Translated from the Hindi by David Rubin
Premchand (1880–1936). Born Dhanpat Rai in a village near Varanasi in Uttar Pradesh, ‘Munshi’ Premchand is regarded as one of the foremost Hindustani writers of the early twentieth century. He was drawn to books at an early age and decided to start working life as a sales boy in a book shop, so he might have access to all the books he could read. His first novels were published under the name Nawab Rai, as were his short stories, Soz-e-Watan, which was later banned as seditious by the British government, forcing him to change his name. As “Premchand”, he was one of the first Hindi writers to adopt realism in his work, and his stories chronicled the lives of the poor and the urban middle class, tackling national and social issues including corruption and colonialism. His legacy has influenced generations of writers. The scholar David Rubin credits him with creating the genre of the serious short story in Hindi and Urdu and insists that “in both languages, he has remained an unsurpassed master”.
It was the era of Wajid Ali Shah1. Lucknow was plunged deep in luxurious living. Exalted and humble, rich and poor, all were sunk in luxury. While one might arrange parties for dancing and singing, another would find enjoyment only in the drowsy ecstasy of opium. In every sphere of life pleasure and merry-making ruled supreme. Indulgence in luxury pervaded the government, the literary world, the social order, arts and crafts, industry, cuisine, absolutely everywhere. The bureaucrats were steeped in gross sensuality, poets in describing lovers and the sufferings of separation, artisans in creating intricate patterns of gold and silver thread and embroidery, merchants in selling eye shadow, perfumes, unguents and coloring for the teeth. All eyes were dimmed with the intoxication of luxury. No one had any awareness of what was going on in the world. There were quail fights, betting on matches between fighting partridges, here the cloth for causar2 spread out, there shouts of ‘What luck, I’ve made an ace and twelve!’ and elsewhere a fierce chess battle getting under way.
From king to beggar all were swept with the same antic spirit, to the point where when beggars were given money they spent it not on bread but on opium or madak3. By playing chess, cards or ganjifa4 the wits were sharpened, the process of thought was developed, one became accustomed to solving complex problems—arguments of this sort were presented with great vehemence. (The world is not free even today of people of this persuasion!) So if Mirza Sajjad Ali and Mir Raushan Ali spent most of their time sharpening their wits, what reasonable person could object? Both of them were masters of hereditary estates and had no worry about their income, so they could lounge around at home enjoying their idleness. After all, what else was there to do? Early in the morning, after breakfast, they would sit down, set out the board, arrange the chessmen, and warlike stratagems would begin. From then on they were quite unaware of when it was noon or afternoon or evening. Time and time again word would be sent from the kitchen that dinner was ready and the answer would come back: Get on with it, we’re coming, set the table, it would reach the point where the cook, desperate, would serve their meal right in their chamber and the two friends would go on with both activities, eating and playing simultaneously.
In Mirza Sajjad Ali’s household there was no elder, so the games took place in his drawing room. But this is not to say that the other people of Mirza’s household were happy with these goings-on. And not only the members of his household but the neighbours and even the servants were constantly making malicious comments. ‘The game’s ill-omened! It’s destroying the family. Heaven forbid that anybody should become addicted to it, he’d be utterly useless to God or man, at home or in the world! It’s a dreadful sickness, that’s what.’ Even Mirza’s wife, the Begam Sahiba, hated it so much that she sought every possible occasion to scold him. But she hardly ever found the chance, for the game would have begun before she woke and in the evening Mirzaji would be likely to appear in the bedroom only after she had gone to sleep. But the servants of course felt the full force of her rage. ‘He’s asked for paan, has he? Well, tell him to come and get it himself! He hasn’t got time for his dinner? Then go and dump it on his head, he can eat it or give it to the dogs!’ But to his face she could not say anything at all. She was not so angry with him as with Mir Sahib, whom she referred to as ‘Mir the Troublemaker.’ Possibly it was Mirzaji who laid all the blame on Mir in order to excuse himself.
