The Shroud: Premchand
The Shroud: Premchand
Outside the hut, father and son sat before the dying embers in silence. Inside, the son’s young wife, Budhiya, was thrashing about in labor. Every now and then, a blood-curdling shriek emerged from her mouth and they felt their hearts stop. It was a winter night, the earth was sunk in silence and the whole village had dissolved into the darkness.
Ghisu said, “Looks like she’s not going to make it. She’s been like this all day. Go take a look.”
Madhav replied irritably, “If she’s going to die, why doesn’t she do it quickly? What’s the point of taking a look?”
“You’re pretty harsh. You’ve had a good time with her all year, and now? Such callousness?”
“Well, I can’t stand to see her suffer and throw herself about like this.”
This clan of cobblers was notorious in the village. If Ghisu worked a day, he would rest for three. Madhav was such a shirker that if he worked for half an hour, he’d smoke dope for one. Which was why they were never hired. If there was even a fistful of grain in the house, they took it to mean they didn’t have to work. When they’d been starving for a few days, Ghisu would climb a tree and break off some branches and Madhav would sell them in the bazaar. As long as the money lasted, they’d loaf around here and there. And when the calamity of starvation came upon them again, they would break off more branches or look for work. There was no shortage of work in the village, it was a village of farmers and there were at least fifty jobs for a hard-working man. But these two were called in only when you had to be satisfied with two men doing the work of one.
Had they been renunciants, they would have had no need to exercise control or practice discipline in order to experience contentment and fortitude. Theirs was an unusual existence – apart from a few mud pots, there were no material possessions in their house. They went on with their lives, covering their nakedness with rags, free of worldly cares, burdened with debt.
Outside the hut, father and son sat before the dying embers in silence. Inside, the son’s young wife, Budhiya, was thrashing about in labor. Every now and then, a blood-curdling shriek emerged from her mouth and they felt their hearts stop. It was a winter night, the earth was sunk in silence and the whole village had dissolved into the darkness.
Ghisu said, “Looks like she’s not going to make it. She’s been like this all day. Go take a look.”
Madhav replied irritably, “If she’s going to die, why doesn’t she do it quickly? What’s the point of taking a look?”
“You’re pretty harsh. You’ve had a good time with her all year, and now? Such callousness?”
“Well, I can’t stand to see her suffer and throw herself about like this.”
This clan of cobblers was notorious in the village. If Ghisu worked a day, he would rest for three. Madhav was such a shirker that if he worked for half an hour, he’d smoke dope for one. Which was why they were never hired. If there was even a fistful of grain in the house, they took it to mean they didn’t have to work. When they’d been starving for a few days, Ghisu would climb a tree and break off some branches and Madhav would sell them in the bazaar. As long as the money lasted, they’d loaf around here and there. And when the calamity of starvation came upon them again, they would break off more branches or look for work. There was no shortage of work in the village, it was a village of farmers and there were at least fifty jobs for a hard-working man. But these two were called in only when you had to be satisfied with two men doing the work of one.
Had they been renunciants, they would have had no need to exercise control or practice discipline in order to experience contentment and fortitude. Theirs was an unusual existence – apart from a few mud pots, there were no material possessions in their house. They went on with their lives, covering their nakedness with rags, free of worldly cares, burdened with debt.