Friends, our country has for centuries been the birthplace and home of countless great personalities brimming with virtues – sages, poets, writers, musicians, and many more. Thousands of works created by these luminaries are invaluable. Today's youth, in this digital age, seem to be losing touch with their heritage and these precious treasures, drifting further away from our legacy. subkuz.com continuously strives to bring you these invaluable treasures, along with entertaining stories, news, and information from India and around the world. Presented here is one such priceless and inspiring story by Munshi Premchand.
The Final Destination
Ah? Three years have passed. The same house, the same garden, the same Ganga riverbank, the same marble fountain. It's the same me, and the same walls. Yet, none of these things affect my heart. That intoxication, that delightful feeling the gentle breeze and the captivating whispers of the Ganga once instilled in my soul – I yearn for it. That heart is no more. The woman who was the support of my life is no longer in this world.
Mohini possessed captivating beauty. There was something extraordinary about her elegance. Loving her was difficult; she was worthy of worship. Her face always held a radiant, enchanting spirituality. Her eyes, filled with modesty, gravity, and a sacred intoxication, were a fountain of love. Each of her glances, each action, each word radiated the purity and truth of her heart. When she looked at me with her shy eyes, her allure and warmth created a tidal wave in my heart. Rays of spiritual emotions emanated from her eyes, yet her lips were unfamiliar with the language of love. She never, even indirectly, expressed the boundless love in whose currents she herself drifted like a straw. Her love knew no bounds. Love that aims for union is not love, but desire. Mohini's love was a love that even in union savored separation. I vividly remember one moonlit night, by the same fountain, when, captivated by my love-filled words, she said – Ah! That voice is still etched on my heart, 'Union is the beginning of love, not the end.'
A more brilliant, a more profound thought on the subject of love never crossed my mind. That love born from glances and flourishing even in separation cannot tolerate even a whiff of lust. Perhaps this is self-praise, but the love that Mohini held for me, despite my weaknesses, even a drop of it was enough to overwhelm me. My heart wasn't that vast; I wondered what quality in me had captivated Mohini's love. Beauty, purity of conduct, the essence of masculinity – these are the qualities upon which love is bestowed. But I could not take pride in any of these. Perhaps my weaknesses were the reason for her yearning love.
Mohini lacked the qualities that usually captivate flirtatious hearts. Sidelong glances, proud, playful eyes, a captivating smile, a lively speech – none of these were present! Yet, just as in the soft, pleasant moonlight, sometimes a shower of rain begins, so too, in her innocent love, a smile would flicker across her face, and her eyes would become moist. This wasn't a pose, but a picture of genuine emotion that stirred a sacred love within my heart.
It was evening; day and night were embracing. Intoxicating clouds filled the sky, and I sat with Mohini by the same fountain. The cool breeze and the playful clouds awakened the sleeping feelings of love in a corner of my heart. I could sacrifice thousands of worldly possessions for the intoxication that enveloped our hearts at that moment. It felt as if, in that state of ecstasy, our hearts, overwhelmed, would overflow from our eyes.
Suddenly, Mohini started, gazing towards the Ganga. At that moment, the Ganga, too, seemed agitated, like our hearts.
On the disturbed, rising and falling surface of the water, a lamp floated along, its shimmering reflection flickering and dancing like a shooting star, illuminating the water. Ah! What resources did that tiny life possess! A few pieces of paper, a few bamboo slivers, an earthen lamp – like the culmination of someone's unfulfilled desires, upon which someone compassionate had lit a lamp. But that tiny life, whose existence had no fixed abode, was tossed about in that boundless ocean, colliding with leaping waves, shaken by whirlpools, pushing against the roaring waves. Perhaps the water nymphs, taking pity on its weakness, had hidden it in their folds.
As long as the lamp was visible, flickering and shimmering, receiving jolts from the sympathetic waves, Mohini gazed at it, lost in thought. When it disappeared from sight, she anxiously stood up and said, "I will go to the bank and see that lamp."
Just as a child, hearing the enticing call of a sweet seller, rushes out of the house, eagerly watching and impatiently calling towards the tray of sweets, with the same enthusiasm and eagerness, Mohini went towards the riverbank.
Steps led down from the garden to the river. We both descended quickly, and as soon as we reached the bank, Mohini exclaimed joyfully, "It's still there! Still there! Look, it's moving!"
That childlike enthusiasm and anxious impatience on Mohini's face at that moment will never leave me. A question arose in my heart: why such a heartfelt connection, such agitation, with that lamp? A person devoid of poetic sensibility like me could not understand this riddle at all.
Apprehensions arose in my heart. It's a dark night, the clouds are gathering, the river is flooded, the wind is b – it's not right to stay here at this time. But Mohini! That picture of eager innocence, stood silently, her eyes fixed on the lamp, as that lonely lamp moved and swayed, going who knows where, to what land!
But after a while, the lamp disappeared from sight. Mohini asked in a disappointed voice, "Gone! Must have gone out?"
And before I could answer, she went to the boat on which we sometimes used to go for boat rides on the river, and lovingly embracing me, said, "I will go and see where that lamp is going, to which land."
