This Translation Tuesday, we deliver a provincial story by Homvati Devi, a writer celebrated in her time, but since sadly overlooked. Following the daily routine of a junk shop keeper as he bears witness to his neighbors dreams of a better life in Pakistan, Devi beautifully captures a nation’s psyche – restless and uncertain– on the precipice of change. Hear translator Tanvi Srivastava’s first impression of Broken Dreams: “I found this story particularly interesting because it is a ‘partition story’—but set miles away from the borders of newly established Pakistan. It is one of the few stories I have read of the time which grapples with the critical question of citizenship and choice.”
Gafoor runs a junk shop; he travels across the city, from home to home, gathering unwanted items. He buys and sells broken boxes, punctured canisters, torn old blankets, discarded glass vials, cracked soap dishes, used brushes, dirty bottles, and so on. He even sells old mosquito nets and raincoats. Fine-quality objects—like flower vases, vacuum flasks, and toy vehicles—often fall into his hands, either discarded by rich Hindu households, or cajoled off memsahibs.
Over the last few days, work at his shop has increased substantially and so has his income. Those migrating to Pakistan are anxious to sell off their belongings. Gafoor promises to sell their items for more than they are worth, and so they end up giving all their junk to him. Soon his shop is crowded with broken vessels, old beds, musical instruments like tablas, footballs, wooden toys, used shoes and sandals; an unimaginable array of objects—from old burqas to a set of balance scales and weights; from damaged bird cages to nickel and brass jewellery. On the day of the weekly market, Gafoor’s shop is the busiest amongst all the shops on the mile-long road; he makes the most sales.
A traveller to Pakistan asks him, ‘Tell me, miya, how are you?’
‘I am well, by the grace of god,’ Gafoor immediately responds. The reason—the Hindu families he knows trust him implicitly; they agree to whatever price he quotes. To argue with Gafoor, people soon say, is to shoot oneself in the foot.
He knows how to keep his customers happy. He thrusts two cardamom pods into a child’s hand; he unwraps the shawl from his shoulders and lays it on the ground for his customers to sit on; he takes the trouble to arrange a paan for someone else. And in this manner, he reassures those who come to sell to him: ‘Ajji, I will recover at least two rupees from the torn pieces of this mat; this broken spittoon will sell for a full two and a half rupees; and spending twenty paise worth of polish on these sandals will make them as good as new.’
Gafoor rambles on, convincing people he will sell their items for a considerable sum before they leave for Pakistan.
And over there? Over there—it is heaven on earth; they will be given the best— beautifully decorated houses with electric fans and quality furniture, a retinue of servants, shining cars, the finest jobs. Those who stand on the margins of society today will be in a position of power tomorrow, enjoying the luxuries of life, marching ahead.
Hearing such tempting tales convinces many to sell off even the items they can easily carry, like handheld mirrors, cups and plates, knives and forks, coats and quilts.
Thoughts swirl in Gafoor’s mind. Pakistan…? I wonder how it will be. And the cities where so many people are rushing off to? Leaving their homes and jobs—they aren’t stupid, are they? They are all well-educated and intelligent. They say they’ll get large houses and bungalows to live in, jobs in prominent positions. An ordinary telegraph clerk or postman today will become a collector or commissioner tomorrow in Pakistan. Those staying in slums today will get palaces to live in, those who walk barefoot today will fly in motor vehicles, and then there’s me—despite twisting the truth, I still take home a pittance. Oh, the expenses have become unbearable. And Hamida doesn’t stop nagging me—get a necklace made for me, and so on. As if we’ll need such things over there—a land where gold is available at the price of silver. Here, even after slaving for a full year, one can only afford a nose ring worth a gram of gold. We’ve heard that the Congress party will make houses for the poor here; but a house is a house. Maybe they’ll build something better than a thatched hut, perhaps covering it with tin sheets or even levelling the roof flat. But in front of the palatial bungalows over there, what is a mere house?
Standing on the side of the street, stocking the wares of his shop, Gafoor is lost in thought.
The mullah of the biggest mosque in the neighbourhood calls out to him. ‘Are you sleeping, Gafoor? It looks like you’ve gotten rid of all your products. There are only a few tattered things here. Listen to me! Here is a cage of partridges. I also have some things lying at home which you can bring over tomorrow. But you better give me a good price, miya!’
Gafoor feels like he’s falling out of the sky. ‘You… you too, Mullahji? You, too, are selling your things? What in the world is happening? Will you put a lock on the mosque and move away…? Or will you keep someone in your place…?’
