“Death Lies Dead”

“DEATH LIES DEAD” ¹
(A Story)

By GULABDAS BROKER
(Translated by the author from the original story in Gujerati)

Startled at the touch of a hand on my shoulder, I swung round. A huge Sikh, tall and strong, with an expression of shyness and embarrassment on his face, was standing just behind me.

“Please forgive me, Huzur,” he muttered, as our eyes met.

The moment I saw him, my fear vanished. Otherwise, to be accosted by a stranger, in that manner, at that late hour, on the deserted roads of this small hill-station of Lonavla, was an experience likely to send a shiver of alarm through the hravest heart.

“It does not matter at all, brother,” I said, with a smile, “but what do you want?”

“Nothing-nothing, please. Only I-er-I……” He hesitated a moment. Then, in a voice shy yet bold, he asked: “Will you forgive me, please, if I ask you whether you know English?”

I laughed. “Oh, hm. yes. In a way. I know a little. Why?”

“I was sure you knew it,” he beamed. “When the Huzur was having a look at that envelope in the Huzur’s hand, under the light of this street lamp, I felt the letters on that envelope were in English. And therefore it was that I dared to touch the Huzur.”

“How are you concerned with my knowledge of the English language, and that too at such a late hour?” I asked.

“If the Huzur does not mind, I should like him to read for me a letter in English.”

“When?”

“Whenever the Huzur pleases,” he replied, politely, but his whole face was like an open book, with only one sentence written on it. I could interpret that sentence very clearly. “Read it immediately,”  it begged.

“What is it about?” I countered.

“How should I know it without knowing English? That is why I want the Huzur’s help.” He laughed.

I felt curious. What could it be about?

“You want me to read it just now?”

“Will it not be very inconvenient just now?” he asked, diffidently, but I could see joy light up his face at the mere thought of the contents of the letter being disclosed to him without delay.

“I am going to the Post Office to post this letter, Shall I read your letter there?” I suggested.

“Thanks, many many thanks, Huzur,” was his fervent reply. And we moved on.

Those two furlongs to the Post Office were covered in silence. He was deep in his own thoughts, and I was wondering what it could all be about. It could have nothing to do with a job or some such thing, surely, because in that case he could certainly have returned a clear answer to my enquiry. But if it was not that, what else could it be? Certainly, no romance could be involved in it, because then the epistle would have been written in a language this man could read and understand. But if there were not something intimate about the whole business, to what then were due his shyness, his embarrassment, his irrepressible desire to know the contents of the letter just as soon as he could?

On reaching the Post Office, I pointed to a bench outside, and said, “Shall we sit down here?”

“There will not be much light here, Janab. Should we not, rather, go and sit in the restaurant opposite?”

I posted the letter that was in my hand, and followed him across the road. We sat at a table with a light over it. I stretched out my hand and asked for his letter. He again felt shy and embarrassed as he handed it to me.

“I am giving you a lot of trouble, Huzur?”

‘No, no, it is nothing, my dear man,” I said, taking the letter from him.

As I read the contents, my eyes often roamed over his face. He in his turn, was gazing at me with a fixed and eager stare.

I finished reading his letter and smiled at him.

“What does it say, Janab?” he asked anxiously.

“Are you Kartar Singh?”

“Yes, please.”

“All this correspondence is about yourself?”

In a small voice he replied, “Yes, yes.”

“So you want to marry, eh?”

“Do they write to say that it is possible?” He got up, excited.

“Sit down, Sardarji, please sit down,” I chuckled. “Even if they write like that, there is no train leaving just now. So, do sit down.”

He blushed and sat down. It was touching, this mixture of heftiness and shyness in such a huge man.

“Look here, Sardarji,” I said, “this letter is from the Shraddhanand Orphaned Women’s Institution. They say that at present there is no woman in their institution answering to the requirements in your letter. They will keep your application with them, and, if they find a suitable person for you, they will write and let you know. In the meantime, if it is possible, they would like you to see the manager of their institution.”

“Hum,” he muttered, and then became silent.

“What is all this about, Sardarji?” I asked.

In a voice full of despair he replied, “It is nothing to talk about, Janab.”

“But even then ?”

“It is like this–” he began, but instantly changed his mind and said:

“I have already wasted a lot of your time, Huzur. Why should I waste more of it by the narration of my worthless troubles?” There was pain on his face.

I did not like this shadow of sorrow on the face of one so full of health. My heart was filled with compassion, and I placed a hand softly over his.

“There is no question at all of waste of time, Sardarji. Quite the contrary. I shall consider it a privilege if I can be helpful to you in any way.”

