Premchand's story 'Namak Ka Daroga' in translation

Here is a translation of Premchand's story: Namak Ka Daroga.

                                     THE SALT INSPECTOR   
                                      (Namak Ka Daroga)   

When a new department banning open trade in salt (a free gift of God) was set up, people began to  trade it illegally. Many crooked ways were invented: Some took to bribing, others to smuggling. The government officials had a great time. People gave up the universally honoured office of the patwari and turned to this department. Even the lawyers hankered after the salt inspector’s post.  It was a time when people regarded the English education synonymous with Christianity. Persian was the dominant language; and Persian-knowing persons, well-read in love stories and erotic literature, were able to get appointed to the highest posts. Munshi Vanshidhar, too, having read the unrequited love story of Zulaikha, rating the love stories of Majnu and Farhad far above the achievements of Nal and Neel and the discovery of America, went out in search of employment. His father was a worldly-wise man. He gave the young man the following advice: Son, you well understand our sad plight. We are under a heavy debt. There’re girls in the family, who are growing up fast like weeds. I’m like a tree on the edge that is likely to collapse anytime. Now you’re the master and head of the family. Don’t  bother about status in a profession, which  is like the mausoleum of a pir. Your eyes should always be fixed on offerings and chadders. Look for a job with an ‘over-and-above-the-salary’ income. The monthly salary is like the full moon  which is visible only for a day, and wanes each successive day and then disappears. The over-and-above income is like a flowing stream that regularly quenches your thirst. Salary is given by man, that’s why it does not take you far; the over-and-above  income is the gift of God, which leads to prosperity. You are a scholar yourself and don’t need to be taught anything. One needs to use one’s understanding. Think of man and his needs, and his opportunities. Then do what you think is best. It always pays to be tough with a person needing favours from you. But it is difficult to tame one who does not need any favour. Keep all this always in front of your eyes. This is my lifetime’s accumulation.’

After this sermon the father gave his blessings. Vanshidhar was an obedient son. He listened attentively to all this and then walked out of his home. In this vast world perseverance was his friend, intelligence his guide and self-reliance his aid. But since he had an auspicious start, he was appointed to the post of salt inspector as soon as he had stepped out. The salary was good, and there was no limit to over-and-above  income. When the old Munshi received this happy news his joy knew no bounds. His creditors became a bit soft and the hope of old revelries revived. Thorns began to prick the neighbours’ hearts.

2

It was a winter night. The constables and watchmen of the Salt Department were dead drunk. Munshi Vanshidhar had been here only for six months but he had impressed his officers with his efficiency and spotless conduct. They had begun to trust him wholeheartedly. The river Jamuna flowed about a mile away from the office of the Salt Department, where there was a boat-bridge over the river. The inspector had shut the doors and was sound asleep. Suddenly he woke up and heard, instead of the sound of the flowing river, the clatter of bullock carts and the shouts of boatmen. He wondered why carts were going across the river at this hour. Surely there was something fishy. A moment’s reflection strengthened his suspicions. He got up and immediately put on his uniform, put his pistol in his pocket and rode his horse and arrived at the river bridge in no time. He saw a long line of bullock carts going across the bridge. He demanded, ‘Whose carts are these?’

There was no answer for some time. Then after  some whispering among the men,  one of them said, ‘Pandit Alopidin’s.’

‘Who’s Pandit Alopidin?’

‘Of Daatagunj.’

Munshi Vanshidhar was taken aback. Pandit Alopidin was the  most prominent zamindar of this area. He had a turnover of lakhs, and there was no trader, big or small, who was not under his obligation. He had a huge business, and was a skilful manipulator. English officers came to his area for hunting as his guests. This hospitality went on  round the year.

The inspector asked, ‘Where are the carts headed to?’

‘Kanpur.’ 

When he asked what was loaded in them there was a stunning silence. The inspector’s suspicions were mounting. When he did not get any reply he shouted, ‘Are you all dumb? Tell me what’s inside these carts.’ 

When he got no reply even after this, he moved his horse close to one of the carts to examine the load. His suspicions were confirmed. This was salt indeed.

3

Pandit Alopidin  was following the convoy in his well bedecked chariot, lying half asleep and half awake. All of a sudden a few rattled-up cart drivers came and woke him up. ‘Maharaj, the inspector has stopped the carts. He’s at the river bank  and has summoned you.’

Pandit Alopidin had unshakable faith in the goddess Lakshmi. He used to say that not only on earth, the goddess Lakshmi reigned even in heaven. This was the plain truth. Justice and policy, both are playthings of Lakshmi. She can make them dance to any tune. Still lying in the same posture, he spoke with great confidence, ‘Go, I’m coming.’

After this Panditji  rolled a paan for himself with great nonchalance. Covering himself in a quilt he walked towards the inspector and said, ‘God bless you, babuji. Tell me how I have erred that the carts have been stopped. You should be kind to us brahmins.’

Vanshidhar said brusquely, ‘By the government order.’

Pandit Alopidin laughed and said, ‘We don’t know ‘the government order’, or the government. For us you’re the government. It’s all between us, our family affair. How can we be outsiders? You needn’t have taken this trouble. It’s impossible we should pass this way and go away without making an offering to the god of this ghat. I was just coming to present myself before you.’

Vanshidhar remained unmoved by this beguiling tune from the flute of wealth. New to his job, he was riding on the wave of honesty. He spoke in a harsh tone, ‘I’m not one of those namakharams who would sell their honour  for  a few  coweries. You’re under arrest now. You’ll be challaned under the law. I don’t have time to waste. Jamadaar Badlu Singh, take him into custody and bring him along. This is my order.’

