Dear Editor

Rasik Sampaadak
Dear Editor
by Munshi Premchand
Translated from Hindi by Prasenjit Gupta

Following the death of his beloved wife, a particular devotion to the ladies has manifested itself in Navras editor Pandit Chokhelal Sharma, and his artistic passions, too, have become more pointed. Well-written pieces from men are thrown into the trash; but women's submissions, whatever their quality, are immediately accepted, and along with the acceptance letter often goes a personal note from the editor, praising the piece in terms such as these: "Reading your story moved me deeply"; "My own past floated up once again in front of my eyes"; "The profundity of your emotions is like a lustrous pearl in the ocean of writing, its glow will never die." And their poems! One is a whirlpool that has caught his heart, another a melody from a universal lute, the sweet suffering of the Infinite, the silent song of a still night. An ardent desire for a meeting often accompanies the compliments. If you should ever happen to come this way, don't forget to look me up. I would think myself fortunate to be able to encounter face to face such a soul as created these poems.

The writers who received such passionate encouragement are overjoyed. Their pieces have knocked about from door to door like wretched beggars, been turned away by dozens of journals and magazines, their hopes dashed-and see how well they're received here! For the first time there's an editor who can recognize true talent. The other editors are all full of themselves, they don't think anyone else counts. Getting a small editorship somewhere seems to be like being granted a kingdom. If ever these people got into the bureaucracy, it would be a reign of terror! Thank God the government doesn't pay any attention to their opinions. It's a good thing they passed the ordinance. Go on, you editors, go on hating women the way you do! That's why they're punishing you. Now this man, he's an editor too, he's not sitting around peeling grass, and it's a world-famous magazine he's editor of. Navras is king of all magazines.

Subscriptions for Chokhelal-ji's magazine have shot up. Every day a deluge of Thank Yous fills the editor's mailbox. Women writers revere him. They begin to write him personal letters, with news of family weddings, engagements, mundans, births, deaths. Someone desires him to pray for her, someone needs a few words of consolation from him, someone craves his advice on a domestic situation. And every month five-ten women come by to meet him in person. When Sharma-ji finds out they're coming, he goes to welcome them at the train station, puts them up for a day or two with great enthusiasm, gives them the royal treatment. He gets free passes, so he takes them to the theater. By the time they leave, the women are completely charmed. It's well known that he's developed very intimate friendships with several women writers, but of this we cannot speak with certainty. All we're sure of is that the women who come to meet Sharma-ji become devoted to him. He's a lonely monk in the cottage of Literature. He's managed to keep the hopelessness of his widower's life secreted deep inside; his agony is silent, hidden, as he drinks at the sweet fountain of love. Some women have made it their religion to make up for the void in their dear editor's life. If a hungry man can be given a little honey from their cupboard, then it is they who are blessed. Some gentle lady parcels him jars of pickles, someone laddus; another knits him a woolen prayer-mat with her own hands. One lady comes by regularly every month to sew his buttons back on for him; another cooks at home and brings him delicacies two or three times a month. Now he belongs to no one woman, he is everyone's. It would be hard to find a fiercer advocate for women's rights than him. Men are quick to criticize him. Sympathy and respect are his from women alone. One day the editor receives a poem fired with a woman's intense, explicit passion. Perhaps other editors might have found the poem indecent, but Chokhelal has become extremely liberal in his views. It's written in such a beautiful hand, the woman's pen-name so enchants him, that he forms an immediate mental picture of her. Slight of build, eyes that would plead with him, full red lips, skin of gold, hands quick to gesture, all enhanced by a sensitive nature; a woman dry and firm at first glance, like a sweet or toffee, yet quick to melt and cling. He reads her poem several times, and every time a thrill runs through him:

         Do you think you'll leave me and go?
                                                                        Can you go?
         I'll lay my arm around your neck
         I'll tighten my noose around you
         I'll rest my hand on your thigh
                           And lay my head there.
         Do you think you can leave me and go?
                                                                        Can you leave?
         I'll bring myself to your lips
         You'll drink the nectar in that cup
                           And dissolve yourself in it.
                                 Sated, you'll lay your head in my lap.
         Do you think you'll leave me and go?

                                             -"Eyes of Love"

With every reading Sharma-ji finds a new strain of delight in the poem. He lays it on his desk and immediately turns to his typewriter and pounds out a letter to Lady Eyes.

