The Story of My Life

1

My life is a flat, level plain. There are pits here and there but no hills, mountains, thick forests, steep slopes or ruins. Those fond of mountaineering are sure to be disappointed. I was born in 1880. My father was a clerk in the post office and my mother was an ailing woman. I also had an elder sister. My father earned about twenty rupees a month in those days. He died by the time it reached forty rupees. Although he was very thoughtful and treaded carefully on the roads of life, he eventually stumbled in his last days. What’s more is that he brought me down too. He got me married when I was fifteen and died scarcely a year after that. I was in the ninth grade then. In the house, there was my wife, my stepmother and her two children but not a paisa’s worth of income. Whatever savings we had were spent during my father’s six-month-long illness and the funeral ceremonies. I, meanwhile, wanted to pursue an MA degree and become a lawyer. Finding a job in those days was just as tricky as it is now. With some effort, one could get a post on a salary of ten to twelve rupees a month. But I intended to study further. My feet were shackled not with iron chains but with ashtadhaatu—all the eight metals —and I wanted to climb the mountains!

I did not have shoes, or even decent clothes, for that matter. On top of this there were the high prices—barley cost half a rupee for ten pounds. I studied at Queens College, Benares, where the headmaster had waived the fees. My exams were fast approaching. When my school finished at half-past three, I would go to a part of the town known as Bamboo Gate to teach a boy. It was winter. I would reach at four, tutor till six and then leave for my house, which was five miles away in the countryside. I could not reach before eight no matter how fast I walked. And I had to leave the house again at eight the next morning. I could never make it to school on time. At night, after dinner, I would sit down to study in front of the oil lamp. I never knew when I fell asleep. Nonetheless I was determined.

Somehow I managed to clear my matriculation exams. But I only got a second division and lost all hopes of getting admission in Queens College since the fees was waived only for those who had a first division. Incidentally, Hindu College opened in the same year. I decided to study in this new institution. The principal’s name was Mr Richardson. I went to his house and found him dressed in Indian clothes. Sporting a kurta and dhoti, he sat on the floor writing something. But he was very difficult to please. After listening to my request—I was only halfway through it—he told me that he did not discuss college affairs at home and that I should meet him in the college. I went to the college and met him but our meeting was a disappointment. He could not remit the fees. What could I do now? Had I come up with distinguished recommendations, he might have considered my request. But who in the city knew a youth from the countryside?

Every day, I would set out to get a recommendation from somewhere or the other. But after a strenuous journey of twelve miles I would return in the evening. To whom could I have told all of this? No one bothered about me.

After several days, I finally managed to get a recommendation. His name was Thakur Indranarayan Singh and he was on the board of directors of Hindu College. I went to him and pleaded my case. He took pity on me and gave me a letter of recommendation. In that instant, my happiness knew no bounds. I returned home, quite pleased with myself. I had decided to meet the principal the next day, but as soon as I reached home I came down with a fever. I couldn’t get rid of it for two weeks. I was tired of drinking medicinal extracts prepared from neem leaves. One day, I was sitting at the doorstep when my family priest came along. Seeing my condition, he asked me about it and went off into the fields. He dug up a root and brought it home. He washed it, ground it with seven grains of black pepper and made me drink it. It had a magical effect. It was only an hour before the fever would usually shoot up, but it was as if this herb had caught it by the neck and strangled it. I asked Panditji many times for its name but he would not tell me. He said that if he did, it would no longer be as effective.

After a month, I met Mr Richardson again and showed him the letter of recommendation. Giving me a stern look, he asked, ‘Where on earth were you all this while?’

‘I was ill.’

‘What was the nature of your illness? Would you care to elaborate?’

I was not ready for this question. If I told him it was a fever, then perhaps the sahib would have thought I was lying. In my opinion, a fever was a trivial matter, not enough to account for so long an absence. I wanted to name some disease that by its very acuteness would cause him to sympathize. But on the spur of the moment, I could think of none. When I had met Thakur Indranarayan Singh, he had mentioned that he suffered from palpitations of the heart. I remembered those words now.

‘Palpitations of the heart, Sir,’ I replied.

Astonished, the principal looked at me and asked, ‘Are you completely all right now?’

‘Absolutely, sir.’

‘Very well. Fill out the entrance application form and bring it here.’

I thought my problems were over. I took the form, filled it out and brought it back. The principal was in a class. At three in the afternoon, I got the form back. On it was written: ‘Look into his ability’.