Panditji was dumbfounded; the cart drivers were at sixes and sevens. This was the first time ever in his life that Panditji had to listen to such rude talk. Badlu Singh moved forward but did not have the courage to hold Panditji’s hand. Panditji had never seen dharma insulting artha in such a manner. He thought the inspector was  being rude and unmannerly, having not yet succumbed to temptation. He is too young and hesitant. Pandit Alopidin played a very humble tune. ‘Babu sahib, don’t do this. I’ll be ruined. My reputation will roll in dust. What‘ll you gain by insulting me ? I’m not a stranger to you in anyway.’

Vanshidhar answered rudely. ‘I don’t want to hear all this.’

The ground that Alopidin thought was rock solid appeared to be slipping from under his feet. Both prestige  and wealth had been hit hard; but even then he had full faith in the numerical strength of wealth. He said to his assistant, ‘Offer one thousand rupees to the sahib. He’s behaving like a hungry lion.’

Vanshidhar became angry. ‘Forget one thousand, even one lakh won’t shake me from the path of truth.’

Panditji was annoyed at dharma’s blind stubbornness, and this renunciation rare even among gods. Both the powers now engaged in warfare. Artha began to push larger numbers into the attack.  From one to five, from five to ten,  from ten to fifteen,  and from fifteen it reached to twenty thousand. But dharma with its superhuman bravery stood unshaken like a mountain against this vast numerical strength.

  

Alopidin was helpless now. He said, ‘I can’t go beyond this. You may do whatever you like.’

Vanshidhar shouted at the Jamadar. Badlu Singh advanced towards Pandit Alopidin, cursing the inspector in his heart. Panditji  drew back in fright. He spoke with great humility, ‘Babu sahib, for God’s sake have pity on me. I’m willing to settle it for twenty five thousand.’

‘It’s impossible.’

‘Thirty thousand.’

‘No way.’

‘Not even at forty thousand?’

‘Not even forty lakhs. It’s impossible. Badlu Singh  take this man into custody immediately. I don’t want to hear another word.’

Dharma had trampled artha under foot. Alopidin saw a strong man advancing towards him with handcuffs. He looked around helplessly with pleading eyes. Then he fell down in a swoon.

4

The world was asleep but its tongue was wagging. In the morning the same story was on everyone’s lips, the young-n-old. Everybody was commenting on Panditji’s conduct; condemnation came in showers from all sides, as if  the world had been finally rid of sinners and sinfulness. Milkman who adulterated milk, officials who made false entries in their diaries, babus who travelled ticketless, moneylenders and traders who concocted fraudulent documents – all were  shaking their heads like gods.  The next day when Pandit Alopidin, handcuffed and flanked by constables, his heart filled with remorse and anger, and his head held down in shame, moved towards the court as an accused, the whole city was rattled. Eyes wouldn’t have been so searching even in fairs.  Roofs and walls had become one with crowds of people.

But the moment Pandit Alopidin reached the court, he became the lion of this impenetrable jungle. The officials were his devotees, the junior staff his  minions, the lawyers his obedient servants, the orderlies, peons and watchmen his voluntary slaves. The moment people saw him they ran towards him from all directions. They were surprised; not that Alopidin had done this deed, but as to how he had let himself be caught in the clutches of the law.  How could a person who had so much money to employ all the possible means and a marvelous gift of the gab be caught like this? Everyone sympathized with him. An army of lawyers was immediately readied to tackle the impending assault. In the battlefield of justice, dharma and  artha were arrayed against each other. Vanshidhar stood there speechless. He had no force except that of truth and no weapons except bare facts. There were witnesses, but they had turned wobbly out of greed.

Vanshidhar had the feeling that even justice had deserted him. It was the court of justice but the staff there were drunk with partiality: Justice and partisanship don’t go together. Where there is partisanship there can be no justice. The trial was over in no time. The Deputy Magistrate wrote in his judgement: ‘The  evidence presented against Pandit Alopidin is false and misleading. He is a prominent person. It is unimaginable that  a person like him would break the law for such a small gain.  Although Inspector Vanshidhar is not to blame too much, yet  his  brazen and thoughtless act has caused needless agony to an honourable man. We are happy that he is watchful and alert in performing his duty but his overboard loyalty has destroyed his reason and judgement. He should be careful in future.’

    

The lawyers leaped with joy when they heard the judgement. Pandit Alopidin came out smiling. The near and dear ones began to rain money all around. The sea of generosity was on a high tide and its waves shook the very foundations of justice. When Vanshidhar came out of the court he was showered with volleys of sarcastic comments from all sides. The peons mockingly bowed their heads and saluted him. But  each and every harsh word or gesture was feeding the fire of his pride. Had he won the case he might not have walked with  a straighter head. Today he underwent a strange realization. Justice and learning, great titles, long beards and loose gowns – none of these was worthy of any respect.

Vanshidhar had antagonized artha. He had to pay the rice. Hardly a week had passed when he received  the letter of suspension. He had been rewarded for performing his duty. Broken-hearted, sad, bewildered, the poor fellow headed homewards. The old Munshi had been fretting and fuming even before this disaster: ‘The boy had turned a deaf ear to his advice and would have his way. Here I should face demands from the wine-seller and the butcher and live like a saint in my old age, and there just the bare salary! I have also been in service and was not holding any rank, but I worked and worked hard. And this man is making a show of his honesty. Never mind if there is darkness at home, he must light a lamp at the mosque. It is unbelievable. All his education has been a waste.’ A few days after this, when Vanshidhar reached home in that sorry state and the old man heard the news he beat his head. He said, ‘I feel like breaking mine and your head.’ He said many harsh words, and if Vanshidhar had not removed himself from his sight, his anger might have turned wild. His old mother was also unhappy. All her plans of pilgrimage to Jagannath and Rameshwaram had turned to dust. His wife too was resentful and would not talk to him for days.

