THE SHROUD
by Munshi Premchand
Outside the hut, father and son sat in silence in front of the firepit already gone cold. Inside, Budhya, the son’s young wife, kept thrashing about in labour, intermittently sending forth piercing cries of pain that momentarily froze the hearts of the two men. It was a cold wintry night. Stillness pervaded all around. The entire village was engulfed in darkness.
‘Doesn’t look like she’ll make it,’ said Ghisu. ‘She’s been writhing in agony all day long. Perhaps you should go in and have a look at her.’
Madhu replied in a mournful voice, ‘If die she must, why linger on. What’s there for me to look at, anyway?’
‘You are a heartless man… So unfeeling towards the woman who gave you every comfort of life for an entire year!’
‘I just can’t bear the sight of her flailing about in utter agony.’
Theirs was a family of chamars, and none too liked for its ways throughout the village. Ghisu worked one day and took rest for the next three. Madhu shirked work if he could help it. And even if he did work for an hour, he spent an equal amount smoking his chillum. That’s why no one felt like hiring these layabouts. If the house had a fistful of grain, well, that was as good a reason as any not to work at all. When, however, they had to go without food for a couple of times, Ghisu climbed on trees and broke some branches, which Madhu then took to the bazaar to sell. For the time the money lasted, the two idled away without a care, until the next bout of starvation overtook them, and the earlier routine of gathering firewood or looking for work kicked in again. It wasn’t like there was shortage of work in this village of farmers. Hundreds of jobs were ready for the taking for any hardworking man. People took them on only when necessity drove them to hire two men to do the job of one. Had the two been only sadhus, there would be absolutely no need to seek contentment and trust in God through ascetic self-denial, for these were their innate attributes. It was a strange life; they owned nothing beyond a few clay pots, torn rags to clothe their nakedness—free of wordly deceptions, weighed down by heavy debts, the butt of people’s insults and scorn, and yet not a worry to speak of. Despite their abject poverty, people still lent them something, fully aware that none of it was ever coming back. At harvest time, they would steal green peas or dig up potatoes from other people’s fields, bake them and have their fill, or pick a few stalks of sugarcane to suck at night. Ghisu had lived through all his sixty years in such ascetic frugality, and Madhu, every bit his father’s son, was following in his footsteps; if anything, he had put a gloss on his old man’s fame. Ghisu’s wife had died a while back. Madhu had married just a year ago. Ever since her arrival, this woman had put a measure of order and civility in their family. She would do chores for others; grind grain or cut grass to earn a little and buy some flour to fill the stomachs of these shameless bums. Her presence had made them even more indolent and slothful. If anyone offered a job, they audaciously asked for double wages, as if they couldn’t care less. And now the same woman was writhing in deathly labour since the morning, while the two men were perhaps waiting for her to kick the bucket so that they could finally get some peaceful sleep.
Ghisu yanked out the potatoes from the ashes, started peeling them and told Madhu, ‘Come on now, go inside and see how she’s doing. Looks like some evil spirit has possessed her—yes, evil spirit, a witch. Here, even an exorcist asks for a rupee. Who’s going to give it to us?’
Afraid that if he went inside Ghisu would polish off most of the potatoes himself, Madhu said, ‘I’m scared.’
‘Scared—scared of what? I’m right here.’
‘Well then, go yourself and see.’
‘When my woman lay dying, I didn’t leave her side for three days. Wouldn’t Budhya be embarrassed seeing me? I’ve never seen her face without her veil on. If she sees me in her senseless state, she wouldn’t be able to thrash freely out of modesty.’
‘Say, what if she did give birth to a child? Ginger, raw sugar, oil—we have got nothing in the house.’
‘Oh, we’ll get everything. First, let Bhagwan give us a child. The very people who are averse to giving us a penny now will rush in to provide. Nine boys were born to us and we were flat broke, but each time things worked out swimmingly.’