This was a new problem that had cropped up. My heart sank. I could not hope to pass any subject other than English; algebra and geometry gave me the shivers! I’d completely forgotten whatever I’d learnt. But what else was there to do? Reposing faith in my destiny, I went to class and presented my application. The professor, a Bengali, was teaching English and the topic was Washington Irving’s Rip Van Winkle. I took a seat in the last row and within a few minutes I could tell that the professor was competent. When the lecture was over, he asked me several questions about the day’s lesson and then wrote ‘satisfactory’ on my form.

The next hour was about algebra. Here too the professor was a Bengali. I showed him my form. More often than not, only those students who are unable to get admission elsewhere come to a new school. This was the case here too. The classes were full of incompetent students. Whoever came in first had been enrolled. To the hungry, even the most distasteful greens are appetizing. But now the stomach was full and students were chosen only after careful selection. The professor examined me in mathematics and I failed. In the box marked ‘maths’ on the form, he wrote ‘unsatisfactory’.

I was so disappointed that I did not take the application back to the principal. Instead, I went straight home. For me, mathematics was like the peak of Mount Everest, which I was never able to climb. In the intermediate exams, I had already failed the subject a couple of times and, discouraged, gave up taking the exam. Ten years later, when it was made optional, I took another subject and cleared it easily. But until then, who can say for sure as to how many young people’s aspirations had been frustrated! Anyway, even though I returned home disappointed, the desire for learning was still strong. What could I do sitting at home? My ardent desire was to improve my maths somehow and get enrolled in college. For this, I would have to live in town.

Incidentally, I got a job as a tutor for a lawyer’s sons with a salary of five rupees a month. I decided to make do with two rupees and give the other three to my family. There was a small, unfinished attic above the lawyer’s barn. I got permission to stay there. A mat was spread out as a bed. I bought a small lamp from the market and began life in the town. I also brought some vessels from home. Once a day I cooked khichri and after washing and scouring the vessels, I would go to the library. Maths was just a pretext for reading novels and the like. It was in those days that I read Pandit Ratannath Dar’s Fasana-e-Azad (The Romance of Azad) as well as Devkinandan Khatri’s Chandrakanta Santati (Chandrakanta’s Children). I also read everything of Bankim Chatterji’s that I could find in Urdu translation in the library.

The brother-in-law of the lawyer’s sons had been a fellow student during matriculation. It was on the basis of his recommendation that I had got the job. We were good friends, so when I needed money I would borrow from him. The accounts were settled when I got my salary. Sometimes I would have only three rupees left, sometimes two. On the day I received my pay, I would lose all sense of restraint. The tormenting desire for sweets would draw me towards the sweet-maker’s shop. I would leave only after consuming sweets worth two to three annas at once. On the same day, I would go home and give my family the remaining two or two and a half rupees. The next day, I would begin to borrow again. But at times I was embarrassed to do that and would have to fast for days!

In this way, four to five months went by. Meanwhile, I had purchased two-and-a-half rupees worth of clothes from a draper on credit. Every day, I would walk by his place for he had complete confidence in me. But after a couple of months, when I had not been able to pay him, I gave up going that way and took a detour instead. It was only after three years that I could pay off this debt. In those days, a labourer from the city would come to me to learn Hindi. His house was behind the lawyer’s residence. ‘Know this, brother!’ was his pet phrase. We had all come to call him that by way of a nickname. Once I borrowed eight annas from him too. He could only recover this amount five years later when he came to my house in the village.

I was still eager to study but despair increasingly got the better of me with every passing day. I wanted to find a job somewhere but I had no idea how and where to find one.

That winter I was left with no money. I had spent a couple of days eating a paisa’s worth of parched grains. Either the moneylender had refused to lend me anything or I could not ask him out of embarrassment.

The lamps had been lit. I went to a bookseller’s shop to sell a book—The Key to Chakravarti’s Mathematics. I had purchased it two years earlier and held on to it with great difficulty, but today, after being disappointed from all sides, I decided to sell it. Although I had bought it for two rupees, the bargain was settled at one. After receiving the money, I was about to leave the shop when a gentleman with big moustaches—he had been sitting there all this while—asked me, ‘Where do you study?’

I replied, ‘I don’t study anywhere but I hope to get enrolled Too loose somewhere.’

‘Have you cleared your matriculation exams?’

‘Indeed, I have.’

‘Are you interested in a job?’

‘I can’t find one anywhere.’