One day the Begam Sahiba had a headache. She said to the maid, ‘Go and call Mirza Sahib and have him get some medicine from the doctor. Be quick about it, run!’ When the maid went to him Mirzaji said, ‘Get along with you, I’ll come in a moment or two.’ The Begam Sahiba’s temper flared at this. Who could put up with a husband playing chess while she had a headache? Her face turned scarlet. She said to the maid, ‘Go and tell him that if he doesn’t go at once I’ll go out to the doctor myself.’5 Mirzaji was immersed in a very interesting game, in two more moves he would checkmate Mir Sahib. Irritated, he said, ‘She’s not on her deathbed, is she? Can’t she be just a little patient?’
‘Come now,’ said Mir, ‘go and see what she has to say. Women can be touchy, you know.’
‘To be sure,’ said Mirza, ‘why shouldn’t I go? You’ll be checkmated in two moves.’
‘My dear fellow, better not count on it. I’ve thought of a move that will checkmate you with all your pieces still on the board. But go on now, listen to her, why make her feel hurt for no reason at all?’
‘I’ll go only after I’ve checkmated you.’
‘Then I won’t play. Do go and hear her out.’
‘I’ll have to go to the doctor’s, old man. It’s not just a mere headache, it’s an excuse to bother me.’
‘Whatever it is, you really must indulge her.’
‘Very well, but let me make just one more move.’
‘Absolutely not, until you’ve gone to her I won’t so much as touch a piece.’
When Mirza Sahib felt compelled to go to his wife the Begam Sahiba was frowning, but she said with a moan, ‘You love your wretched chess so much that even if somebody were dying you wouldn’t think of leaving it! Heaven forbid there should ever be another man like you!’
Mirza said, ‘What can I tell you? Mir Sahib simply wouldn’t agree. I had a most difficult time of it putting him off so I could come.’
‘Does he think everybody is just as worthless as himself? Doesn’t he have children too or has he just let them go to the dogs?’
‘He’s utterly mad about chess,’ said Mirza. ‘Whenever he comes I’m compelled to play with him.’
‘Why don’t you tell him off?’
‘He’s my equal in age and a couple of steps above me in rank, I’m obliged to be courteous with him.’
‘In that case, I’ll tell him off! If he gets angry, let him. Is he supporting us, after all? As they say, “If the queen sulks, she’ll only hurt herself.” ‘Hiriya!’ she called her maid, ‘Go out and take up the chessboard, and say to Mir Sahib, “The master won’t play now, pray be good enough to take your leave.”’
‘For heaven’s sake, don’t do anything so outrageous!’ said Mirza. ‘Do you want to disgrace me? Wait, Hiriya, where are you going?’
‘Why don’t you let her go? Anybody who stops her will be simply killing me! Very well, then, stop her, but see if you can stop me.’
Saying this, the Begam Sahiba headed for the drawing room in high dudgeon. Poor Mirza turned pale. He began to implore his wife: ‘For God’s sake, in the name of the holy Prophet Husain! If you go to him it will be like seeing me laid out!’ But the Begam did not pay the slightest attention to him. But when she reached the door of the drawing room all of a sudden, finding herself about to appear before a man not of her household, her legs felt as though paralyzed. She peeked inside, and as it happened, the room was empty. Mir Sahib had done a little shifting of the chess pieces and was now strolling outside in order to demonstrate his innocence. The next thing that happened was that the Begam went inside, knocked over the chessboard, flung some of the pieces under the sofa and others outside, then clapped the double doors shut and locked them. Mir Sahib was just outside the door. When he saw the chessmen being tossed out and the jingling of bangles reached his ears he realized that the Begam Sahiba was in a rage. Silently he took his way home.
Mirza said, ‘You have committed an outrage!’
She answered, ‘If Mir Sahib comes back here I’ll have him kicked out straightaway. If you devoted such fervour to God you’d be a saint. You’re to play chess while I slave away looking after this household? Are you going to the doctor’s or are you still putting it off?’
When he came out of his house Mirza, instead of going to the doctor’s, went to Mir Sahib’s and told him the whole story. Mir Sahib said, ‘So I guessed when I saw the chess pieces sailing outside. I took off at once. She seems to be quick to fly off the handle. But you’ve spoiled her too much, and that’s not at all the way to do things. What concern is it of hers what you do away from her part of the house? Her work is to look after the home. What business does she have with anything else?’
