Short Stories of Munshi Premchand

No romanticism. These are stories of regular life in India. In spite of, or because of which, they strike deep.

They are true, they are stories I have heard of around me and never noticed their exquisiteness, lost in the conundrum of life.

I wish that I had stayed, I wish that I noticed. But then again, if people like me could notice and talk about it, then what would be the beauty of Premchand.

Do read them, they are short and simple. They are small books, easy to carry, easy to read, easy to forget and light on your head. Till someday you’re cooking in the kitchen and you see the steam rise and spiral, in slow twirls, and you think of that strong unloved woman who lost her husband and grieve for her in the middle of a day. Or as you’re preparing for an exam, your eyes seem heavy and the mind feels so drugged, you just go on repeating that line in your head, as each time it makes lesser sense than the last that you thought was the poorest, you faze out and think of books, or exams, of schools, of the two boys who went to school, of one little boy who had been punished and the other who was rewarded and you tell yourself that life is unfair. And then laugh at your folly at trying to find justice in the world and in the end, gain a headache and get back. Once again, you attempt to make sense of that god-knows-why it had been created sentence.

The people from his book, they settle down slowly, and intermittently come back. But nevertheless he softly touches something deep inside you. Mostly, the something deep happens to be a sense of justice, hope, or simply your attachment to the stories of this land. They are the earth of India, the furtive gossip and the plaintive songs.

His stories range from those of childhood to feudalism, women, relationships, work, ethics, religion, love, loss, pain, hope and strength.

I am very sad to say that I’ve lived for 22 years, not knowing the magic of his thought. At least you don't go off living like me...