"I can't describe how I felt when I read your poem. Such a thirst has entered my mind that it turns me into an arid desert. I don't know how to slake my thirst. The only hope I have is that I will find the nectar to sate myself in the same place that gave me that thirst. Like a fettered animal, my mind wants to rip off its shackles and run. I can see the soul that gave birth to the emotions in the poem: such a bottomless reserve of love, a love that finds joy in surrendering itself. I'm not flattering you when I say that I haven't read a poem like this in years, it's raised a tornado in me that's twisted the roof off my peaceful widowed life. You've set fire to the thatched hut of my soul, and I cannot believe that it can be only a moment's pleasure on your part. Behind your words I can see a heart that's known the red-hot anguish of love, been fired in the oven of desire. I would be thrilled to meet you face to face. My humble cottage, with its gift of love, waits to welcome you.

"With love," etc.

A reply arrives on the third day. Eyes of Love has expressed her gratitude in very thoughtful terms and provided the date and time of her arrival.

Today Eyes of Love will make her auspicious appearance.

Sharma-ji rises early and shaves, bathes with soap and besan, picks out a dhoti of fine khadi, puts on a loose, frilled kurta of the finest kokati, and carries a silk chadar the color of cream. He walks into his office with such an air of splendor that all the workers are taken aback. He's asked them to make sure the offices are cleaned thoroughly. New flower-pots grace the hallway; fresh bouquets have been arranged on the table. Her train comes in at nine, now it's eight-thirty, she'll be here by nine-thirty. He cannot get any work done. Time and again he looks at the clock on the wall, then picks up a small mirror from his desk drawer. Then he returns to pacing up and down the room. He's noticed a few strands of gray in his mustache, but he doesn't have the scissors to remove them. No matter. It'll contribute to his image. When love is accompanied by reverence, it becomes a beloved visitor bearing a gift. For young men, love is an expensive business, but for greater souls or those who've approached greatness, love brings with it many things of value. Younger men have to buy costly presents to make an impression, but the great or semi-great need only to grant their blessings.

Exactly at nine-thirty, an attendant comes in with a card. It says: "Eyes of Love."

Sharma-ji asks her to show the lady in, and turns again to glance into the mirror. Then he picks out a thick tome from a shelf and opens it. He is deep in study when the woman steps in through the door. Sharma-ji seems completely unaware of her presence.

The woman approaches his desk tentatively, and suddenly Sharma-ji starts and lifts his head, as if she's jerked him out of a trance. He stands up to welcome her-but this isn't her, this can't be the woman he's imagined!

A fat, swarthy, middle-aged woman, unsteady on her feet, stares back at him as if she would drink him in, swallow him whole. Sharma-ji's enthusiasm, his passion, cools in an instant. The drops of honey that he's gathered in his heart freeze into shards of stabbing glass. For a moment he can't speak, he can't hear. Then he blurts out, "An editor's life-it's an animal's life! No time even to lift your head from your work. And on top of that I've overworked myself into terrible shape. A blinding headache since last night. How can I help you?"

Lady Eyes of Love has a large folder in her hands. She puts it on the desk and wipes her face with a handkerchief. Then she says in a soft voice, "That's terrible. I was going to visit a friend of mine, and I thought I'd stop by to meet you, but if you're not well, I'd be happy to stay a few days and maybe lighten your load a little. I can help you with your editorial work. Your heath is of vital importance to all women everywhere! I can't leave you like this."

Sharma-ji feels the blood stop cold in his veins, his pulse falter. If this witch stays here, his life will be hell. Thinks she's a poet-and this kind of poetry! Steeped in indecency. It is indecent. Immoral. Completely putrid with filth. From a younger, prettier woman, the poem would have been an arrow of love. From this witch, it's waste from a sewage pipe. Where does she get the right to write poems like that? Why does she write these poems? Why isn't she sitting in a corner somewhere singing bhajans to Ram? And she asks, Can I leave her and go? To which I say, why the hell would anyone be with you anyway? He'd see you coming a long way off and make himself scarce. And the poetry-there's no head or tail to it, it's completely formless, no sense of rhythm, nothing! And she thinks it's poetry! If poetry could come out of a body like hers, donkeys would sing! Camels dance! The old hag doesn't even know that to write poetry you have to have youth, beauty, a certain delicacy, a refined sensibility. The woman looks like a she-devil! If someone met her in a dark alley, they'd be scared witless; and she writes passionate poems. No matter how hungry someone is, will he eat dung? And the witch's brought along a huge sheaf of more stuff! More filth! Reams of it!

He glances at the thick folder and says, "No, no, I don't want to trouble you. It's not really serious at all. I'll be fine if I rest for a while. Your friend must be waiting for you."

"Oh, there's no need to be shy about it. I can leave in five or ten days' time, no harm will be done."