‘Well, tell me, where are we going to meet now?’
‘No problem, we have this whole big house, so that’s settled, we’ll meet here.’
‘But how am I going to placate the Begam Sahiba? She was furious when I sat down to play at home, so if I play here it could cost me my life.’
‘Let her babble, in a few days she’ll be all right. But of course you ought to show a little backbone yourself.’
*
For some unknown reason Mir Sahib’s Begam considered it most fitting for her husband to stay far away from home. For this reason she had never before criticized his chess-playing, but on the contrary, if he was late in going she reminded him. For these reasons Mir Sahib had been deluded into thinking his wife was extremely serious and humble. But when they began to set up the chess board in the drawing room and Mir Sahib was at home all day the Begam Sahiba was very distressed. This was a hindrance to her freedom, and all day long she would yearn to be at the door looking out.
Meantime, the servants had begun to gossip. Formerly they had lain around all day in idleness, if someone came to the house, if someone left, it was no business of theirs. Now they were living in fear all twenty-four hours of the day. Orders would come for paan, then for sweets. And, like some lover’s heart, the hookah had to be kept burning constantly. They would go to the mistress and say, ‘The master’s chess games are giving us a lot of trouble. We’re getting blisters on our feet from running all day. What kind of a game is it that starts at dawn and goes on till evening? Diversion for an hour or two, that’s enough for any game. Of course we’re not complaining, we’re your slaves, whatever you command naturally we’ll do it; but this game is positively sinister! Whoever plays it never prospers, and surely some disaster will befall his home. It can reach the point where one neighbourhood after another’s been known to go to rack and ruin. Everybody in this part of town is gossiping about it. We have eaten your salt, we’re grieved to hear bad things about the master, but what can we do?’
Hearing this, the Begam Sahiba would say, ‘I don’t like it myself, but he won’t listen to anybody, so what can be done5’
In their quarter there were also a few people from an earlier generation who began to imagine all sorts of disasters: ‘There’s no hope now. If our nobles are like this, then God help the country! This chess playing will be the ruin of the kingdom. The omens are bad.’
The entire realm was in an uproar. Subjects were robbed in broad daylight and nobody was there to hear their appeals. All the wealth of the countryside had been drawn into Lucknow to be squandered on whores, clowns and the satisfaction of every kind of vice. The debt to the East India Company kept on growing day by day, and day by day the general misery was getting harder to bear. Throughout the land, because of the wretched conditions, the yearly taxes were no longer collected. Time and again the British resident warned them, but everyone in Lucknow was so drowned in the intoxication of sensual indulgence that not a soul gave any heed.
Well then, the chess games continued in Mir Sahib’s drawing room over the course of several months. Newer strategies were devised, new defences organized, and ever new battle formations planned. From time to time quarrels broke out as they played, and they even reached the point of exchanging vulgar insults; but peace was quickly restored between the two friends. At times the game would come to a halt and Mirzaji would return home in a huff and Mir Sahib would go and sit in his own chamber. But with a good night’s sleep all the bad feelings would be calmed; early in the morning the two friends would arrive in the drawing room.
One day when they sat engrossed in thorny chess problems an officer of the royal army arrived on horseback and inquired for Mir Sahib. Mir Sahib panicked, wondering what disaster was about to come down on his head. Why had he been summoned? The case appeared desperate. To the servants he said, ‘Tell him I’m not at home.’
‘If he’s not at home where is he?’ the horseman demanded. The servant said he didn’t know—what was this all about? ‘How can I tell you what it’s about?’ said the officer. ‘Maybe soldiers are being levied for the army. It’s no joke, being the master of rent-free estates. When he has to go to the front lines he’ll find out what it’s all about.’
‘Very well, go along, he’ll be informed.’
‘It’s not just a matter of informing him. I’ll come back tomorrow, I have orders to take him back with me.’
The horseman left. Mir Sahib was shaking with terror. He said to Mirzaji, ‘Tell me, sir, what’s going to happen now?’
‘It’s a great misfortune! What if I’m summoned too?’
‘The bastard said he was coming back tomorrow.’
‘It’s a calamity, no doubt of it. If we have to go to the front we’ll die before our time.’