A week passed. It was evening. The old Munshiji was at his prayers. At this very moment an ornamental chariot stopped at his door. Green and red curtains, driven by a pair of bullocks from the western parts, their necks bedecked with blue ropes, their horns capped with copper, escorted by servants carrying lathis on their shoulders. Munshiji ran out to welcome. It was Pandit Alopidin. Munshiji bowed his head in salutation and opened with a gush of admiration: ‘It is our great fortune to see you at our door. You are like a god to us. How can I show you my face, which has been painted black? But what can I do? My son is a luckless black sheep. Otherwise, why should I have to hide my face out of shame. God should keep one issue-less rather than shame one with such a son.’

Alopidin said, ‘No bhai sahib , don’t say all this.’

Munshiji was surprised. ‘What else should I say about such a progeny?’

Alopidin spoke in a voice full of love. ‘People, steadfast in duty and ready to sacrifice everything to preserve their  dharma  and enhance the glory of their family and ancestors, are rare indeed.’

Pandit Alopidin said to Vanshidhar, ‘Inspector sahib, don’t treat this as flattery. I didn’t have to come so far to flatter you. That day you had arrested me on the strength of your authority, but today I have come of my own to be arrested by you. I have met thousands of rich and wealthy. I had dealings with thousands of high officials. I enslaved all of them with my money. You alone have vanquished me. Allow me to say something.’

When Vanshidhar saw Alopidin advancing towards him he  got up and received him  courteously but  with his head held high. He thought this fellow had come to insult  and humiliate him further. He did not try to apologize,  and did not like his father’s fawning attitude. But when he heard what Panditji said, he  forgot all the malice. He cast a fleeting glance on Panditji’s face and saw it radiating sincerity. His pride changed into shame. He said, ‘You’re being very generous in saying all this. Please forgive me for the disrespect I showed you. I was shackled in the chains of dharma, otherwise I’m your humble servant. I am ready to obey your orders.’

Pandit Alopidin said in a humble voice, ‘You did not accept my request at the river bank. But today you will have to do it.’

Vanshidhar said, ‘I can’t be of any use to you, but still I shall  try my best to serve you.’

Alopidin took out a  judicial paper from his pocket and put it before Vanshidhar and said, ‘Accept this position and put your signatures here. I am a brahmin and shall not go away until you agree to this.’

When Vanshidhar read what was written on the paper his eyes were filled with tears out of gratefulness. Panditji had appointed him the manager of all his properties. A salary of six thousand rupees per annum, besides  the daily expenses. A horse to ride, and a bungalow to live, and servants!

Vanshidhar spoke in a trembling voice, ‘Panditji I don’t have the words to praise your generosity, but I’m not fit for such a big position.’

Panditji smiled and said, ‘At this moment I need only an unfit person.’

Vanshidhar replied, ‘I am your humble servant. It will be my good fortune to serve such an honourable and  famous person. But I have neither the education, nor the wisdom, nor the temperament to  make up for my weaknesses. You need an experienced and far-sighted man for this job.’

Alopidin took the pen out of the pen-holder and handed it over to Vanshidhar, saying, ‘I want neither learning, nor  experience, nor farsightedness, nor even expertise. I have already tasted the fruits of these qualities. Now fortune has cast before  me a pearl that outshines the brilliance of the able and the learned. Take this pen, don’t think too much, and sign this paper. I pray to God that he should always keep you as steadfast, fearless and unwavering yet  committed to dharma as you were on the river bank.’

Vanshidhar’s eyes were filled with tears. His small heart could not contain such generosity. Once again he looked at Panditji with devotion and reverence and  signed the contract with a trembling hand.

 Alopidin  embraced him with great joy.  

---

(Urdu, Hamdard, October  1913)

My Comments

 An amazing story, to say the least. 

The story was written in 1910, very early in his career, and just see how perfectly well Premchand understands the nature of Indian (or human) society, and how it seems a story that might have been written today, except perhaps for the ending.

First, Premchand fully understands how imposition of controls by the State (the Inspector Raj) leads to smuggling, black-marketing, tax evasion and corruption. See how the job of the salt inspector is eyed by everyone, especially by the lawyers.

Look at Vanshidhar’s worldly-wise father asking him, blatantly, to fix his eyes on the offerings, on the income over and above the salary, rather than bothering about the rank and status in a job. It seems he is in debts because of his love of good life, eating and drinking.  When he hears that his son has been appointed salt inspector he is delighted and hopes his son would, through his ‘over and above the salary income’, not only relieve him of his debts and help in the marriage of his daughters but also facilitate a life of conviviality in his old age, as in the past. Look at the neighbours, who become green with jealousy when they hear the news of Vanshidhar’s appointment as a salt inspector!

Further, look at the manner the employees of the salt department perform their duties. The watchmen and constables are dead drunk, while still on duty, a common occurring today. Nothing seems to have changed during these hundred years in the way the administration works in the country.

And Pandit Alopidin! He might well be a businessperson of today! His philosophy that it is the goddess Lakshmi who rules on earth as well as in heaven is perfectly in tune with  what the modern-day business community believes in and practises. He is also typical of the modern day businesspersons and politicians, brazen and self-assured in their exercise of power, but in reality cowardly and chicken-hearted when confronted with their crime. Alopidin, having failed to win over Vanshidhar with his offerings, swoons the moment the policeman advances to arrest him. Today’s businesspersons and politicians rush to hospitals with chest pain when they are caught.

Look at the public reaction at Alopidin’s arrest. Everyone enjoys his humiliation, even the milk-seller who adulterates milk, the policemen who makes false diary entries, the ticketless travellers and the fraudulent businessmen. But in the court the scene changes dramatically in Alopidin’s favour. Everyone is on his side: The lawyers, the court officials, the peons, the watchmen and even the magistrate. He is now ‘the lion of this impenetrable jungle.’  Vanshidhar’s witnesses turn hostile, the  case breaks down and Alopidin is acquitted. Strictures  are passed against Vanshidhar. Tables are turned. Artha has triumphed over Dharma. Vanshidhar, like the modern day whistle-blowers, is  isolated and suspended, though luckily not ‘eliminated’, as might have happened today. Even his own family turn against him. His father rues that such a son was ever born to him, that his education had been a waste. His mother too is disappointed for she cannot now go on her pilgrimage to Jagannath and Rameshwaram. And his wife refuses to talk to him.