"There's not the slightest need for that, ma'm."

"I don't want to flatter you to your face, but you have a rare gentlemanliness that I've never seen in anyone else. You're the first great man who's liked my creations-I'd become quite disheartened. Your letter encouraged me to write some more poems. You could keep these if you like. I've started writing a play as well. I'll mail that to you as soon as it's done. I'd be happy to read a few poems to you if you have a moment. I might never have the opportunity again! I don't know if they're any good, but I hope you'll like them. They're in the same strain as the first one."

She doesn't wait for permission; quickly she pulls open the folder and begins to read a poem. Sharma-ji feels as if someone's beating him about the head with a shoe. Several times nausea almost overcomes him. He thinks a thousand donkeys have gathered at his ears and are braying in concert. Eyes of Love has a voice as melodious as a koel's, but Sharma-ji hates it. He begins to develop a real headache. Will this donkey leave, or is she going to stay here eating my head? Can't she tell from my face the way I feel? And still she keeps going! With her face I'd hate her poems even if she were Mahadevi or Subhadra Kumari.

He can't restrain himself any longer. He says, "How can I begin to describe your poems? Why don't you leave these with me, I'll read them when I find some time. I'm really busy right now."

Eyes of Love says in a compassionate voice, "You work so hard even with your delicate health? I feel so sorry for you."

"That's very kind of you."

"Will you have some time tomorrow? I thought maybe I could bring the first act of the play-"

"I'm sorry, I have to drive up to Prayag tomorrow."

"Can I go with you? I could read it to you in the car."

"I'm not sure when I'm going to leave."

"When will you be back?"

"I'm not sure yet." And he picks up the phone and says, "Hullo-extension 77."

Eyes of Love waits for him a half-hour, but Sharma-ji seems engrossed in such important matters on the phone that he can't tear himself away.

Disappointed, Lady Eyes of Love leaves quietly, whispering that she'll certainly come back again. Sharma-ji takes a breath of ease and picks up the sheaf of poems and drops it in the wastebasket. He says to himself, Dear God, I hope I never see her again. Shameless slut. Ruined my day.

He calls his manager and says, "That Eyes of Love poem won't run."

The manager is astonished. "The form's already on the machine."

"No matter. Take it off."

"The issue will be very late."

"Let it. That poem won't run."

Continue to "Splashed!".

Return to the introduction.

Discuss this story.