He looked at me; he sensed my sympathy; and he smiled faintly.

“I am working here as a driver for the bus of the St. Peter’s Girls’ High School. White Mem Sa’abs run that school, and Ingresi ² and Parsi girls study therein. The head Mem Sa’ab often asks me: ‘Why do you not bring your wife here?”

“Have you got a wife, then?” I asked, surprised.

“That is the whole trouble, Sethji,” he said, bitterly.

I became more and more intrigued. There was something extraordinary about the whole affair.

“I see,” I said, untruthfully. Then, “Is it that they do not yet know you are not married?”

“If they knew it, does Huzur think they would allow me to serve even for a minute in this young girls’ institution?” He laughed outright.

I also laughed. “You are a crafty, cunning man, Sardar Sa’ab, not the simple, straight one you outwardly appear.”

“What can one do, Janab? Life is so full of troubles.”

Some moments passed by in silence. Then he continued his tale.

“When I was discharged from the army, I had no job. The captain of my regiment, Jackson Sa’ab, had very kind feelings for me. I was not educated enough for a good job, but the Sahib knew that I was a good driver. This school was, at that time, in need of a driver. The Sahib knew it, and recommended me to the Mem Sa’ab. She had no objection to taking me on, provided I could satisfy her two requirements. First, my character should be irreproachable. Second, I should be married. Jackson Sa’ab came to me in a very jovial mood after seeing the Mem Sa’ab, patted me lustily on the , and, roaring with laughter, said: ‘Look here, Kartar Singh. I have made you a married man!’ Had the Sa’ab gone mad? It seemed so for a moment, but I said, politely: ‘Who would care to get the poor married, Captain Sa’ab?’ ‘I got you married just now,’ he repeated, and roared with laughter again. I could not understand his mirth. Then he explained that he had secured the job for me by assuring the Mem Sa’ab that I satisfied both her requirements: my character was irreproachable and I was married. I was to commence service the next day. A year has passed, since then. The white lady very often asks me to bring my wife to see her. On one pretext or the other I postpone the evil day. But now it has become difficult even to do that. If I want to continue in this service any longer I must bring a wife here from wherever I can. I am a total stranger to these parts. Where am I to bring a wife from?”
He smiled wryly, and continued: “Just by accident I met a kind gentleman the other day. His name is Karsandasji. He talked about two or three institutions in Bombay where it was possible that one could get a wife. On my behalf he addressed some letters to heads of such institutions. He went away yesterday, and I received this letter today. And that too contains, as you tell me, nothing b despair–only despair!”

He sighed.

“But, Kartar Singh, why should you despair? You are a stranger to these parts, but not to the Punjab. Why don’t you go there and get yourself a wife?” I asked.

“Should I not have been married by now, if it was as easy as that, Janab?…..I am already thirty five.”

“Is it possible that you cannot get a girl from among your own community and people?’ I queried.

“Such a difficulty is possible where poor people are concerned, Huzur .”

I should not have laughed. There was so much sorrow and grief in his voice. Yet I could not restrain myself.

“Then, according to you, all the poor people in the world stay unmarried. Is that so, Sardarji?”

He also laughed with me. “I may have exaggerated a little, Seth Sa’ab, but it is true in essence, particularly in the case of a person like me. I left home early in childhood, and wandered here and there all over India. Then I joined the army, and fought in the war, and yet, what am I today? Almost a beggar, an insignificant driver in a girls’ school in an out-of-the-way place with an insecure job. Now, who would care to give his daughter to a man like me?”

The laughter on my face vanished as he said, with a tinge of grief in his voice:

“Thousands of poor people like me have to live and die without ever being able to marry, Huzur. How could happily-placed people like you know about these things?”

“If nobody feels inclined to give his daughter to you, let them all go to hell,” I said, feeling inclined to facetiousness again. “A man like you, brave in war, strong and healthy, a man who has seen the big world outside! Did no girl, of her own free choice, select you?”

“Oh, they?…..There were some like that, Sarkar.”

He straightened himself, and a smile of victory floated reminiscently across his lips.

“Sure, sure, there must have been many, I can vouch for that. But then,” I joked on, “why are you still the lonely bachelor that you are?”

“Kismet, Kismet, Huzur, it is all Kismet…..When our regiment that was in Secunderabad we used to play football in a huge maidan. I do to not know whether I looked very handsome then, but it is a fact that one of the Christian girls, residing in a house adjoining the football field, got fond of me. I may appear vain as I say this,” (he smiled) “but it is the truth, Huzur. God’s own truth. Well, some way or the other, she managed to get in touch with me, and it was not long before she made her fondness for me clear to me.”