Premchand has painted a perfect image of a society where Lakshmi is all powerful, even during the times when we could not even think of a consumer society, of conspicuous consumption, and did not see the presence of an infinite variety of goods and pleasures that money can buy today. Worldliness, it seems, is in everyone’s blood.  Premchand says all this with such facility and in his inimitable style laced with humour and irony, while yet probing the human psyche to its very depths.

Look at the marvellous felicity of his expression! Some of his images are magnificent. Girls who ‘grow up like weeds’. A job is like the Mausoleum of a Pir where chaddars and offerings are more important than piety. A salary is like a ‘full moon night’ that lasts only a day and wanes progressively. One might quote many more. Premchand’s volubility is a constantly flowing stream. But there are occasions when the stream overflows  and breaks the bounds of propriety and swells into wordiness. Premchand is sometimes guilty of using too many words. This is one  major weakness in Premchand that seldom deserted him even to the end. Many of his stories lack the tautness of a finished product. All he needed to do was to trim and edit to achieve that perfection. Why he did not, only those who have worked on his texts and circumstances under which he worked and wrote can tell us. Translations often tend to hide this flaw.

But the most important, fascinating and debatable issue in this story is its ending. A present-day story writer might have ended the story at the court with Vanshidhar’s complete humiliation at the hands of our system of justice where Artha completely overwhelms Dharma, highlighting the mockery of justice so characteristic of our times today.

So what to make of the last episode of the story, and the way it ends? It seems to be going totally against the grain of Premchand’s own understanding of human nature. The arrival of Alopidin at Vanshidhar’s house to offer him the position of the manger of his estate, and Vanshidhar’s tame acceptance? In the court Artha had triumphed over Dharma. Here it seems Artha, chastened and transformed, comes to surrender itself before Dharma. Or does it? Can one really believe that Alopidin  has been transformed? But that is how it looks. This is another issue with Premchand. The story ends not  as it should, driven by the logic of what has happened  before, but in the way Premchand thinks it should end. Premchand believes that Artha should subordinate itself to Dharma, for that is the only solution for the problems of corruption, injustice and greed. So it looks an issue between what is and what should be. Premchand most probably chooses what should be.

I would however like to read the story’s ending differently, although a straight forward reading of  the text does not seem to warrant this. Though, just an ironic twist might justify this.

My reading is  that, far from  Artha bowing before Dharma, it is Dharma that surrenders before Artha. Oily-tongued Alopidin attempts to mislead Vanshidhar to believe that he is a changed man  and has given up his Adharmic ways, giving the impression that now onwards he would use his wealth and Vanshidhar’s steadfast honesty only in the service of Dharma. And  Vanshidhar, sensing Alopidin’s real intent, goes a step further in this game of mutual deception, or understanding. Chastised by his father and family, realizing the mistake he had made in disregarding his father’s advice, he now goes all out to accept Alopidin’s  offer, realizing fully well that his arresting Alopidin  has helped him to make a better bargain for himself. He remembers what his father had said to him: It always pays to be tough with a person needing favours from you. From now onwards Vanshidhar will work as a humble servant of Alopidin’s. So the story is not a (wishful) triumph of Dharnma over Artha, but in fact one of abject surrender by Dharma before Artha, in the true spirit of our times. Vanshidhar will now act as a watchdog (and a loyal Munim) over Alopidin ill-earned wealth against many predators and competitors.  Only such an ending is in tune with the rest of the story, and Premchand’s deep and wonderful understanding of our society, where Lakshmi presides.  

Premchand’s idealism, has been regarded as another weakness. The story's ending seems to testify to this charge. But this limitation was self-imposed. Premchand, in his reformist’s zeal, had consciously decided to create characters who are good  and models to be emulated to show that everything is not evil. So it is a self-inflicted ‘weakness’, if it is. In this story he wanted to show that it is possible for even a man like Alopidin to transform himself after he has seen that his wealth has failed to bend  an honest man. This is probable, but only to a very small degree.          

          ---

Premchand's story: Sadgati

Munshi Premchand’s Short Story ‘Sadgati’ in English Translation

Here below is my translation of Premchand’s great short story ‘Sadgati’. Readers of Premchand would remember Satyajit Ray’s filmic adaptation of this story for Doordarshan in 1981. It is said to have been the first tele-film produced by Doordarshan, with Om Puri, Smita Patil and Mohan Agashe in the lead roles. I have nothing to say on this great and widely acclaimed story. I shall only quote two extracts, by someone I have not been able to identify, which very forcefully convey the essence of the story:

‘…brutally ironic condemnation of India’s caste system, and  by extension, all inequality and injustice… ‘

‘The final scene takes the story to its logical, devastating conclusion.’

But I have a point to make on the problem I faced while translating the story, especially in finding the right English equivalent for the title ‘Sadgati’. No English word I can think of conveys all the connotations of the expression ’Sadgati’. Indians everywhere would, I believe, generally understand what the word conveys, and thus appreciate the ruthlessly ironic, and surrealist, ending of the story, the horrifying ‘durgati’ to which Dukhia is subjected. But it would be almost impossible to convey the full import of the word to a non-Indian outside the subcontinent using one English word or phrase. In the Hindu belief  system, ‘Sadgati’ refers to a happy state the soul achieves after death. It may mean rebirth in a better world, or as a good living creature (uttam lok ki prapti); or moksha, which is deliverance from the endless cycle of birth-death-rebirth. But this is believed to be possible, apart from other things, only if a person’s last rites are performed according to the rituals prescribed by different traditions, and which may vary. Dukhi’s ending is most horrifying. For him it is ‘durgati’, both in this life, in death, and in the life hereafter. The words ‘deliverance’ and ‘salvation’ have been used to translate ‘Sadgati’ but they don’t convey the full import of Premchand’s title. But these are the dilemmas of translation. Perhaps the word ‘deliverance’ conveys better the horrifying irony of Dukhi’s tale. It is a deliverance from a wretched life indeed, but what a deliverance! In this story too Premchand seems to have moved away from his idealism, and even realism, to surrealism to effectively convey the horrors of caste system.