home about contact policies submissions feature archives audio visual writing reviews forums art film & television food literature music society & culture elsewhere desilit parabaas sasialit sawnet upper stall	Rasik Sampaadak Dear Editor by Munshi Premchand Translated from Hindi by Prasenjit Gupta Following the death of his beloved wife, a particular devotion to the ladies has manifested itself in Navras editor Pandit Chokhelal Sharma, and his artistic passions, too, have become more pointed. Well-written pieces from men are thrown into the trash; but women's submissions, whatever their quality, are immediately accepted, and along with the acceptance letter often goes a personal note from the editor, praising the piece in terms such as these: "Reading your story moved me deeply"; "My own past floated up once again in front of my eyes"; "The profundity of your emotions is like a lustrous pearl in the ocean of writing, its glow will never die." And their poems! One is a whirlpool that has caught his heart, another a melody from a universal lute, the sweet suffering of the Infinite, the silent song of a still night. An ardent desire for a meeting often accompanies the compliments. If you should ever happen to come this way, don't forget to look me up. I would think myself fortunate to be able to encounter face to face such a soul as created these poems. The writers who received such passionate encouragement are overjoyed. Their pieces have knocked about from door to door like wretched beggars, been turned away by dozens of journals and magazines, their hopes dashed-and see how well they're received here! For the first time there's an editor who can recognize true talent. The other editors are all full of themselves, they don't think anyone else counts. Getting a small editorship somewhere seems to be like being granted a kingdom. If ever these people got into the bureaucracy, it would be a reign of terror! Thank God the government doesn't pay any attention to their opinions. It's a good thing they passed the ordinance. Go on, you editors, go on hating women the way you do! That's why they're punishing you. Now this man, he's an editor too, he's not sitting around peeling grass, and it's a world-famous magazine he's editor of. Navras is king of all magazines. Subscriptions for Chokhelal-ji's magazine have shot up. Every day a deluge of Thank Yous fills the editor's mailbox. Women writers revere him. They begin to write him personal letters, with news of family weddings, engagements, mundans, births, deaths. Someone desires him to pray for her, someone needs a few words of consolation from him, someone craves his advice on a domestic situation. And every month five-ten women come by to meet him in person. When Sharma-ji finds out they're coming, he goes to welcome them at the train station, puts them up for a day or two with great enthusiasm, gives them the royal treatment. He gets free passes, so he takes them to the theater. By the time they leave, the women are completely charmed. It's well known that he's developed very intimate friendships with several women writers, but of this we cannot speak with certainty. All we're sure of is that the women who come to meet Sharma-ji become devoted to him. He's a lonely monk in the cottage of Literature. He's managed to keep the hopelessness of his widower's life secreted deep inside; his agony is silent, hidden, as he drinks at the sweet fountain of love. Some women have made it their religion to make up for the void in their dear editor's life. If a hungry man can be given a little honey from their cupboard, then it is they who are blessed. Some gentle lady parcels him jars of pickles, someone laddus; another knits him a woolen prayer-mat with her own hands. One lady comes by regularly every month to sew his buttons back on for him; another cooks at home and brings him delicacies two or three times a month. Now he belongs to no one woman, he is everyone's. It would be hard to find a fiercer advocate for women's rights than him. Men are quick to criticize him. Sympathy and respect are his from women alone. One day the editor receives a poem fired with a woman's intense, explicit passion. Perhaps other editors might have found the poem indecent, but Chokhelal has become extremely liberal in his views. It's written in such a beautiful hand, the woman's pen-name so enchants him, that he forms an immediate mental picture of her. Slight of build, eyes that would plead with him, full red lips, skin of gold, hands quick to gesture, all enhanced by a sensitive nature; a woman dry and firm at first glance, like a sweet or toffee, yet quick to melt and cling. He reads her poem several times, and every time a thrill runs through him: Do you think you'll leave me and go? Can you go? I'll lay my arm around your neck I'll tighten my noose around you I'll rest my hand on your thigh And lay my head there. Do you think you can leave me and go? Can you leave? I'll bring myself to your lips You'll drink the nectar in that cup And dissolve yourself in it. Sated, you'll lay your head in my lap. Do you think you'll leave me and go? -"Eyes of Love" With every reading Sharma-ji finds a new strain of delight in the poem. He lays it on his desk and immediately turns to his typewriter and pounds out a letter to Lady Eyes. "I can't describe how I felt when I read your poem. Such a thirst has entered my mind that it turns me into an arid desert. I don't know how to slake my thirst. The only hope I have is that I will find the nectar to sate myself in the same place that gave me that thirst. Like a fettered animal, my mind wants to rip off its shackles and run. I can see the soul that gave birth to the emotions in the poem: such a bottomless reserve of love, a love that finds joy in surrendering itself. I'm not flattering you when I say that I haven't read a poem like this in years, it's raised a tornado in me that's twisted the roof off my peaceful widowed life. You've set fire to the thatched hut of my soul, and I cannot believe that it can be only a moment's pleasure on your part. Behind your words I can see a heart that's known the red-hot anguish of love, been fired in the oven of desire. I would be thrilled to meet you face to face. My humble cottage, with its gift of love, waits to welcome you. "With love," etc. A reply arrives on the third day. Eyes of Love has expressed her gratitude in very thoughtful terms and provided the date and time of her arrival. Today Eyes of Love will make her auspicious appearance. Sharma-ji rises early and shaves, bathes with soap and besan, picks out a dhoti of fine khadi, puts on a loose, frilled kurta of the finest kokati, and carries a silk chadar the color of cream. He walks into his