“Was she beautiful?” I asked.

“Oh, she was beautiful as a goddess,” he assured me enthusiastically. But at that moment he saw the glint of a mischievous smile in my eyes, and his extravagance subsided.

“Leave alone the goddess part of it, Huzur. She was really very good-looking and very smart,...and...hm...seeing that she was inclined to be very intimate, I proposed marriage to her.”

“Good, good. That was very good,” I applauded.

“She was prepared to marry me. She was just as poor as myself…...We could have pulled on well together.”

“Where, then, was the hitch?” I asked.

“She said she could marry me only if I became a Christian. She was not prepared to lose her religion on my account.”

“Really?” I asked, surprised.

“Yes, really. It is always like that, Janab. The converted always cling to their new faith very fanatically...She told me that, if I became a Christian, her parents and relatives would adopt me as their own, and would very willingly agree to our marriage. But was that ever possible?”

“Why not ?”

“Why not! Because, if she was so proud of her own faith, I had also a faith which was in no way inferior to hers. Why should I change it? My ancestors had given their heads to defend that faith. I could not sacrifice it for this slip of a girl. I flatly said, ‘No’. The matter ended there.”

“Acchha!” I exclaimed.

“There was another adventure, too,” he said, after some time.

“Scarcely one, but still……”

“Well?”

He shook his head. “No, no, Janab, it is not worth telling. I myself was so disgusted with it...Well, once I was going to Poona from here in a local train. At Talegaon, a young Muslim woman, accompanied by a man, entered our compartment. The carriage was almost full, but somehow or other they managed to seat themselves. Their seat was in a direction opposite to mine, and at the other end….As the train moved on, I felt that the woman was, every now and then casting her glances in my direction. Though Muslim, she was not in purdah. I also looked at her. When our eyes met, I could trace faint, pleasant smile on her lips. My hand automatically went to my moustache.”

“Oh, the hero!” I laughed. He felt embarrassed.

“I repented for it afterwards, but I am, after all, a man!…..She cast her eyes down and smiled. So sweetly! That smile of her lent beauty to her otherwise -not- beautiful face.”

“But what was the man with her doing all this time, while you two were acting this little drama all to yourselves?”

“Looking out of the window and singing a song of passionate love!” Kartar Singh laughed, and continued.

“Before the train reached Poona she spread out her small handkerchief on her palm. I looked at it. Her name, Halima, was embroidered on it. I smiled at this trick of hers. She shyly turned away, and crumpled the kerchief in both her hands….When we got down at Poona she waved to me when nobody was looking at us. But my intoxication vanished at that moment. What was I wishing to do? For mere pleasure I was longing to put poison in the life of a married man? I–I who wanted to marry a decent, faithful woman–was I doing that? Just for mere pleasure? I almost hated myself at that moment. That strong feeling took Halima completely out of my mind for ever…..Otherwise, I was about to track her to her residence in Poona.”

Kartar Singh stopped his narrative, but that mixture of curiosity and fun, with which till then I had been listening to him, evaporated. A feeling of respect for him grew in my mind.

Reverting to the letter he had received, and from which all this talk had ensued, I said: “Look here Sardarji, you need not worry at all. I am going to Bombay tomorrow, and I am returning within a week. There, I shall make enquiries on your behalf. Has that Karsandasbhai written any letters toother institutions besides this?”

Kartar Singh’s eyes shone with gratitude.

“I should not bother you more, Janab,” he said, but all the same he put his hand in his pocket and drew out some letters. Handing them over to me, he said: “Here, these are the letters.”

I read them. They were written to similar institutions maintained for destitute women.

The demands of the Sardar were simple. He did not ask for beauty or youth, but only for a good faithful Hindu or Sikh woman who would run his household peacefully and who had faith in God.

“I quite understand,” I said. “In Bombay I shall be looking for the kind of woman you want.”

We agreed to meet in the market-place at Lonavla after about eight days.

He thanked me profusely for the interest I had taken in him, and went his way. I also hurriedly departed for my home as it was very late, and people there could, perhaps, be worrying……

I went to Bombay the next day, as arranged, and, there, so much work was awaiting me that, for some days at least, I could not lift my head from it. To think of returning to Lonavla was out of the question. On the contrary. I had to recall my people from there to Bombay.

Poor Kartar Singh and his simple tale were entirely forgotten under the pressure of that heavy work. When I got some respite, after some months, I did remember but soon I was lost in work again. And after so long, his matter lost for me that importance and urgency that it once seemed to possess. Time passed, and I did nothing for him.