                                 The Deliverance 
                                     (Sadgati)

Dukhi chamar was sweeping the door front, and his wife, Jhuria, was plastering the floor with dung. After they were done with their chores, the chamarin said, ‘Go now and speak to Pandit Baba, lest he should go somewhere.’

Dukhi said, ‘Yes, I’m going, but think where we should seat him.’

Jhuria said, ‘We’ll borrow a cot from someone. Get it from the thakurs.’

‘Sometimes you say things that make my blood boil. Why would the thakurs lend me a cot? They don’t lend us even fire for lighting, and you expect them to lend us a cot! If I ask for water at the house of a Kaystha, I won’t get it. No question of getting a cot. It’s not like our dung cakes, reed stems, straw and wood; which anyone one can pinch. Let’s wash our own cot. Being summer, it’ll dry up before he comes.’

‘Why would he sit on our cot?  Don’t you know how strict he is in his observances?’

Dukhi replied, a little worried, ‘That’s true. It’ll be better if I make a leaf-plate from Mahua leaves. All big people eat in those plates. These are clean and taintless. Get me the stick. I’ll bring down some leaves from the tree.’

‘I’ll make the leaf-plates. You go. Oh yes, we’ll need some offerings too him. Shall I put them in our thali?’

‘Don’t be mad. We shall lose the offerings. And the thali too! Baba will hurl the thali away. Gets wild in no time. When angry, he doesn’t spare even the panditayan. He thrashed his son so badly that he still has a broken hand. Put the offerings on a leaf-plate. And, don’t you touch anything.’

Jhuria nodded her head in assent.

‘Take Bhuri Gond’s daughter with you and buy the offerings from Sah's shop. They should be plentiful. One ser flour, half ser rice, a quarter of lintels, ghee, salt, turmeric. And put a four-anna coin in one corner of the leaf-plate. And if the Gond’s daughter is not around, request Bhurjin. Don’t touch anything, or it would end indisaster.’

Repeating once again all that he had said, Dukhi picked up the stick and a big bundle of grass, and started on his way to panditji’s. How could he go empty-handed? But he had nothing else for a gift. If Baba saw him empty-handed, he would drive him away from a distance.

2

Pandit Ghasi Ram was a great devotee of God. As soon as he woke up, he would begin his daily rounds of worship. It would be eight by the time he washed himself, and then the devotions began in earnest. First of his acts was to grind bhang leaves and soak them in water. Then he would grind some sandalwood into paste; after which he would stand before the mirror and put two long paste marks on his forehead with a piece of straw. And then, a vermilion dot between the lines. Then he would draw, with the paste, roundish shapes on his chest and arms. Then he would take out his deity's image, give it a bathe, put sandalwood marks on it, offer flowers, and recite the aarti, tinkle the bell. It would be ten when he completed his daily observances. Finally, he would filter the bhang-brew, and come out. By then a few clients would be waiting at his door. That was an immediate reward for his devotions, This was his investment and means of livelihood. 

Today when he came out of his prayer room, he saw Dukhi chamar sitting at the door with a bundle of grass. Dukhi got up as soon as he saw him, made his obeisance by lying down flat on his chest in front of him, and then stood up folding his hands. Watching the glorious face in front, Dukhi’s heart was filled with great reverence. What a godly image! Small round and plump body, shining head, full cheeks, and eyes radiating godly refulgence! The sandalwood paste and vermilion further heightened this glory. Turning towards Dukhi, the radiant-faced pandit said, ‘Why have you come, Dukhi?’

Dukhi said, bowing his head, ‘It’s about my daughter’s engagement. I want you to suggest a propitious time and day. When will you be pleased to come?’

‘Dukhia, I’m not free now. I would come by evening.’

‘Maharaj, come early. I have kept everything ready. Where shall I put this bundle of grass?’

‘Put it in front of the cow. And take the broom and sweep the door. The sitting room hasn’t been plastered for many days. Plaster it with dung. By then I shall finish my food, then after resting for a while I shall come. And yes, chop this log of wood into small pieces. And there’re four sacks of straw in the field. Bring those also and put them in the hay store.’

Dukhi at once set himself to obey the commands. Swept the door-front, plastered the sitting room. By then it was noon. Panditji had gone in for his food. Dukhi had eaten nothing since morning, and he too was hungry, but there was nothing for him to eat. His home was a mile away, and if he went there panditji would get angry. The poor fellow suppressed his hunger and began to chop the wood. The piece of wood had a thick knot which had defeated many a devotee, and was now ready for battle again. Dukhi was good at cutting grass, but had no experience of chopping wood. Grass would always bow its head before his trawel but here he attacked the knot with all his force yet it refused to yield even a bit. His axe would slip again and again. He was sweating profusely. He gasped for breath and sat down, rested a while and got up again. He was unable to lift his hands, his legs were shaky, his back would not straighten. Darkness was clouding his eyes, his head was reeling. He was seeing butterflies. Even then he continued his labours.

A chillum of tobacco could give him some strength, he thought. But where would he get it? This was the brahmin habitation, and brahmins don’t smoke like us low-castes. Then he thought of the Gond. He would surely have tobacco, and he ran towards his home. He was lucky. The Gond gave him a chillum and also tobacco, but he had no fire to light the chillum. Dukhi didn’t worry, for he said he would borrow fire from panditji’s, where food was being cooked. He came back and went straight into panditji’s house and said, ‘Master, could I get some fire to light my chillum?’

Panditji was eating at that time. Panditayan questioned, ‘Who’s asking for fire?’