office with such an air of splendor that all the workers are taken aback. He's asked them to make sure the offices are cleaned thoroughly. New flower-pots grace the hallway; fresh bouquets have been arranged on the table. Her train comes in at nine, now it's eight-thirty, she'll be here by nine-thirty. He cannot get any work done. Time and again he looks at the clock on the wall, then picks up a small mirror from his desk drawer. Then he returns to pacing up and down the room. He's noticed a few strands of gray in his mustache, but he doesn't have the scissors to remove them. No matter. It'll contribute to his image. When love is accompanied by reverence, it becomes a beloved visitor bearing a gift. For young men, love is an expensive business, but for greater souls or those who've approached greatness, love brings with it many things of value. Younger men have to buy costly presents to make an impression, but the great or semi-great need only to grant their blessings. Exactly at nine-thirty, an attendant comes in with a card. It says: "Eyes of Love." Sharma-ji asks her to show the lady in, and turns again to glance into the mirror. Then he picks out a thick tome from a shelf and opens it. He is deep in study when the woman steps in through the door. Sharma-ji seems completely unaware of her presence. The woman approaches his desk tentatively, and suddenly Sharma-ji starts and lifts his head, as if she's jerked him out of a trance. He stands up to welcome her-but this isn't her, this can't be the woman he's imagined! A fat, swarthy, middle-aged woman, unsteady on her feet, stares back at him as if she would drink him in, swallow him whole. Sharma-ji's enthusiasm, his passion, cools in an instant. The drops of honey that he's gathered in his heart freeze into shards of stabbing glass. For a moment he can't speak, he can't hear. Then he blurts out, "An editor's life-it's an animal's life! No time even to lift your head from your work. And on top of that I've overworked myself into terrible shape. A blinding headache since last night. How can I help you?" Lady Eyes of Love has a large folder in her hands. She puts it on the desk and wipes her face with a handkerchief. Then she says in a soft voice, "That's terrible. I was going to visit a friend of mine, and I thought I'd stop by to meet you, but if you're not well, I'd be happy to stay a few days and maybe lighten your load a little. I can help you with your editorial work. Your heath is of vital importance to all women everywhere! I can't leave you like this." Sharma-ji feels the blood stop cold in his veins, his pulse falter. If this witch stays here, his life will be hell. Thinks she's a poet-and this kind of poetry! Steeped in indecency. It is indecent. Immoral. Completely putrid with filth. From a younger, prettier woman, the poem would have been an arrow of love. From this witch, it's waste from a sewage pipe. Where does she get the right to write poems like that? Why does she write these poems? Why isn't she sitting in a corner somewhere singing bhajans to Ram? And she asks, Can I leave her and go? To which I say, why the hell would anyone be with you anyway? He'd see you coming a long way off and make himself scarce. And the poetry-there's no head or tail to it, it's completely formless, no sense of rhythm, nothing! And she thinks it's poetry! If poetry could come out of a body like hers, donkeys would sing! Camels dance! The old hag doesn't even know that to write poetry you have to have youth, beauty, a certain delicacy, a refined sensibility. The woman looks like a she-devil! If someone met her in a dark alley, they'd be scared witless; and she writes passionate poems. No matter how hungry someone is, will he eat dung? And the witch's brought along a huge sheaf of more stuff! More filth! Reams of it! He glances at the thick folder and says, "No, no, I don't want to trouble you. It's not really serious at all. I'll be fine if I rest for a while. Your friend must be waiting for you." "Oh, there's no need to be shy about it. I can leave in five or ten days' time, no harm will be done." "There's not the slightest need for that, ma'm." "I don't want to flatter you to your face, but you have a rare gentlemanliness that I've never seen in anyone else. You're the first great man who's liked my creations-I'd become quite disheartened. Your letter encouraged me to write some more poems. You could keep these if you like. I've started writing a play as well. I'll mail that to you as soon as it's done. I'd be happy to read a few poems to you if you have a moment. I might never have the opportunity again! I don't know if they're any good, but I hope you'll like them. They're in the same strain as the first one." She doesn't wait for permission; quickly she pulls open the folder and begins to read a poem. Sharma-ji feels as if someone's beating him about the head with a shoe. Several times nausea almost overcomes him. He thinks a thousand donkeys have gathered at his ears and are braying in concert. Eyes of Love has a voice as melodious as a koel's, but Sharma-ji hates it. He begins to develop a real headache. Will this donkey leave, or is she going to stay here eating my head? Can't she tell from my face the way I feel? And still she keeps going! With her face I'd hate her poems even if she were Mahadevi or Subhadra Kumari. He can't restrain himself any longer. He says, "How can I begin to describe your poems? Why don't you leave these with me, I'll read them when I find some time. I'm really busy right now." Eyes of Love says in a compassionate voice, "You work so hard even with your delicate health? I feel so sorry for you." "That's very kind of you." "Will you have some time tomorrow? I thought maybe I could bring the first act of the play-" "I'm sorry, I have to drive up to Prayag tomorrow." "Can I go with you? I could read it to you in the car." "I'm not sure when I'm going to leave." "When will you be back?" "I'm not sure yet." And he picks up the phone and says, "Hullo-extension 77." Eyes of Love waits for him a half-hour, but Sharma-ji seems engrossed in such important matters on the phone that he can't tear himself away. Disappointed, Lady Eyes of Love leaves quietly, whispering that she'll certainly come back again. Sharma-ji takes a breath of ease and picks up the sheaf of poems and drops it in the wastebasket. He says to himself, Dear God, I hope I never see her again. Shameless slut. Ruined my day. He calls his manager and says, "That Eyes of Love poem won't run." The manager is astonished. "The form's already on the machine." "No matter. Take it off." "The issue will be very late." "Let it. That poem won't run." Continue to "Splashed!". Return to the introduction. Discuss this story.