The emergence of such a mindset was not surprising, indeed it was inevitable in a social milieu where the general condition of those toiling away day and night was not much better than that of Ghisu and Madhu and where carefree existence was the privilege of only those who took advantage of the dismal circumstances of the peasantry. One would even venture to say that Ghisu reflected a keener sense of reality and discernment than the peasants in joining the ranks of the rogues and the rabble-rousers rather than those of the dim-witted community of the farm workers. What he sorely lacked, though, was the ability to stick to the rules and the ways of the rogues. So, while others of his ilk became wielders of power and authority in the village, he remained the object of everyone’s scorn. But there was comfort in the thought that as bad as his situation was at least he didn’t have to work his backside off like farmers, that his simplemindedness and unassuming manner were his greatest assets against anyone taking advantage of him.
Both men pulled out searing hot potatoes and started eating ravenously. They hadn’t had a morsel to eat since the day before and could hardly wait for the potatoes to cool. As a result, they repeatedly singed their tongues. The outer part of a peeled potatoe didn’t feel overly hot, but the instant the teeth dug into its inside, the burning pulp scalded their tongues, their palates, and their throats. It was better to quickly swallow the live ember than chew on it. It would be cooled once it had plopped into their stomachs anyway. They hurriedly swallowed the embers; however, the effort caused their eyes to water profusely.
As they gobbled the potatoes, Ghisu remembered the day when, twenty years ago, he was part of the Thakur’s wedding procession. He had eaten so much and so well at the banquet that day that it became the most memorable event of his life. Its memory was still vividly alive in his mind. He said, ‘Would I ever forget that fabulous meal! I haven’t had anything quite like it ever since. It was out of this world. I could eat as much as I wanted. The bride’s family served fried puris. Bigshots and nobodys, all—and I mean all—ate puris and satpanis made from pure ghee, raita, three types of dried leaf vegetable dishes, another kind of vegetable dish, yogurt, chutney, and sweetmeats! I cannot begin to tell you how fantastic the food tasted. You could eat as much as you wanted, ask for anything, and eat until you could no more. People ate so much, so much they had no room left for a drink of water. But those serving the food kept piling up our plates with piping hot and perfectly round fragrant kachoris, regardless of how much we asked them not to or shielded our plates with hands. They just wouldn’t know how to stop. When the guests had rinsed their mouths and washed their hands, they were each offered a cone of paan. But I had no mind to chew paan. I could hardly stand up. I made it to my blanket and splayed out on it as fast as I could. Such was the generosity of the Thakur! It knew no bounds!’
Madhu, savouring these flavourful delicacies in his imagination, exclaimed, ‘If only someone served us such a meal now!’
‘Who will? Not a chance. That was a different time. Now people tend to be tightfisted. They say, “Don’t spend too much on weddings! Don’t spend too much on funerals!” Just ask them, “So what are you going to do with what all you have been squeezing out of the poor?” Squeezing never stops, frugality kicks in only when it comes to spending.’
‘You must have eaten twenty puris, I guess?’
‘More than twenty.’
‘I would have gobbled fifty.’
‘I wouldn’t have eaten less than fifty. I was a strapping youth back then. You are not even half as strong.’
After eating potatoes, they drank some water, covered themselves with their dhotis, and dozed off near the firepit, curling their legs in foetal position, like two enormous coiled snakes. Meanwhile, Budhya kept groaning in labour.
Come morning, Madhu went inside the hut and found that his wife’s body had turned cold. Flies were buzzing around her mouth. Her stony eyes were turned upward in a frozen stare and her body was smeared with dirt and grime. The child had died in her womb.
He rushed out to Ghisu. Both men broke out into loud wailing and started beating their chests. The neighbours came running when they heard their doleful cries. According to the age-old custom, they expressed their sympathy and tried to console them.
However, there wasn’t time for much wailing and chest-beating. They had to worry about a shroud for the dead body and wood for the pyre. The money in the house had disappeared like carrion in a buzzard’s nest.
