Ghar Ki Beti’. But now, a
century after, the issue has gone overboard and the breaking up of the joint
family has gone very far, for good and bad. It still remains a violently
contested issue. Although this story is among his earliest ones, the great
hallmarks of the writer’s art of story-telling are clearly in evidence: his
tongue-in-cheek humour, the constantly flowing under-current of irony that
spares no one, his moralizing tone and idealistic endings, and his very
powerful awareness of the decline of the Indian zamindari. Both the families
portrayed in the story are far gone in their decline, mired in litigation and
debt. The opening lines of the story symbolize this decline beautifully. But,
of course, Premchand is yet a long way from seeing the most devastating and
the blatantly unjust aspects of life in the rural and traditional India. He has
yet to encounter the Bolshivek Revolution, Gandhi and the Indian National
Movement. He is yet to write about men and women like Hori and Dhania, Ghisu
and Madho, Dukhia and Jhuria, Jokhu and Gangi, the thakurs, the nawabs, the
banias and pandits, and many others like them.
---