This gentleman was the headmaster of a small school and was in need of an assistant teacher. He offered me a salary of eighteen rupees, which I accepted. Eighteen rupees at that time was way above the highest flights of my despair-ridden whims and fancies. I promised to meet the headmaster sahib the next day and was completely beside myself with delight. This happened in 1899. I was ready to face all circumstances. Had I not failed in mathematics, I would have certainly gone ahead in life. But the biggest problem was the university’s total lack of understanding, which then and for several years later led it to treat everyone in the manner of the thief who made everyone, tall and short, fit into one Procrustean bed.

2

I began writing stories in 1907. I had read many of Tagore’s stories in English and got their Urdu translations published in Urdu newspapers. As early as 1901, I had begun to write novels. One of them came out in 1902 and another in 1904, but until 1907 I had not written a single short story. The title of my first story was ‘The Most Valuable Treasure in the World’ and it was published in Zamana in 1907. I wrote four to five stories more after that. In 1909, a collection of five stories was published under the title Soze Watan (Lament for the Country). The partition of Bengal had taken place at that time. In the Congress, the radical faction had already developed. In these five stories, I glorified patriotism.

I was a sub-deputy inspector then with the department of education in Hamirpur district. It had been six months since my stories were published. One evening, while I was sitting in my tent, I received a summons to see the district collector at once. It was winter in those days and the sahib was on a tour. I harnessed the bullock cart, travelled thirty to forty miles through the night and met him the next day. A copy of my book had been placed before him. My head started ringing. I was writing under the name of ‘Nawab Rai’ in those days. I had some knowledge that the secret police were after the author. I understood that they must have tracked me down and that I was being held accountable.

The sahib asked me, ‘Did you write this book?’

I told him I did. He asked me about the intention behind each of the stories, was angry towards the end, and said, ‘Your stories are completely seditious. Consider yourself lucky that this is the British government. Had it been the Mughals ruling, both your hands would’ve been cut off. Your stories are one-sided and you have belittled the British government.’

It was decided that I should hand over all copies of Soze Watan to the government and never write anything else without the collector’s permission. I thought I got away lightly. Of the thousand copies printed, hardly three hundred were sold. I sent for the remaining seven hundred from the Zamana office and handed them over to the collector.

I thought that the danger was past. But the authorities were not satisfied so easily. Later, I learned that the collector had discussed the matter with other officials in the district. The superintendent of police, two deputy collectors and the deputy inspector, whose subordinate I was, sat down to decide my fate. One of the deputy collectors had picked up quotations from my stories to prove that there was nothing in them except sedition and that it was not just ordinary sedition but an infectious variety. The superintendent of police had said, ‘Such a dangerous man must be severely punished.’

The deputy inspector sahib was favourably disposed towards me. Afraid that the matter might turn out to be long-drawn, he proposed that he would assess my political opinions in a friendly way and present a report to the committee. His idea was to reason with me and write in the report that the author was radical only with his pen and had nothing to do with any political movement. The committee accepted his proposal although the superintendent of police continued to square up to me like an adversary. All of a sudden, the collector asked the deputy inspector, ‘Do you expect him to tell you what he really thinks? You want to find out his views by pretending to be friendly? That’s spying. I consider it contemptible.’

Completely at a loss, the deputy sahib stammered, ‘But I was . . . Your Highness’s order . . .’

‘No,’ the collector interrupted, ‘it’s not my order. I have no intention of giving any such order. If the author’s sedition can be proved from his book, then he should be tried in an open court, else let him go with a warning. I don’t like this business of having a honey tongue and a heart of gall.’

Several days later, when the deputy inspector told me this, I asked him, ‘Would you really have spied on me?’

He laughed and said, ‘No way! I wouldn’t have done it even if somebody gave me one lakh rupees. I only wanted to prevent legal proceedings and that has been done. You certainly would’ve been sentenced had there been a court case. You wouldn’t even have found anyone to plead your case. But the sahib is a noble gentleman.’

‘Very noble indeed,’ I said.

3

I was still in Hamirpur when I started suffering from dysentery. During the summer, one could not find greens of any kind in the countryside. Once, I had to continuously eat dry yam for several days. Normally, I consider yams to be as disagreeable as scorpions, and did so even then, but I do not know why I had this notion that carom seeds could control the flatulence they caused. I ate a lot of carom seeds. Nothing happened for the next ten to twelve days. I thought that the climate of the hilly region of Bundelkhand had strengthened my weak digestion. But then I had a stomach ache and kept tossing like a fish all day. I took a mouthful of carom seeds but the pain never stopped. The next day, I started suffering from dysentery. However, the pain eventually got better.