It was only after many months that I was able to return once more to my dearly-loved Lonavla. Its fresh and invigorating air filled my lungs again, and brought with it memories of days long past. Kartar Singh formed part of these memories, and, as I remembered him, I felt both guilty and curious. Guilty, because not only had I done nothing for him, I had not even had the courtesy, during all these months, to inform him that I could do nothing. Curious, for obvious reasons. Had he found a woman he could marry? Had he lost his job because he could not find one? Was he still in Lonavla?

I could have found answers to these questions by going to the market-place any evening. But my sense of guilt proved stronger. After my callous behaviour towards him, I could not face the prospect of meeting him. I avoided going near the market-place, particularly in the evenings when he would be out.

Yet, despite my precautions, I could not avoid meeting him. One evening, as I was returning from my walk across the hills, I heard someone shouting to me from the direction of the Post Office, “Oh, Huzur! Oh, Janab!”

I turned round. It was Kartar Singh. He was standing by a table in the restaurant where we sat at our previous meeting, and he was shouting to me at the top of his voice–although his mouth was full of something he was eating. I hurried over to him and shook hands.

“How are you, Kartar Singh?”

“When did you return, Seth Sa’ab? Do sit down, please Have some tea.”

I took my seat and expressed regret that I had been unable to do anything for him.

“Oh, that is nothing. It is quite all right. Please do not worry about it.”

“You must be a married man by now, Sardarji!” I said, after a pause.

Instantly, sorrow clouded his face. “What marriage, Janab? Who would marry a penniless man like me? All of them want money!

Bitterly, he repeated: “Money!”

“What has happened, Sardar Sa’ab? Why do you appear disappointed?”

“It is nothing worth narrating. After you went away, I waited for a letter from you for about a month or so. Those were anxious days...After that I began to look out for myself. The Mem Sa’ab was insistent, and–and–”(after some hesitation) “Shall I tell you truth, Janab? I myself was thirsting for marriage. In the ordinary course, perhaps, I would not have thought of it, but having devoted so much thought to it during those days, I was feeling the need of a wife children, home,..acutely. Why should one not have them? How many, precious years should one waste, moving about, alone, on this earth? The softness of a woman’s face, the sweetness of her voice, the grace of her movement, the joy of her love–all these things danced before my eyes every day...Even if the white Mem Sa’ab did not insist on my being a married man, even if my job did not depend upon it, I felt, felt intensely, that I should marry. But marriage was nowhere within sight. And, as you know, the greater the delay, the greater the desire. I wentto Bombay myself. It was a job for me, a complete stranger, in that huge city, to find out the institutions with which I had been corresponding. But, somehow, I succeeded in tracking them down. I met the managers concerned. And, at last,” (he smiled bitterly) “I arrived at one conclusion. A man in my position must have money if he ever hopes to marry. Honesty, truth, uprightness, character–do not count.”

I remained silent and sympathetic.

He continued: “In some cases Hindu women were not at all prepared to marry a Sikh. Yet, in the cases where they were so prepared, the people of the institution would not allow them to, unless I deposited some money with them, or in a bank, in the name of the woman concerned. Where was I, a poor driver, to bring money from? And so I left it at that.”

“In no case–?” I was going to proceed.

But he intervened: “Yes, in two or three cases there was no demand for money, but, there, the particular women were not worth marrying.”

“Kartar Singh,” I interrupted, with a smile, “did you not tell me that you did not care for beauty or young age.”

“Yes, yes. Even now I say the same thing. But that does not mean that I do not require a good, pure, honest woman as my wife. These were women who were either discarded by their husband for infidelity or they were criminally inclined. How could I marry such women? Am I not happier as I am?

“Then have you given up the idea of marriage altogether?” I asked.

“I do not know about that, but I am certain about one thing.”

“What is it?”

“That I shall have to leave this job after all.”
“Why?”

“How long can I carry on with one excuse or the other? And how long can I go on inventing falsehoods? I told the Mem Sa’ab that my wife has gone to the Punjab to visit her family. But she cannot expect my wife to stay away from me forever.”

That was true. I sat engrossed in thought for some moments. Then, all of a sudden, an idea flashed across my mind and I was filled with pleasure to pass the idea to Kartar Singh.”

“Look here, Kartar Singh. I have got an idea. You are right. How long can you go on sitting here and inventing excuses? That is no use. Well then, do as I tell you. You ask for leave for a month or two. Tell the Lady Superintendent that you want to go to the Punjab to fetch your wife.”

“Then?” he asked, being curious.

“Then you try really to find a wife in the Punjab.”

“But if I fail?”