‘Arre, what will I do by keeping someone?’ Mullahji places the cage of partridges in front of Gafoor. ‘Whatever others may say, we have decided to go to our homeland…’
Gafoor’s head starts spinning. ‘Your homeland? That is our homeland? And this? Where we were born, where we grew up, the land where our ancestors are buried?’ An image of his father’s grave appears before his eyes, then his mother’s grave, then that of his sisters and brothers, and then the tombs of his two youngest children. His eyes widen as he starts imagining a graveyard stretching into the horizon… surrounded by large mosques and mausoleums… they start to flicker before his eyes like moving cinema images. He sees his house—every window, every door. Then he visualises his buffalo—tethered to the door with its calf. And what about the goats he bought last month? And the new cart he just had built?
Darkness falls before Gafoor’s eyes. He hastily places his wares into boxes and loads them onto the cart.
His companions ask him, ‘Miya! Leaving already? It can’t be three p.m. yet; the sun hasn’t even set.’
Tying a rope to the front of his cart, Gafoor says, ‘It’s as if these partridges have come alive; shall I take care of them and ruin everything for myself? Don’t they have any seeds? You might as well keep them. If any buyer comes, sell them for whatever price you can. Then hand over the money to Mullahji.’
‘Why, what’s happened to you?’ Ramjani asks, lifting the cage.
‘Not feeling well,’ Gafoor says, wearing his shoes.
That’s when Juman Khala’s boy comes running over. ‘How much for the partridges, ji?’
‘As if you’ll take them?’ Gafoor says, after a pause.
‘Why? Why won’t I take them? That’s why I’m asking how much they are for…’ The boy bristles in irritation.
‘From clerics to mullahs, everyone is going to Pakistan, and then there’s you. You’ll spend your entire life here… grazing cattle. When everyone is heading there…’
‘Only people like you are leaving. Abba has declared that we are not going. Who wants to leave just to die in hunger? They say millions have died on the streets this winter…’ He then raises the cage and asks, ‘Now tell me, how much do you want for them?’
‘Eh, who says people have died on the streets? You haven’t heard how things are over there—there is no poverty. Important men have chosen to leave and then there are those like you…’
‘Accha? Then why don’t you go? And fine, don’t tell me how much they cost… I’m getting late.’ Juman’s boy walks away.
And in an attempt to stop him, Gafoor asks, ‘Who told your Abba all this? Tell me who?’
‘Arre, what’s his name? The guy who used to number the houses. He came here as someone’s son-in-law… he was saying terrible things. His wife hasn’t stopped crying since she came. I’ll give you eight annas for them?’ The boy takes out a coin from his pouch and tosses it towards Gafoor. He then picks up the cage.
‘No, no. Eight annas is far too little. Wait, I’ll give it to you for a good price. And listen here, what else did he tell your Abba?’ Gafoor half-rises but Juman’s son tosses two annas and walks away.
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Blowing out the lamp that has been burning through the night, Hamida says to her husband, ‘You didn’t sleep at all last night and didn’t let me sleep either. All you can see are dreams of Pakistan. Your head is lost in the clouds; you don’t listen to anyone, nor are you willing to understand. What about all those who are living here peacefully, earning a decent wage? Are they all mad? Gariva’s daughter-in-law was saying that there’s great demand for washermen over there, but Gariva has refused to go outright. The water carrier who comes to her house told Gariva that her niece’s husband was working in the ration office. After hearing incessant praises for Pakistan, the poor fellow wandered off. His letter arrived the day before. Tauba, tauba! May Allah forgive him! He’s repenting every single moment. He was so hasty in going off, uprooting his entire home and family. I’ve heard that people don’t even have a place to stay; they must move from inn to inn every night. They went with fanciful dreams in their eyes and are barely getting any corn or millet to eat. Go on, get up. The buffalo is bellowing; she wants to be milked.’
Anxiety riddles Gafoor’s body. After a night spent tossing and turning, another thought strikes him—this time about their finances. ‘This buffalo is of outstanding quality,’ he says. ‘We bought her for Rs 520. Who knows how much someone will pay for her now? Even the goats will become useless. What wretched luck!’
‘If everything is useless, why are you wallowing?’ Hamida says, rolling away the mattress. ‘And what’s wrong with the buffalo? We sell two rupees’ worth of milk every day, and there’s enough left for us to consume and more… We even make sevaiyan every day.’
‘But Hamida! I’m thinking about going to Pakistan. All these well-educated people are leaving; they aren’t stupid, are they? They say its heaven over there! Look, Mullahji is also going. Should he keep circling the mosque? Or should he look after himself…? And I’m losing my mind over a buffalo. Over there, they say that cows and buffalos roam the streets like stray cats and dogs; they don’t have anyone to take care of them.’