“It’s the same silly Dukhi chamar. I’ve asked him to chop some wood. Give him some fire.’

Panditayan raised her eyebrows, and said, ‘Haven’t you gone blind to your dharma-karma thinking of nothing but almanacs and horoscopes? Anyone may come in freely, whether he’s a chamar, or dhobi or passi. Is this the home of a Hindu, or a sarai?   Ask him to get out of here, or I shall singe his face with this burning piece of wood. How dare he ask for fire?’

Panditji tried to pacify her. ‘What if he has come in? He hasn’t touched anything here. And he’s working for us. If I had called a wood-cutter to do this, he would have charged at least four annas.’

Panditayan thundered, ‘Why did he enter the house?’

Panditji was irritated , ‘His evil day, what else!’

Panditayan said, ‘All right, I shall give the fire this time. But if he enters the house like this again, I shall burn his face.’

Dukhi was listening to all this. He was regretting that he ever came in. She’s right. How can a chamar enter a brahmin’s house! They are so pure, these people. That’s why the world worships them. That’s why they’re revered so much. They aren’t chamars. I have grown old in this village, and yet I did not have this much sense.

When panditayan came out carrying fire, he felt he was in heaven. He folded both his hands and bent down and put his head to the ground and said, ‘O mother panditayan, I made a great mistake by entering the house. It’s because of my follies that I get punished.’

Panditayan had brought a piece of burning wood held in tongs. She threw it towards Dukhi from a distance. A splinter from this fell on his head, and he began to shake it off. This is the retribution, he thought, for polluting a brahmin’s house. God has sent it so fast. That’s why the world is afraid of pandits. Everyone can be cheated of his money. But just you try to cheat a brahmin! You’ll be destroyed. Your feet will begin to rot, and then fall off.  

He came out and smoked his chillum, and then began to ply the axe again. Pandityan heard the khut-khut of the axe. Realizing that she had been too harsh in throwing the burning piece of wood at Dukhi, she softened a bit. After panditji had finished eating, she said, ‘Give this chamarva something to eat. He has been working for so long. Must be hungry.’ 

Panditji, treating the suggestion as impractical, said, ‘Do you have any rotis to spare?’

‘Only a few,’ she said.

‘A few won’t do. He’s a chamar, and would devour at least a ser of flour.’

‘O God, a ser! Then, forget it.’

Now panditji became aggressive. ‘If you have some bran, mix it with a little flour and make two thick rotis. That will fill his stomach. Thin rotis made from wheat flour can’t fill their stomach. These menials need thick ones made from barley.’

Panditayan said, ‘Then leave it. Who would go out in the heat?’

3

Having smoked his chillum, Dukhi began plying the axe. Resting had restored some of his strength. He kept on plying the axe for another half an hour, and then he sat down with his hands on his head, gasping for breath. In the meantime the Gond came there. He said, ‘Why’re you killing yourself, old man? This knot will not crack.  You’re wasting yourself for nothing.’

Dukhi wiped the sweat off his forehead and said, ‘I have to bring a cartful of straw, too.’

The Gond said, ‘Did they give you anything to eat?  They know only to extract work. Why don’t you go and ask for food?’

‘Chikhuri, what’re you saying? Will I be able to digest a brahmnin’s food?’

‘Yes, you will be able to, but first you should get it. He has eaten to his fill, and is sleeping peacefully, having ordered you to chop this log. The landlord at least gives something to eat. The officer makes you work, yet he too gives you something. And these ones have beaten them all, and they call themselves men of God!’

‘Don’t shout, brother. He’ll explode, if he hears all this.’

Dukhi got up and began to attack the wood. Chikhuri took pity on him. He snatched the axe from him and plied the axe with all his force for half an hour, but the knot refused to yield. Then he threw away the axe, and walked away saying: ‘This knot will not crack, even if you die trying it.’

Dukhi was wondering why Baba had kept this log that refuses to split. How long shall I go on? I have a hundred things to do at home.  We are preparing for our daughter’s engagement. I have so much to do. But why should this man care? I’ll go and bring the straw. I’ll tell him I could not chop the wood and would do it tomorrow.

He picked up the sack and went to fetch the straw. The field wasn’t less than two furlongs from here. If he had stuffed the sack to its fill, he could have completed the task faster, but then he wouldn’t have been able to carry it. So he only half filled the sack, and was able to bring in the whole load gradually by four o’clock.

By this time Panditji had woken up. He washed his face, stuffed a paan into his mouth and came out. He found Dukhi sleeping with the sack on his face. He shouted, ‘O Dukhi, you’re sleeping. The log is lying uncut. What have you been doing all this time? You have wasted the whole time hauling a handful of straw. And on top of it, you’re sleeping. Get up, pick up the axe and chop the wood. You can’t chop this small piece of wood! Don’t blame me if I follow your way to determine the propitious day for the engagement. People are right when they say that the moment a menial has food in his house, he turns a dodger.’

Dukhi picked up the axe once again. He forgot everything. His stomach was beginning to touch his back. He had eaten nothing even in the morning, for he hadn’t got time for this. He was unable to stand up, yet he argued with himself: He’s a brahmin, and if he fixes an inauspicious day, all will be ruined. That’s why people respect them. Everything depends on them. They can make it or break it.

Panditji came close to him and began to egg him on: ‘Come on, hit hard, still harder…don’t you have strength in your hands? Hit harder. What’re you thinking of. It’s about to crack. Hit into that opening.’

Dukhi was now out of his senses. He did not know what mysterious force was driving him on. Weakness, exhaustion, hunger – all were gone. He was wondering at his own strength. Each of his strokes came down like a thunderbolt. He kept on hitting at the wood for half an hour, and then the knot gave way and the axe fell off his hands. His head reeled and he too fell down. The hungry, thirsty and exhausted body had given way.

