Mir was aghast, and said, ‘Your father must have been a grass cutter! My people have been playing chess for generations!’
‘Oh, come off it! Your ancestors served as cooks in Nawab Ghaziuddin Haider’s house, and in return got a jagir. And you call yourself a noble! It’s no joke to be a noble.’
‘Why are you defaming your own ancestors? They must’ve worked as cooks. My forebears always dined and wined at the nawab’s own table!’
‘Some people are just shameless!’
‘Hold your tongue or you’ll regret it. I’m not accustomed to hearing such words. I pull out the eyes of those who dare frown at me.’
‘Do you want to see how brave I am? Come on, let’s slug it out then.’
‘Come, if you dare! You think I’ll cower before you?’
Out came the swords from their sheaths. In those times, everyone, high or low, went around carrying daggers, swords, poniards and the like. Both were lovers of pleasures but not cowards. The sentiments of patriotism had died in them but they did not lack valour. Political sentiments had died in them—why should they die for the emperor, the kingdom and the nation? Why should they lose sleep over them? But when it came to defending their own honour, they were fearless. Both took their positions. Sword clashed with sword, making a loud clang. Both fell to the ground wounded, writhing in pain and gave their lives. They didn’t shed a tear for the emperor but gave up their lives protecting the queen of the chessboard.
Darkness was setting in. The game of chess was still set. Both the kings, each on his throne, sat wistfully as if lamenting the death of these heroes.
It was desolate all around. The crumbling walls of the ruin, dilapidated archways and dusty minarets looked down upon the corpses and lamented the impermanence of human life, which was more fragile than stone and mortar.
Translated from the Urdu by M. Asaduddin
One and a Quarter Ser of Wheat1
There was a village where a peasant named Shankar lived. He was simple, honest and poor. He was a straightforward person and did not interfere in anyone’s affairs. He did not know how to manipulate, and never took recourse to duplicity of any kind. He also did not care about being cheated. He had no education. He would eat if there was something to eat, if not he was content to chew cud. If there was nothing to chew he would simply drink water and go to sleep. But when guests arrived he had to leave this path of contentment. Especially if they were sadhus—then he had to worry about worldly affairs. He could have gone to sleep with an empty stomach but could not leave the sadhu hungry. He was truly a devoted soul.
One day a mahatma came and parked himself on his doorstep. His face was majestic; he was wearing a pitambar, a yellow scarf, around his neck, had matted hair on his head, a brass kamandal in hand, wooden slippers on his feet and a pair of spectacles on his face. His whole demeanour was like that of the mahatmas who frequent the houses of nobles, make rounds of temples on aircrafts, and eat delicious food to achieve excellence in yoga. In these times such mahatmas find it difficult to digest coarse wheat. Shankar was anxious about how to feed the mahatma. Finally, he decided to borrow wheat from someone. He couldn’t find wheat flour in the whole village. There were only ordinary people in the village, and no deities, so how would one find divine feed there? Fortunately, he found some wheat in the house of the village priest, a Brahmin. He borrowed one and a quarter ser of wheat grains and asked his wife to grind them. The mahatma ate that and slept soundly. When he got up in the morning he gave them his blessings and was on his way.
The Brahmin collected alms twice a year. Shankar thought, ‘What’s the point in returning one and a quarter ser of wheat? Instead, I will increase his alms. He’ll understand, and I’ll understand.’ In the month of Chait, when the Brahmin arrived to collect his alms Shankar gave him nearly one and a quarter ser of wheat and thought himself free of his debt, and did not mention the matter. The Brahmin also did not ask for it a second time. How did the simple-minded Shankar know that he would have to take birth again to pay off the debt of one and a quarter ser of wheat?2
Seven years passed. From a priest, the Brahmin became a moneylender, and from a peasant Shankar became a day labourer. Mangal, his younger brother, separated from him to live independently. When they lived together as a joint family, they were peasants. Separated, each one of them became a day labourer. Shankar hoped they would part without bitterness, but he was helpless in the face of the circumstances. The day food was cooked separately, he cried. The two brothers turned into enemies from that day. If one cried, the other would laugh; if there was mourning in one house, the other house would celebrate. The bond of love, of blood, and of milk was snapped. Shankar had built the family honour through hard work and maintained it through his life blood. But his heart now broke to pieces to see it besmirched. He refused to eat food for seven days. He worked right through the day in the scorching sun of Jaishta, and at night he covered his face and went to sleep. The hard work and unbearable pain ate into his vitals. He fell sick and remained bedridden for months. How would he run his family? He now had only half the portion of the five bighas of family land and