‘Hmm, so say you are going to Pakistan. Go on, go! But don’t you dare touch one thing from my house! There is no fear of God in clerics or mullahs these days. You sit here and scheme. As if my buffalo is leaving… Panditji will be arriving soon to fetch the milk. I’m going to go call Juman’s son; he’ll milk the buffalo.’
Hamida rises and picks up the pail. A flash of anger overcomes Gafoor, and he rushes to her and slaps her across the face. ‘They won’t even rear a bitch like you over there,’ he says. ‘We’ll see who stops me. Let me see how much I’ll get for all our things.’
He then picks up each item from their home and tosses it into a heap in the courtyard. A cot, a spinning wheel, a grinding stone, lanterns, stools, ladles, clothes, shoes, everything. Banging her head, Hamida screams, ‘Come here quickly. He’s gone stark mad. Arre, he’s trying to kill me. He’s ruining our entire home. Hai, someone save my daughter!’ Hearing the noise, the neighbours gather to watch. Hamida’s decibel levels increase, and so does Gafoor’s haste.
They are distracted by the sound of another fight—Mullahji and Juman’s son arguing.
‘Imagine,’ Juman says, standing near the cowshed, ‘even clerics and mullahs have started saying such things! Tell him that the boy bought the partridges and didn’t steal them. He paid a fair price for them. Miya sold everything thinking he’s off to Pakistan and now he’s repenting. Lo, here comes Mr Pakistan. When he learnt about the situation there, he lost his nerve. Everyone knows the truth. Who asks after the poor there? Those who were kings here are now licking boots there. Let’s go, Nasrul.’
She calls for her son. But Nasrul is distracted. He grabs Gafoor’s hand and says, ‘Tell them, I gave you a full ten annas, didn’t I? When Mullahji was leaving, he wanted to sell everything; and now that he’s not going…he wants it all back. Is this some kind of joke?’
Gafoor had raised his arms to toss his daughter’s toy walker. ‘Who is not leaving? And what ten annas did you give? Who did you give it to?’ he asks, his arms suspended mid- air.
‘Accha, you’ve started lying, too?’ Nasrul places his hands on his hips and bends his neck. ‘You’ve all gone mad. Didn’t I pay you yesterday? When I took the partridges? Wah, bhai! Took a night for you to go stark mad.’ Gafoor gapes at him with wide eyes. Nasrul continues, ‘What kind of joke is this? Mullahji is not leaving. And those who have left, they are repenting.’
Gafoor’s dreams shatter. The image of Pakistan as paradise on earth—with its palatial homes and fleets of vehicles vanish from before Gafoor’s eyes.
Mullahji, stroking his snow-white beard, says, ‘I don’t know what’s the matter with others. But I’m not selling my things…! Hand it over! Even without the partridges there’s so much discord at home; the child crying himself to death…’
This time Gafoor speaks, ‘But Mullahji, the same way shopkeepers refuse to take back goods they’ve sold, customers should be able to refuse to return items they have bought. I had forgotten to send you your ten annas.’
Saying this, he takes out ten annas from his pouch and places it in Mullahji’s palm. The neighbours, hearing Gafoor’s fair words, exclaim in happiness. Hamida thrusts a pail into Nasrul’s hand and says, ‘Today I’ll give you half a kilo of milk; go milk the buffalo.’
As if Gafoor will permit anyone else to do this? He takes the pail from Nasrul and begins milking the buffalo. Nasrul leaves, chomping on peanuts, and Hamida takes all the items indoors one-by-one. The sun emerges and floods the world with light.
Translated from the Hindi by Tanvi Srivastava
Homvati Devi was born in Meerut, Uttar Pradesh (then United Provinces), in 1902. She is among the first women writers in Hindi. She published two collections of poetry and several collections of short stories in the 1930s and 1940s. Swapna-Bhang (1948) is a collection of short stories set in provincial Indian towns in the late 1940s. The stories are written during a pivotal moment of Indian history—when power was transferred from the British colonial powers to the citizens of India.
Tanvi Srivastava is the translator of The War Diary of Asha-san written by Lt Bharati ‘Asha’ Sahay Choudhry (HarperCollins India 2022). She also writes fiction and was a member of the 2021 cohort of the Write Beyond Borders programme funded by the British Council. She has published short stories both online and offline in journals like Kitaab, Gulmohur Quarterly, New Anthology of Asian Writing, and The Reading Hour. She lives in Bangalore, India, with her family.
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