Panditji shouted, ‘Get up, a few strokes of the axe. Chip the log into small pieces.’ But Dukhi didn’t get up. Panditji didn’t want to trouble him any further. He went inside, readied his bhang, answered the call of nature, bathed, wore his pandit’s dress and came out. Dukhi was still lying on the ground. He shouted loudly, ‘O, will you keep lying there? Get up.I’m going to your home. Is everything ready?’ But Dukhi still did not get up.

 Now panditji became apprehensive. He went close and saw that Dukhi’s body had become stiff. Horrified, he ran in and told panditayan, ‘It looks Dukhi is dead.’

She said, frightened, ‘But he was chopping wood just now.’

‘Oh yes. He died while chopping. What shall we do now?’

Panditayan said in a calm voice, ‘Nothing. Send a message to the chamars. They will carry away the body.’

The news spread in the village in no time. The village belonged to the brahmins, except for the house of the Gonds. People stopped using this pathway. The way to the well led through this path. How shall they draw water? Who will go to the well passing by a chamar’s dead body? An old woman said to panditji, ‘Why don’t you have the corpse thrown away? How shall we drink water?’

On the other side, the Gond warned the chamars not to touch the body. ‘The police have to investigate,’ he said. ‘It’s not a joke. He has killed a poor man. He may be a brahmin. So what! If you touch the corpse, you too will be in trouble.’

Panditji came to the chamars’ habitations, but no chamar was ready to lift the body. Dukhi’s wife and his daughter came to panditji’s door crying, and began to beat their heads. A number of chamar women accompanied them. A few of them cried; others tried to console. But not a single chamar came there. Panditji, threatened, argued, pleaded, but the chamars were frightened of the police, and none agreed. At last he gave up and returned home.

4

The women kept weeping and wailing till midnight. It became difficult for gods to sleep. Yet no chamar came to carry away the corpse. And how could a brahmin touch a chamar’s corpse! The shastras and purans forbade this.

 Panditayan said in exasperation, ‘These she-devils have licked our heads. Their throats don’t dry up.’ Panditji said, ‘Let them cry, these chudels. How long will they go on! When he was alive, no one cared. Now that he’s dead, they’ve come here to hue and cry.’

Panditayan said, ‘A chamar’s crying is unpropitious.’

‘Yes, very much so.’

‘The body is beginning to stink now.’

‘I wonder whether he was a chamar. These fellows see no difference between what to eat and what not to eat.’

‘They don’t even feel any repulsion.’

‘They’re all renegades.’

The night passed somehow, but no chamar came there in the morning. The chamar women had also gone away, ending their crying and wailing. The stink had begun to spread. 

   Panditji took out a rope. He made a loop at one end and slung it round the corpse’s feet and pulled it to tighten it. It was still dark. Panditji caught the rope from the other end and began to pull the corpse. He dragged it out of the village. Then he came home and bathed, recited the prayer to goddess Durga and sprinkled the Ganga water all over in the house.

   Out there in the fields, jackals and vultures, dogs and crows were tearing at Dukhi’s corpse. This was the reward for a life-time of devotion, service and steadfastness.

                                                             ---

                                                                (Hindi, Premkunj, a Collection, 1930)

Premchand's story "Thakur ka Kuan" in translation

Here is my translation of Premchand’s short story  ‘Thakur ka Kuan’ .

                                   Thakur’s Well
                               (Thakur Ka Kuan)

1

As Jokhu brought the lota to his lips to drink, the water gave off a nasty smell. He said to Gangi, ‘What kind of water is this? It smells so horrible I can't drink it. My throat’s dry, and you’re making me drink this foul water.’

Gangi used to store up water in the evening. The well was far away, and it was difficult to walk the distance again and again. The water she had brought yesterday was good. What could have gone wrong today? she wondered. She brought the lota to her nose. Yes, it was stinking. An animal must have fallen into the well and drowned. But where from would she get water now?

No one would let her mount the Thakur’s well. They would drive her away from a distance. Sahuji’s well was at the other end of the village. But who would let her draw water from there? And there was no fourth well in the village.

Jokhu had been ill for many days. Though thirsty he kept quiet for some time. Then he said, ‘I can’t hold my thirst any more. Come, I’ll squeeze my nose and drink a little bit.’ 

Gangi didn’t let him. She knew that drinking this unsafe water would aggravate his illness, but she didn’t know that boiling would make it safe for drinking. She said, ‘How can you drink this water? God knows what animal it was. I’ll bring water from somewhere.’

Jokhu looked at her with surprise. ‘Where will you bring it from?’

‘There are two wells: the Thakur’s and the Sahu’s. Won’t they let me have even one lota-ful?’

‘You’ll get only broken arms and legs, nothing else. Sit quietly. The brahmin will bless you with curses, the Thakur wield his lathi, and Sahuji charge five for one. No one feels our pain. Even when we die, no one comes to see, least of all to lend his shoulder to the bier. Will such people let you draw water?’

This was the bitter truth. Gangi kept quiet, but she did not let him drink the stinking water.

2

It was nine o’clock in the night. The exhausted labourers had gone to sleep but a few idlers were gathered outside the Thakur’s door. The times and opportunities for showing valour in the battlefield were now gone. They were talking of battles won in the law courts. How the Thakur had bribed the thanedar and saved his skin. How cleverly he had obtained the copy of a landmark court judgement. The nazir and other court officials had said that a copy couldn’t be given. Some demanded fifty, others a hundred. He obtained the copy without paying a single cowrie or paisa! One should know the art of manipulation. 

It was then Gangi arrived to draw water from the well.

A faint light from the street oil-lamp was falling on the well. Gangi came and sat close to the platform around the well, sheltering herself, and waited for an opportunity.