Saying this, Mohini untied the boat's rope. Just as the branches of trees sway in the gusts of a storm, so too, the boat was swaying. That terrifying expanse of the river, those terrible leaps of the waves, that roaring sound of the water – how will this boat survive in this terrifying darkness! My heart sank. Will this unfortunate boat also sink in search of that unfortunate lamp? But Mohini's heart was not under her control at that moment. Like the lamp, her heart was also being carried away in the vast, wave-tossed, roaring river of emotions. The intoxicated clouds kept descending, as if to embrace the river, and that dark river rose as if to touch the clouds. Fear closed my eyes. We went on, jumping along, hearing the sounds of the banks collapsing, watching the dark trees swaying. The settlement was left behind; we even went beyond the dwellings of the gods. Suddenly Mohini stood up startled and said, "It's still there! Still there! Look, it's going."
I looked up; the lamp was still moving and swaying.
We had gone very far, watching that lamp. Mohini began to sing this song:
Main saajan se milan chali (I am going to meet my beloved)
What a heart-wrenching song, and what a painful, melodious voice, steeped in love and tears. A captivating song has a great power to awaken imaginations. It lifts man from the material world and transports him to a world of fantasy. At that time, in the eyes of my mind, the turbulent waves of the river, the swaying branches on the riverbank, the whistling wind – all seemed to have taken form, and all were swiftly moving forward, to meet their beloved. The hazy, dreamlike image of a young woman swaying with anticipation and love appeared to move in the air, in the waves, and in the clumps of trees, saying – to meet her beloved! This song cast a spell of anticipation over the entire scene.
Main saajan se milan chali
Saajan basat kaun si nagri main bouri na jaanu (My beloved resides in which city, I, a foolish one, do not know)
Na mohe aas milan ki usse aisi preet bhalli (Nor do I have the hope of meeting him, such love is better)
Main saajan se milan chali
When Mohini fell silent, a profound silence reigned, and in that silence, a very faint, melodious, dreamy voice seemed to come from beyond the horizon, or from beneath the river, or with the gusts of wind, reaching the ears of my mind.
Main saajan se milan chali
I was so moved by this song that for a moment I forgot where I was and where I was going. That same melody echoed in my heart and mind. Suddenly, Mohini said, "Look at the lamp." I looked at the lamp. Its light had dimmed, and its life force was exhausted. Finally, it flickered once and went out. Just as a drop of water disappears into a river, so too, the existence of the lamp disappeared in the expanse of darkness! Mohini softly said, "It's not visible anymore! It's gone out!" Saying this, she took a cold breath. Pain surged. Her throat choked with tears; only this much escaped her lips, "Was this its final destination?" And tears flowed from her eyes.
A curtain seemed to lift from before my eyes. The mystery of Mohini's anxiety, anticipation, impatience, and sadness was understood, and involuntarily, a few tears also fell from my eyes. Was this the final destination of that noisy, dangerous, stormy journey?
The next day, when Mohini woke up, her face was pale. She hadn't slept all night. She was a woman of poetic temperament. This night's event had greatly affected her sensitive, emotional heart. Laughter rarely came to her lips; however, her face was always radiant. From that day on, even that cheerfulness disappeared; a perpetual sadness overshadowed her face, and her words were such that they pierced the heart and brought tears. To distract her from these thoughts, I often brought humorous stories, but she didn't even open them. However, when I was not at home, she used to read poetry; not because reading them gave her pleasure, but because it gave her thoughts to cry about, and the poems she wrote during that time are heart-wrenching, painful songs. Who is the person who can read them and hold back their tears? She sometimes recited her poems to me, and when I, immersed in her pain, praised them, I saw the intoxication of spiritual elation in her eyes. Laughter, gaiety, and color may affect some people's hearts, but which heart will not melt at the feelings of pain?
One day, we were both strolling in the same garden. It was evening, and the month of Chaitra. Mohini's mood was cheerful today. After many days, a smile appeared on her lips today. When evening arrived and the full moon rose from the lap of the Ganga, we sat down by the same fountain. This row of willows and this fountain are Mohini's memories. The moonlight glittered, and the game of chaupar began. Today, the freshness of her mood had brightened her beauty, and her captivating playfulness intoxicated me. I played many games and lost every time. The fun in losing was not found in winning. The fun in lighthearted merriment is not found in feasting and intoxication.
The moonlight was abundant. Suddenly, Mohini looked towards the Ganga and said to me, "What light is that on the other side?" I also looked, a funeral pyre was burning, but I casually said, "People are cooking their evening meal."
Mohini didn't believe it. A sad smile appeared on her face, and her eyes became moist. Such sad scenes had the same effect on her sensitive and pained heart as the heat of the sun does on flowers.
For a while she sat silently, peacefully, then said in a mournful voice, "'It has reached its final destination!'"
This was an inspiring story by the great writer Munshi Premchand. We learn many new things from this story. The entire subkuz team strives to bring inspiring stories to our visitors every day. Keep reading such inspiring and informative stories on subkuz.com.