Father and son went wailing and crying to the village landlords, who hated the very sight of the two and often had occasion to beat them up for pilfering, for not showing up for work despite promise. Anyway, they asked, ‘What is the matter, Ghisu? Why are you crying? You’ve become so scarce these days. You aren’t thinking of leaving the village, are you?’
Ghisu put down his forehead on the ground and, with tears in his eyes, said, ‘Sarkar, a terrible calamity has struck me. Madhu’s wife passed away last night. She kept writhing in pain all day long. Both of us stayed by her side half the night. Medicine, drugs, you name it—we tried everything, but she left us all the same. Who would feed us now? Master, we are ruined. The house is desolate. I am your slave. There is only you to help with her cremation. Whatever little we had was spent on medicine and drugs. Her funeral rites will be performed only through your benevolence. At whose door should I go begging if not yours?’
Zamindar Sahib was a gentle soul, but showing mercy to Ghisu was like trying to dye a jet-black fabric a varied colour. He felt like telling him off: ‘Get the hell out of here! Keep the corpse in the house and let it rot! When I call you for work, you put on airs and don’t show up. Today, when you’re in need, you come flattering me—you freeloading son of a bitch! Rascal!’
But this was hardly the time to get angry or seek revenge. Zamindar Sahib willy-nilly took out two rupees and disdainfully threw at him, without a word of commiseration. He didn’t bother to even look at him, as if he just wanted to get this weight off his chest, and get it off pretty damn quick.
Once the Zamindar had dished out two rupees, how dare the banias and monylenders of the village refuse him? He went around announcing loudly that the Zamindar had donated two rupees. People gave, some two annas, some four. Within an hour Ghisu had bagged a tidy sum of five rupees. Some offered grain, some others wood. Around noon both men set out for the bazaar to buy a shroud, and others started to chop bamboo stalks to fashion a bier for the corpse.
The tender-hearted womenfolk of the village came to look at Budhya’s dead body, shed a few tears at the hapless woman and left.
After they had made it to the bazaar, Ghisu said, ‘We’ve got enough wood for the pyre, Madhu, what do you say?’
‘Oh yes, plenty,’ Madhu replied. ‘All we need now is the shroud.’
‘Well then, let’s get a cheap one.’
‘Of course, a cheap one. By the time the corpse is carried off for cremation, it will be night. No one would care to look at the shroud in the dark.’
‘What a lousy custom! Someone who could not get a tattered rag to cover her body while living must have a new shroud now when she dies.’
‘A shroud burns up with the corpse.’
‘What else! If we had the same five rupees earlier, we could have spent the money on her treatment.’
Both understood the implied meaning of the other. They meandered through the bazaar until evening shadows began to deepen. Whether by accident or by design they found themselves standing right across from a tavern. They walked in, as though driven by some tacit agreement, and stood there hesitating for a bit. Then Ghisu bought a bottle of country liquor and some flats of gajak to go with the drink. They sat on the veranda and began drinking.
A few glasses down their throats in quick succession and both men’s heads began to swim.
‘What good is a shroud for? It would have burnt to ashes anyway. Bahu wouldn’t have carried it with her.’
Madhu looked at the sky, as if trying to prove his innocence to the angels, and said, ‘Such are the ways of the world. Why do these moneybags give away thousands of rupees to the Brahmins? Who can tell whether they would get any recompense for it in the next world.’
‘The bigshots have plenty to burn, so let them. What have we got to burn.’
‘But what will we say to the people? Wouldn’t they ask, “Where is the shroud?”’
Ghisu cackled. ‘We’ll say the money slipped off our waists. We looked and looked but couldn’t find it.’
Madhu cackled too. At this unexpected good fortune and on outsmarting fate, he said, ‘Poor woman, she was so good to us. Even in death she’s made sure that we are well fed.’
By now they had been through more than half the bottle. Ghisu sent Madhu for two sers of puris, a dish of curried meat, spicy roasted liver, and fried fish. The shop was straight across from the tavern. Madhu returned in no time at all, bringing everything on two leaf platters. It cost them one rupee and a half. They were left with a little bit of change now.