Everyone drank from this well. They alone, the ill-fated, were forbidden. Gangi’s rebellious heart began to hit out at the traditional society’s restrictions and compulsions. What makes us low, and them high? Just because they are wearing a string round their necks! All these people are so crooked, each one more than the other. They steal. They cheat. They file false cases against others. Only the other day the Thakur poached the shepherd’s sheep, then slaughtered and ate it up. And this panditji’s house is a round-the-year den of gamblers. And this very Sahuji adulterates ghee with oil. They make us labour for them, but don’t want to pay for it. In what way are they higher than us? In swaggering, yes. We don’t go shouting in the streets, like them, that we are superior. Whenever I walk through the village, they look at me with lusting eyes, and their hearts turn and twist in envy. Yet they pride themselves on their superiority!   

She heard the sound of footsteps at the well. Her heart began thumping with fright. Hell would break loose if she was seen. She picked up the pitcher and the rope and, bending herself low, walked away towards a tree and hid herself in its dark shadow. They never show anyone any mercy. They had beaten up poor Mahngu so badly that he had kept spitting blood for months—just because he had refused to work without being paid! And they are higher! 

Two women had come to the well to draw water. They were talking.

‘They’ve come in to eat, and have ordered us to bring fresh water.’

‘These men become agitated if they find us resting for a while.’

‘They didn’t have the decency to come here and draw water by themselves. They only know to give orders, as if we were their bondwomen.’

‘What else are you, if not a bondwoman? Don’t you get food and clothing? And you snatch a few rupees from them, off and on. How are bondwomen different?’

‘Don’t insult me, sister. I’m not able to relax even for a short while. Had I laboured like this at another’s household, life would have been a lot easier. And he would have been grateful too. Kill yourself with work, yet no one’s pleased.’ 

Both the women walked away after drawing water. Gangi came out of the tree’s shadow and walked towards the well. The idlers had gone away. The Thakur too had shut the door from inside and was readying himself to sleep in the courtyard. Gangi heaved a sigh of relief. The coast seemed clear now. Even the prince who had gone to steal amrita, would not have taken such meticulous care. Gangi treaded the edge of the well with soft steps. Seldom had she experienced such a sense of triumph!

She looped one end of the rope round the pitcher’s neck. She peered to her right and left, like a soldier readying himself to pierce the enemy’s defences. If she were caught now, there would be no mercy at all. At last, invoking the gods, fortifying her heart, she lowered the pitcher into the well.

The pitcher sank into the water gently, making no sound at all. Gangi pulled the rope up quickly, and the pitcher came up to the top. Even a powerful wrestler couldn’t have drawn up the pitcher so swiftly.

Gangi leaned forward to catch the pitcher and rest it on the edge of the well. Just then the Thakur’s door opened suddenly. A lion’s look could not have been more terrifying than this sound. The rope slipped through her hands, and the pitcher went hurtling down the well and hit the water with a loud thud.  The water kept making a rippling sound for a few moments.

The Thakur was advancing towards the well, shouting, ‘Who’s there? Who’s there?’ and Gangi, jumping from the well’s platform, was running furiously.

When she reached home, she found Jokhu drinking the dirty water from the lota.

(Hindi, ‘Jagran’   August 1932)    

My Comments

In many ways the story has become dated. The rural India has undergone tremendous changes. The caste relations have become more horizontal and less vertical, though caste identities have sharpened with the rising political consciousness across the castes. New horizontal caste combinations and alliances are emerging to negotiate a space in the political power structure. Feudalism has been on the decline. Yet the important features of feudal India that Premchand portrays in this story still persist in the new and changing India. Exclusion and discrimination on the basis of caste are still endemic, and self-assertion by the lower castes often leads to violent retribution by the upper castes in many parts of the country, which goes unpunished by the state still heavily biased in favour of the upper castes, though with some exceptions. Women still remain at the receiving end because the society continues to be strongly patriarchal. And the rural rich and powerful, successors to the lost feudal world, are able to manipulate the state administration through connections, bribery, chicanery, and, above all, political clout. 

Today, Premchand would have written the story differently, but the essential features would have been the same: Caste/class/gender inequalities, gross social injustice, and corruption and abuse of power.

Premchand still remains the chronicler of themes and issues that, sadly, seem perennial and refuse to die down even in the independent and democratic India. This is what Bhisham Sahani wrote 25 years ago:  ‘Out of the evils against which Premchand struggled only one has disappeared – the British Raj. All the others he wrote about continue to haunt us in one form or the other.’ What about today?

                                                   ---

Also see the following link for an analysis of the power structures in this story:

http://www.languageinindia.com/july2011/premchandashokfinalpaid.pdf

      

Hindi Poetry

            Some More Hindi Poems 

            and Their English Versions

1

2

3

4

5

                   1

LET THEM FLY AWAY

Let them grow wings

So that

Spreading them

They can fly

In the open blue sky

I know there is danger

In their attempting to measure

Its unfathomable depths

They can lose their way

And wander aimless

In its boundless expanse

They can burn their wings

Trying to reach the sun

But do not stop them

Let them fly away
         ---

             2

CONTRASTS

Your huge magnificent palace

Persian carpets on white marble

Soft, soft cushions caressing your back

Paintings bejewelling the walls

Your air-conditioner

Taming the June heat

With its steady feline purr

And your speech

Soft suave civilized -

Do they all prove

That my fifty-year long

Ordinary man’s life

Lined with denials

From end to end

Has been meaningless?

           ---

        3

EACH  DAY

Every morning

People of this city

Set their homes ablaze

And flee

And every evening

After burning their dead

They retreat

Defeated

---

                 4

AN OLD PHOTOGRAPH

In this photograph

This little girl

With her doll

Still looks like a chick

Stepping out of its egg-shell

I bought this book

Years ago

Now it’s old and yellow

Like a falling leaf

And my face

Watching this girl

A dry furrowed field

             ---

              5

THIS HOUSEWIFE

Enclosed within these walls
Of relationships

She often wonders

If ever that piece of the blue sky

Visible beyond the window panes

Could have been hers

Where she could fly like a bird

Her wings spread out…
---