A month passed. When I reached a large village, the sergeant there insisted that I stay and have lunch at the police station. I had grown sick and tired of eating moong dal and observing a moderate diet. I thought to myself: What harm will come of it? Stay here today. At least you’ll get delicious food. I stayed at the police station that day. The sub-inspector ordered for sweet potato with curry, fritters, dahi vadas and pulao. I ate with caution and only had a couple of pieces of sweet potatoes! But after finishing my meal, when I went to the sub-inspector’s bungalow—it was thatched and opposite the police station—to rest, the stomach ache returned within a couple of hours. I kept moaning the entire night and the day after. It was only when I vomited after drinking two bottles of soda water that I felt better. I was convinced that this was the handiwork of the sweet potatoes. I had already severed my friendship with yam and now I was ill-disposed towards sweet potatoes! I have always shuddered at the sight of those two items ever since. The pain got better but dysentery had overpowered me. I always felt a tension around the stomach area, which felt swollen. With great discipline, I would go for a four-to five-mile walk, exercise regularly and stick to a moderate diet. I would even take medicinal herbs but the dysentery showed no signs of improvement, even as my health took a beating. I went to Kanpur several times for treatment and spent a month trying allopathic as well as Ayurvedic medicines in Prayag, but to no avail.

I then got a transfer. I wanted to move to Rohilkhand but was instead dumped in the district of Basti, in the region which forms the low-lying lands of Nepal. Luckily, I became acquainted with the late Pandit Mannan Dwivedi Gajpuri who was a subcollector in the revenue department in Domariyaganj. We would discuss literature every now and then. The dysentery, meanwhile, got worse. I then took six months’ leave and went to Lucknow Medical College for treatment. However, disappointment followed and I next went to a hakim in Benares. After three to four months, I felt better but the disease could not be cured completely. It was back to square one when I reached Basti. I then left this job that involved going on tours and took up a schoolmaster’s post at the Basti High School. Once again I was transferred, this time to Gorakhpur. The dysentery persisted. It was here that I became acquainted with Mahaveer Prasadji Poddar, an industrious man and a true servant of the nation. Many of my stories were published in Saraswati while I was in Basti. It was because of Poddarji’s encouragement that I began writing novels again, starting with Sevasadan. Through a private university, I also completed my BA. The overwhelming response that Sevasadan received inspired the composition of Premashram, even as I continued writing stories regularly.

It was on the advice of some friends, Poddarji in particular, that I also turned to water therapy. But owing to my misfortune, three to four months of bathing and a moderate way of living only resulted in further swelling of the stomach. I felt weak even while walking. Once I had to climb a flight of stairs with my friends. While the others managed it easily, I was not even able to move my feet. I eventually reached the top with great difficulty, relying on my hands for balance and support. It was then that I realized the true extent of my weakness. I now knew that I was just a guest in this world and stopped the water therapy altogether.

One day, in the evening, I met Shri Dashrathprasadji Dwivedi in the Urdu bazaar. He was the editor of the journal Swadesh. We too had literary discussions every now and then. Looking at my pale face, he said, ‘Babuji, you’ve turned completely pale. Get some treatment.’

I hated it when anyone mentioned my illness. I wanted to forget the fact that I was unwell. Why shouldn’t I die smiling when life was just a matter of another two to four months? I replied, somewhat irritated, ‘What will happen, bhai? At worst I’ll die. Well, I’m ready to embrace death.’ Dwivediji was embarrassed. I regretted my fury later. This happened in 1921. The Non-Cooperation movement was at its peak and the Jallianwala Bagh massacre had already taken place. It was in those days that Mahatma Gandhi visited Gorakhpur. A platform was prepared in the Ghazi Miyan ground. The gathering boasted no less than two hundred thousand people. There was no difference between the city and the countryside that day; only the devoted populace that thronged the ground mattered. I had never seen such a ceremony. Seeing Mahatmaji had such a profound effect that even a dying man like me was roused to action. A few days later, I tendered my resignation from my twenty-year-old government job.

I now wanted to promote the use of indigenous goods in villages. One of Poddarji’s houses was in the countryside. Both of us went there and got spinning wheels made. The dysentery too started showing signs of improvement within a week of my arrival there; to the extent that after a month there was no mucus in the faeces. I then went to Banaras and through the promotion of indigenous goods and creative writing, invested my life with a sense of meaning and purpose. Freedom from the slavery of government service also released me from the clutches of illness that had lingered for nine years.

This experience turned me into an orthodox believer in fatalism. I’m now firmly convinced that everything that happens is God’s will and that the efforts of human beings too cannot succeed in the absence of desire.

Translated from the Hindi by Shailendra Kumar Singh