“It is easy enough even then,” I said, enthusiastically. “When you get you can say that, some days before your return, your wife fell ill, and the relatives would not hear of sending her away in that condition. That way you will get some more months still. Can a real marriage not be arranged during all that time?”

“Yes, that sounds well enough,” he said, thoughtfully. Then gradually, he too was filled with enthusiasm for the idea.

“Yes, yes, that is quite true. Within a year at the most, even if I have to go to the ends of the earth. I shall certainly find a wife for myself.” Then, he added, with a smile: ‘I do not like a moment more without her. Dare she elude me then for a whole year?”

His smile remained, as he pondered and said. “The Punjab is full of young girls, and I can earn bread for two.”

The idea took root, and within four or five days thereafter Kartar Sigh left for the Punjab. I was at the station by accident. I saw him off. He was full of hope, and his optimism was infectious.

“Kartar Singh. I wish you all success in your mission,” I said, sincerely.

All of a sudden he was full of the old anxiety.

“If I fail this time also, I shall feel very miserable. I hate living alone now,” he murmured.

“Why speak of failure? After all, it is a matter of finding a wife! You will succeed. I am sure,” I said. And the train started on its journey.

During the following months I often remembered his face: eager, hopeful, anxious. I often felt curious to know what had happened to him. Accordingly, when, some time later, I again went to Lonavala, almost the first thought that came to me was to meet him as soon as I could.

That very evening I found him in the market-place.

I saw immediately that he was looking unhappy, and I suggested that he should come with me to the restaurant if he was in no particular hurry.

On the way, he said, sorrowfully: “Nothing came of it, brother.”

I did not know what to say. His sorrow imparted itself to me. We reached the restaurant in silence. It was not until we sat at a table that he continued his story.

“I tried my utmost, but–why bother about that? When I returned here alone, I told the Mem Sa’ab what you had taught me. On hearing that my wife was ill the Mem Sa’ab was all sympathy. She offered me some money so that I could get my wife treated. I, of course, declined. How could I add that sin to the many falsehoods I had uttered? I merely said that my wife would certainly follow within about two months’ time...While talking to her, Janab, I had a certain inspiration.”

Kartar singh’s face beamed with joy, in the midst of this tale of sorrow, as he added: “After some three months I went to her and told her, with shyness in my voice, that I had received a letter from my people, which said that my wife was big with child. And my people
would not send her here in that condition. What then should I do? The Mem Sa’ab was mightily pleased.”

“Really? That was very clever of you,” I said.

“The Mem Sa’ab is such a great lady. It is only since I met her that I have come to realise that there are people on this earth directly related to God. ‘All right, Kartar Singh,’ she said, ‘it is quite all right. Let the child be born there. Then you bring it here. We shall teach it some very good things here….’ She was, and continues to be, overjoyed at the thought of my becoming a father. Daily instructs me to write to my wife about things she should, and things should not, do at this delicate time of her life. So, Janab, for the present, there is nothing to worry about–that is, so far as my job is concerned.”

“But what will you say to your Mem Sa’ab after more time passes?...Have you thought of that?” I asked.

He was miserable again. “What can I think, Janab?” After a painful moment, he added: “Shall I tell you the truth, Huzur? My hope….yes, even my desire to marry, is now dead–really dead.”

I do not know whether that word, “Dead,” gave me the idea, but I said: “Do one thing, then, Kartar Singh. Tell the Mem Sa’ab that your wife died in giving birth to her child.”

For a time Kartar Singh sat there silently, with downcast eyes, engrossed in thought. He did not even appear to have heard what I had said. So much grief and sorrow clouded his face that I did not like to disturb him.

Then his lips opened and closed, in a silent sigh. It seemed as though he were taking a decision about something.

At last he raised his face. My eyes met his. And his were full of the gloom that one experiences at the passing away of a near and dear one.

Unable to gaze for a long time at the sadness on his face, I looked away.

As soon as I turned my eyes from him, he said, in a voice full of pathos: “You are telling the truth, Janab!...you are right!...yes…now...she...is really dead!”

The desolation in his voice pained me. I looked at him again. He rose from the table.

“She is really dead now!” he repeated, slowly, standing before me. And then he slowly walked away.

A vast emptiness swelled inside me. I could not speak or stir for a while. When at last I rose too, and followed him, I found that he had disappeared.

Only his foot-steps, which I thought I heard faintly on the hill side, left echoes, in my heart and in my mind: echoes of many such deaths!

Many such deaths!

Alive, but only to the imagination, till yesterday! Dead, even to the imagination, today!

¹ “As a god self-slain on his own strange altar,
Death lies dead.”
–Swinburne.
² English