Premchand’s Torn Shoes

By Harishankar Parsai

There is a photograph of Premchand in front of me, he has posed with his wife. Atop his head sits a cap made of some coarse cloth. He is clad in a kurta and dhoti. His temples are sunken, his cheek-bones jut out, but his lush moustache lends a full look to his face.

He is wearing canvas shoes and its laces are tied haphazardly. When used carelessly, the metal lace-ends come off and it   becomes difficult to insert the laces in the lace-holes. Then, laces are tied any which way.

The right shoe is okay but there is a large hole in the left shoe, out of which a toe has emerged.

My sight is transfixed on this shoe. If this is his attire while posing for a photograph, how must he be dressing otherwise? I wonder. No, this is not a man who has a range of clothes, he does not possess the knack of changing clothes. The image in the photograph depicts how he really is.

I look towards his face. Are you aware, my literary forbear, that your shoe is torn and that a toe can be seen? Do you have no inkling of this? No shame, hesitation or bashfulness? Don’t you know that by lowering the dhoti a bit you can cover the toe? Even, then, your face looks carefree and confident. When the photographer must have said  “Ready, please”, then, in keeping with tradition, you must have tried to summon a smile and just as you were in the throes of dredging up a smile that lay at the bottom of pain’s well, the photographer must have “clicked” and said “Thank you!” This smile is strange. This is not a smile, this is derision, this is satire. What kind of man is this, who himself poses for a photograph in torn shoes but is also laughing at somebody.

If you wanted to get a photograph taken, you could have worn proper shoes or else you need not have posed at all. No harm would have been caused if a photograph had not been taken. Perhaps, giving in to your wife’s entreaties, you said “Okay, come” and sat down. But what a big tragedy it is when a man does not have a pair of shoes to wear even while posing for a photograph. While staring at your photograph, I feel your deep distress within me and want to weep but the sharp, satirical pain in your eyes stops me from doing so.

You do not understand the importance of photographs. If you did, you would have borrowed a pair of shoes from someone. People borrow coats to display prospective grooms. They borrow cars to take out wedding processions. For the sake of taking photographs, people go to the extent of borrowing wives, but you could not even borrow a pair of shoes. You do not understand the importance of photographs. People splash scent on themselves before a photograph is taken so that the photograph becomes fragrant. The photograph of the dirtiest person gives off a fragrance.

Caps are available for eight annas and surely shoes must have cost not less than five rupees even then. Shoes have always been more expensive than caps. Now the price of shoes has risen further and dozens of caps are showered at one pair of shoes. I had never felt this irony as sharply before as I do when I look at your torn shoes. You have been called great story-teller, the emperor of novels, epoch-maker and what-not, yet your shoe is torn in the photograph.

My shoes, too, are not in great shape. They look good from the outside. The toe does not pop out, but under the toe the sole has torn. The toe rubs against the ground and where the earth is gravelly, the abrasion causes it to bleed profusely. The entire sole may fall off, the skin may peel, but the toe will not be seen. Your toe can be seen but your foot is secure. My toe is covered but the soles of my feet are wearing out. You do not know the importance of covering, while we sacrifice ourselves for the sake of coverings.

You wear torn shoes with great pride. I cannot wear them like that. Never in my lifetime will I pose for such a photograph even if it means that my autobiography is printed without a photograph.

Your satirical smile has vanquished my spirits. What does it mean? What kind of smile is this?

Has Hori done his Go Daan?

Have the nilgais cleaned out Halku’s field in a Poos ki Raat?

Has Sujan Bhagat’s son died because the doctor refused to leave the club?

No, I think Madho has drunk liquor with the money collected for his wife’s Kafan. It seems to be the same smile.

I look at the shoe again. How did it tear, O writer for the masses?

Did you have to wander a lot? Did you choose a long and circuitous route back home in order to escape the grocer’s demands for payment?

Wandering does not tear shoes, it wears them out.  Kumbhandas’ shoes also wore out while coming and going to Fatehpur Sikri. He said ”This coming and going has worn out my shoes and made me forget chanting the name of Hari”. And about people who call you to give patronage he said ”Even those whose very sight causes grief have to be saluted”

Walking merely wears out shoes it does not tear them. How did your shoes tear?

I feel you have been kicking some hard object. Some object which layer-by-layer has solidified over ages. Perhaps you repeatedly kicked this object and tore your shoe. You tested your shoe against some mound that had piled up on the road. You could have avoided it and walked past it. It is possible to come to terms with mounds. All rivers don’t pierce mountains, some change course, turn and flow on.

You cannot compromise. Are you burdened with the same weakness as Hori, the weakness of  “Rules and Duties”?  ”Rules and Duties” were his chains. But your smile says that perhaps “Rules and Duties” were not your fetters, they were your liberation!

It seems that your toe is signaling to me- are you pointing at what you detest, not with your fingers but with your toe?

Are you pointing towards what you repeatedly kicked and tore your shoe?

I understand.  I understand the hint of the toe and this satirical smile.

You are laughing at me  and all of us, at those who hide their toes but wear out the soles of their feet, those who circumvent the mound. You said I kept kicking and tore my shoe, the toe stuck out but the foot was saved and I kept walking. But in your worry to cover your toe you are destroying the soles of your feet. How will you keep walking?

I understand. I understand the meaning of your torn shoe, I understand the hint of your toe, I understand your satirical smile.

Translated by M J Pandey

(Note: This piece, translated from "Premchand ke Phate Joote", was published in a booklet form by Vividha, Mumbai.)

Photo coursey : Vividha, Mumbai