‘Now listen, there’s one way out: we won’t meet here at the house any more. Starting tomorrow we’ll have our game in some deserted place out on the banks of the Gomti. Who could find us there? When that fine fellow comes for me he’ll have to go back without us.’
‘By Allah, that’s a splendid idea! That’s certainly the best way.’
In the meantime, Mir Sahib’s Begam was saying to that cavalry officer, ‘You’ve got them out of the way very nicely,’ and he answered, ‘I’m used to making such jackasses dance to my tune. Chess has robbed them of all their common sense and courage. After this they won’t stay at home, whatever happens.’
*
From the next day on the two friends would set out from the house at the crack of dawn, carrying with them a rather small carpet and a box of prepared paan, and go to the other side of the Gomti river to an old ruined mosque which had probably been built in the time of Nawab Asafuddaula6. Along the way they would pick up tobacco, a pipe and some wine, and spread their carpet in the mosque, fill the hookah and sit down to play. After that they had no care for this world or the next. Apart from ‘check’ and ‘checkmate,’ not another word came out of their mouths. No yogi could have been more profoundly plunged in trance. At noon when they felt hungry they would go to some baker’s shop and eat something, smoke a pipeful, and then return to engage once more in battle. At times they would even forget all about eating.
Meantime, the political situation in the country was becoming desperate. The East India Company’s armies were advancing on Lucknow. There was commotion in the city. People were taking their children and fleeing to the countryside. But our two players were not in the least concerned about it. When they left home they took to the narrow alleyways, fearing lest some government official might catch a glimpse of them and have them forced into military service. They wanted to enjoy the thousands in income from their estates without giving anything in return.
One day the two friends were sitting in the ruined mosque playing chess. Mirza’s game was rather weak and Mir Sahib was checking him at every move. At the same time the Company’s soldiers could be seen approaching. This was an army of Europeans on their way to impose their rule on Lucknow.
Mir Sahib said, ‘The British army’s coming. God save us!’
Mirza said, ‘Let them come, but now get out of check.’
‘Maybe we ought to have a look, let’s stand here where we can’t be seen.’
‘You can look later, what’s the rush? Check again.’
‘They have artillery too. There must be about five thousand men. What odd- looking soldiers! They’ve got red faces, just like monkeys, it’s really frightening.’
‘Don’t try to get out of it, sir! Use these tricks on somebody else. Checkmate!’
‘What a strange fellow you are! Here we have the city struck with calamity and you can only think of ways to checkmate. Do you have any idea how we’re going to get home if the city’s surrounded?’
‘When it’s time to go home we’ll see about it then. This is checkmate, your king’s finished now.’
The army had marched by. It was now ten in the morning. A new game was set up.
Mirza said, ‘What are we going to do about food today?’
‘Well, today’s a fast day—are you feeling hungrier than usual?’
‘Not in the least. But I wonder what’s happening in the city.’
‘Nothing at all’s happening in the city. People are eating their dinner and settling down comfortably for an afternoon nap. The King’s in his harem, no doubt.’
By the time they sat down to play again it was three. This time Mirzaji’s game was weak. Four o’clock had just struck when the army was heard marching back. Nawab Wajid Ali had been taken prisoner and the army was conducting him to some unknown destination. In the city there was no commotion, no massacre, not a drop of blood was spilled. Until now no king of an independent country could ever have been overthrown so peacefully, without the least bloodshed. This was not that non violence which delights the gods, but rather the sort of cowardice which makes even great cowards shed tears. The king of the vast country of Oudh was leaving it a captive, and Lucknow remained deep in its sensual slumber. This was the final stage of political decadence.
Mirzaji said, ‘Those tyrants have imprisoned His Majesty.’
‘I suppose so. Look here—check.’
‘Just a moment, sir, I don’t feel in the mood now. The poor King must be weeping tears of blood at this moment.’
‘I’m sure he is—what luxuries will he enjoy as a prisoner? Checkmate!’
‘Everybody has to suffer some change in his fortunes,’ said Mirza. ‘But what a painful situation!’
‘True, that’s the way things are. Look, checkmate! That does it, you can’t get out of it now.’