They sat eating with the majestic air of a tiger feasting on his prey, without a care about having to answer for their actions, or haunted by any thought of the coming disgrace. They had overcome such scruples a long time ago. Ghisu said philosophically, ‘If our souls are content, wouldn’t she get some reward for it!’
Madhu bowed his head with overabundant reverence and agreed, ‘Of course she will, no doubt about it. Bhagwan, You are all-knowing! Give her a place in heaven. We pray for her with all our hearts. Never in our life did we taste such delicious food as we did today.’
A split second later Madhu was assailed by doubt. ‘Well, Dada, we too will have to go there some day.’
Ghisu brushed aside this childish question and looked at Madhu reproachfully.
‘What if she asks us up there, “Why did you people not give my body a shroud”? What will you say?’
‘Pipe down.’
‘But she will be sure to ask us.’
‘How do you know that she won’t get her shroud? You think I’m an asshole or something? I haven’t been dawdling all my sixty years. She will get her shroud all right, and she will get a very nice one, much better than what we could have ever given her.’
Madhu, who didn’t believe him, said, ‘Who is going to give it? You’ve blown all the money.’
‘I said that she will get a shroud,’ Ghisu said in a huff. ‘Why don’t you believe me?’
‘But why won’t you tell me who’ll give it?’
‘The same people who gave this time, except the money won’t come into our hands. And if somehow it did, we will again be sitting here drinking away. And we will get a shroud for the third time.’
As the darkness spread around and the stars began to shine brightly, the tavern took on an air of exuberance. People broke into song, made merry, hugged their companions, raised wine cups to their friends’ lips. The atmosphere was shot with inebriated gaiety, the air gently intoxicating. It took just a few sips for many to get drunk. People came here for a taste of forgetfulness. Their enjoyment came more from the tavern’s ambience than from liquor. Wordly cares had dragged them here—a place where they could forget for a while whether they were alive or dead, or living-dead.
And here they were, father and son, sipping away their drinks with a feeling of immense light-heartedness. Everyone’s gaze was glued on them: lucky guys, an entire bottle to share between them!
After they were done eating, Madhu picked up the platter of the leftover puris and gave it to the beggar who had been standing nearby, casting greedy looks at them. For the first time in his life Madhu felt the swagger, the elation, the joy that comes from giving.
‘Here…take it. Eat your fill,’ said Ghisu. ‘Give your blessings. The woman who earned this is no more, but your blessings will certainly reach her. Let every pore of your body bless her. It was hard-earned money.’
Madhu looked at the sky again and said, ‘Dada, she will surely go to heaven, won’t she? She’ll become the Queen of Heaven.’
Ghisu stood up and, as if awash in the tide of happiness, said, ‘Yes son, she will. She will go to heaven. She troubled no one, harmed no one, and even as she lay dying fulfilled the most ardent wish of our life. If she doesn’t go to heaven, then will these moneybags who rob the poor folk with both hands and make offerings of holy water at temples and take a dip in the Ganga to wash out their sins?’
The aura of joyful trust in Providence brought on by their inebriated state soon gave way to a bout of despair and sorrow.
‘But Dada,’ Madhu said, ‘she suffered a lot in her life, and not least even when she lay dying.’ He covered his eyes with his hands and broke into sobs.
Ghisu tried to comfort him. ‘Son, why do you cry? Be glad instead. At least she is rid of the web of earthly illusions, free of wordly cares and anxieties. She was lucky to break free of the bonds of moh and maya so soon.’
Both stood up and started singing at the spot:
Enchantress, why do you entice us with your flashing eyes, Enchantress!
The entire tavern watched the two tipplers in breathless amazement, who were singing away with abandon, oblivious of everything. Then they started dancing. They skipped and hopped. They stumbled and fell. Swayed their hips seductively. At last, overcome by the stupor brought on by alcohol, they crumbled.
***
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