‘No, there’s no need to call anyone. Tell them nobody is here.’
‘Think it over.’
‘If you let anybody in, I’ll jump into this well, right here. You’re a shameless fellow. You pretend to be a righteous man but in reality you’re a scoundrel!’
The old woman advanced to the mosque’s door and called out, ‘Arré, Mian Sahib, isn’t this Rahim Khan’s mosque? I’ve been shouting for so long but nobody is answering!’
Tahir begged Prem. ‘Brother, have pity on me. If I knew you’d lose your temper, I wouldn’t have written this letter, not even in my dreams.’ He turned and shouted to the old woman, ‘Yes, this is indeed Rahim Khan’s mosque. Who are you and where have you come from?’
The old woman replied, ‘I have come from Lucknow. From Babu Premnath’s in-laws’ house. The daughter has also come. Where is the master?’
Prem said to Tahir, ‘Tahir Ali! You’ve seriously betrayed me. I swear that if my hands had the strength, I would’ve surely wrung your neck. Tyrant! You should’ve given some thought as to how I would face that Goddess! How will I do anything?’
‘Forgive me, brother. I admit it’s a serious mistake. The truth is that I had never thought they would come.’
‘I had told you earlier that Gomati would certainly come upon hearing of my condition. Anyhow, now you have tested me. Now you know how loyal a Hindu woman is!
‘Now, for God’s sake, please go and say that Premnath is not here. And if they insist, tell them that he was here till this afternoon, but has left without any information.’
Tahir Ali pleaded with him helplessly, ‘Brother, have mercy on me and do not force me to betray a loyal heart. My tongue cannot repeat what you are asking me to say.’
Premnath’s eyes welled up. What a sensitive, empathizing heart this mullah had! He looked at Maulvi Sahib with eyes full of gratitude and said, ‘Please go and call them! Tell them that Premnath, the unfortunate, is here. I was determined not to show my face to the family. I wished to die in a place where no one could shed tears for me, but God didn’t agree to my wish for a peaceful death.’4
What a torturous scene it was! Gomati just stood there, with Premnath’s head bowed down at her feet. And despite her strong protestations, he would not raise his head. The flood from their eyes continued to flow, and both stayed tongue-tied. Words bobbed unsteadily on the flood of emotions but drowned before reaching the tongue.
At last, sobbing, Gomati asked, ‘How’s your health now? I wouldn’t even have known if Maulvi Sahib had not written the letter. We have become such strangers!’
Premnath raised his head and said gently, ‘Forgive me, Gomati, forgive my faults. I’ve been punished enough for my folly. My intention was to not let the news reach you but to depart from the world stealthily. Perhaps it was my fate to face such guilt and shame.’
Gomati sat down. Wiping her husband’s tears, she said, ‘What guilt and shame? Do you consider me a stranger? Lord knows I value you the way I did earlier even now, in fact, more. And why mourn wealth? If fate wills it, we’ll get it again. Serving you is the greatest wealth for me. A husband is a woman’s greatest treasure. You deserted me but how could I desert you? I have always been yours.’
Premnath replied, hesitant, ‘But how will this be, Gomati? There is an iron wall between us. The world calls me a Muslim and considers me one, though I can truly say that I never had any allegiance to Islam. Death is agreeable to me but heaping notoriety on you is not.’
This very thought hurt Premnath and his tears resumed. A moment later, he collected himself and asked, ‘Will you answer me if I ask you something? Tell me the truth, Gomati.’
‘Tell me what it is. I don’t lie to you.’
Premnath bowed his head in shame. He knew that the question was untimely. He also knew the pain it would cause to Gomati, down to her soul. Even so, he gazed at Gomati’s face expectantly.
Head bowed but voice brave, Gomati answered, ‘It would have been better had you not asked me this question. Dearest! Had I returned after years of being away from you, your feelings for me would be the same as I feel for you today. The heart pines for you but the body recoils. Even now I can sacrifice my life for you, but . . .’
Gomati went silent. She could not find words appropriate enough to express her situation. Premnath understood the hesitation and said, elated, ‘I understand you, Gomati! And I’m happy that you have expressed it. There should be no secrets between us. I can undergo shuddhi, purification, but will you still object to me? Though I, for one, do not agree with this ritual. Even today, the Hindu community has innumerable men from whom I would not even accept water. Our society is full of such men. And I would consider it shameful to purify myself just to socialize with them. But for your sake, even this test is acceptable to me.’
Gomati looked at him gratefully and asked, ‘So when?’
Premnath replied, ‘Whenever your heart wishes.’
Translated from the Urdu by Vikas Jain
Autobiography1
There generally comes a time in the life of most servants of literature when readers begin to send them reverential letters. One may praise the writer’s creative style; another may be captivated by his high principles. The present writer, too, has for some time enjoyed this good fortune. Only a servant of literature can describe the thrill occasioned by such letters. Sitting on your torn blanket, you are immersed in waves of pride and self-esteem. You forget how much your head ached the previous evening