‘God’s oath, you’re hard-hearted. You can watch a great catastrophe like this and feel no grief. Alas, poor Wajid Ali Shah!’
‘First save your own king, then you can mourn for His Majesty. It’s checkmate now. Your hand on it!’
The army passed by, taking the King with them. As soon as they were gone Mirza again set up the chess pieces. The sting of defeat is bitter. Mir said, ‘Come now, let us compose an elegy for His Majesty.’ But Mirza’s patriotism had vanished with his defeat. He was eager for vengeance.
*
It was evening. In the ruins the swallows were returning and settling in their nests, the bats began to chitter. But the players were still at it, like two blood-thirsty warriors doing battle together. Mirzaji had lost three games in a row; the outlook for this fourth game was not good either. He played each move carefully, firmly resolved to win, but one move after the other turned out to be so ill-conceived that his game kept deteriorating. For his part, Mir Sahib was singing a gazal and snapping his fingers from sheer high spirits, as though he had come upon some hidden treasure. Listening to him, Mirzaji was furious, but praised him in order to conceal his exasperation. But as his game worsened his patience began to slip out of control until he reached the point of getting angry at everything Mir said.
‘Don’t change your move, sir,’ he would say. ‘How can you go back on a move? Whatever move is to be made, make it just once. Why is your hand on that piece? Leave it alone! Until you figure out your move don’t so much as touch your piece! You’re taking half-an-hour for every move, that’s against the rules. Anyone who takes more than five minutes for a move may be understood to be checkmated. You changed your move again! Just be quiet and put that piece back there.’
Mir Sahib’s queen was in danger. He said, ‘But when did I make my move?’
‘You’ve already made it. Put the piece right there, in that same square.’
‘Why should I put it in that square? When did I take my hand off the piece?’
‘If you wait till doomsday to make your move, you’ll still have to make it.’
‘You’re the one who’s cheating! Victory and defeat depend on fate, you can’t win by cheating.’
‘Then it’s settled, you’ve lost this game.’
‘How have I lost it?’
‘Then put the piece back in the same square where it was.’
‘Why should I put it there? I won’t!’
‘Why should you put it there? You have to put it there.’
The quarrel was getting worse. Each stuck to his position, neither one would give an inch. Their words began to move to irrelevant matters. Mirza said, ‘If anybody in your family had ever played chess then you might be familiar with the rules. But they were just grass-cutters. So how can you be expected to play chess? Real aristocracy is quite another thing. Nobody can become a noble just by having had some rent-free estates given to him.’
‘What! Your own lather must have cut grass! My people have been playing chess for generations.’
‘Come off it, you spent your whole life working as a cook in Gaziuddin Haidar’s house and now you’re going around posing as an aristocrat.’
‘Why are you defaming your own ancestors?’ said Mir. They must all have been cooks. My people have always dined at the King’s own table.’
‘You grass-cutter you! Stop your bragging.’
‘You check your tongue or you’ll be sorry! I won’t stand for talk like that. I put out the eyes of anybody who frowns at me. Do you have the courage?’
‘So you want to find out how brave I am! Come on then, let’s have it out, whatever the consequences.’
Said Mir, ‘And who do you think is going to let you push them around!’
The two friends drew the swords from their belts. It was a chivalric age when everybody went around carrying swords, daggers, poniards and the like. Both of them were sensualists but not cowards. They were politically debased, so why should they die for king or kingdom? But they did not lack personal courage. They challenged one another formally, the swords flashed, there was a sound of clanging. Both fell wounded, and both writhed and expired on the spot. They had not shed a single tear for their king but gave up their lives to protect a chess queen.
Darkness was coming on. The chess game had been set up. The two kings each on his throne sat there as though lamenting the death of these two heroes.
Silence spread over all. The broken archways of the ruins, the crumbling walls and dusty minarets looked down on the corpses and mourned.
1 The last king of Oudh (Avadh); the story takes place in 1856.
2 A game of dice.
3 An intoxicant prepared from opium.
4 A type of card game.
5 For an aristocratic lady in purdah this would be inappropriate.
6 Ruler of Oudh, 1775–97; his reign was noted both for debauchery and for the construction of many buildings, especially mosques.