Complete English Translation: Sacrifice
There was a time when Harkhu was a prosperous man in the village. He owned five plows, dozens of cattle, and acres of fertile land. But bad days came, family feuds broke out, and disease swept away his cattle. Gradually, his fortunes withered away. In his final days, he was left with only one pair of oxen and seven bighas of land, five of which were prime sugarcane soil.
Harkhu was now an old man of seventy. He spent his days sitting on a cot outside his mud hut, smoking an earthen pipe and coughing endlessly. His son Girdhari and daughter-in-law Subhagi labored day and night in the fields. Harkhu had grown irritable with age and misfortune; he grumbled at every minor inconvenience and scolded his son continuously. Yet the villagers treated the old man with the deference due to his former standing.
When Harkhu fell gravely ill, Girdhari went to the local apothecary to fetch herbal medicine. But Harkhu spat it out and scolded his son, "Why waste your hard-earned copper coins on quack medicines? When a man's hour has arrived, no medicine on earth can save him. Take the medicine back and buy oil for the lamps instead."
For five months, Harkhu lay bedridden. Finally, on the sacred festival of Holi, while the rest of the village was reveling in song and colored powder, Harkhu breathed his last.
In Indian villages, a peasant's social standing is measured not by how he lived, but by how lavishly his funeral rites are performed. A man may starve his aging parents while they are alive, but when they die, he must feed hundreds of Brahmins, distribute grain, and hire professional mourners to preserve the family's honor before the brotherhood. Girdhari was an affectionate and dutiful son. He had loved his father deeply and could not endure the thought that the neighborhood would whisper, "Harkhu's son sent him off like a stray dog."
Girdhari spent everything he had on the shradh ceremony. He sold his grain stores, borrowed twenty rupees from the money-lender Mangal Singh, and mortgaged his standing wheat crop. Brahmins from five neighboring villages were feasted with puris and sweets, beggars were given coins, and the village drums beat in honor of the departed elder. Everyone praised Girdhari's filial devotion, exclaiming, "A son should be like Girdhari! He has upheld Harkhu's name with flying colors."
Girdhari beamed with pride, but when the ceremonies ended and the guests dispersed, he looked into his granary and found it entirely empty. There was not a grain of wheat left to feed his wife and children, nor a single copper coin to pay the land revenue.
The summer passed in starvation and hardship. Then the monsoon clouds gathered in the sky. The first showers soaked the parched earth, and the sweet fragrance of moist soil filled the village air. It was time to prepare the fields for the kharif sowing. Every farmer was busy sharpening his plowshares, mending his harnesses, and inspecting his bullocks.
Girdhari owned five bighas of prized bottomland near the village pond—the kind of rich, dark loam that yielded bountiful crops of sugarcane year after year. The entire village envied that land. For generations, Harkhu's family had tilled it with their sweat and blood.
One afternoon, the village bailiff came and summoned Girdhari to the landlord's manor.
Lala Onkarnath was the zamindar of Belari. He was an educated, shrewd gentleman who gave grand speeches in the district council about the welfare of peasants, but never spared a single anna when extracting his own rents.
When Girdhari entered the courtyard with folded hands, Onkarnath looked up from his bolster and said, "Look here, Girdhari, your father's lease expired with his death. If you wish to retain tenancy of those five bighas of sugarcane land, you must deposit one hundred rupees as nazrana—the entry premium—along with the arrears of rent. If you cannot pay, say so plainly, and I shall settle the land with someone else."
Girdhari felt the ground slip beneath his feet. "One hundred rupees, Sarkar? Where can a pauper like me find one hundred rupees? My father's funeral has ruined me. I have not a grain of food in the house. Have mercy on me! That land has been tilled by my family for four generations. If you strip me of that land, how will my children survive? I will pay the customary rent without fail, but forgive the nazrana!"
Onkarnath smiled coldly. "This is business, Girdhari, not a charity house. People are offering me one hundred and fifty rupees for that land. Out of regard for Harkhu, I am offering it to you for only one hundred. If you bring the money within eight days, the land remains yours. Otherwise, do not blame me."
Girdhari returned home with a shattered heart. He went from door to door, pleading with every moneylender in the village. But who would lend money to a destitute farmer who had already mortgaged his standing crop?
Among the villagers was Kalikadin, a cunning and prosperous village elder. Seeing Girdhari's plight, Kalikadin went secretly to Lala Onkarnath's manor at dusk, placed one hundred rupees in crisp silver coins at the zamindar's feet, and obtained the written lease for Girdhari's five bighas of sugarcane land.
When the news reached Girdhari, it was as if an axe had severed his spinal cord. He did not weep, he did not rage; he merely sat silently in the dust outside his hut, staring blankly into the distance.
His wife Subhagi wailed and cursed Kalikadin, "May leprosy consume your hands! May lightning strike your roof! You have stolen the bread from my children's mouths!"
Girdhari said in a hollow whisper, "Be silent, Subhagi. The fault is not Kalikadin's; it is our own cursed fate. When God turns His face away, even the dust beneath our feet turns to poison."
Now came the final blow. Mangal Singh, the moneylender, arrived at Girdhari's door demanding immediate repayment of his debt.
"Girdhari, you have lost your land. How will you repay my fifty rupees? I cannot wait any longer. Either hand over the cash right now, or give me your pair of bullocks!"
The pair of bullocks were the last remnants of Girdhari's dignity. They were magnificent, sturdy Haryana oxen, with long curving horns and snow-white coats. Girdhari loved them as if they were his own sons. When he stroked their necks, they would affectionately lick his hands and rest their muzzles against his chest. Even when the family starved, Girdhari somehow gathered fresh grass and straw to feed his beloved beasts.
Girdhari fell at Mangal Singh's feet. "Lala, take everything else, but spare my bullocks! If you take my bullocks, my life is finished."
Mangal Singh sneered, "What use are bullocks to a man who owns no land? Will you harness them to your bedstead? Sell them to me for eighty rupees. I will deduct my fifty rupees with interest, and give you the remaining twenty in cash. Take it, or I shall attach your house through the civil court."
Girdhari had no choice. The deal was struck.
When Mangal Singh's servant came to untie the bullocks, the animals dug their hooves into the ground and refused to budge. They bellowed mournfully, turning their large, moist eyes toward Girdhari as though asking, Master, what wrong have we done that you sell us to a stranger?
Subhagi buried her face in her sari and wept uncontrollably. Girdhari stood frozen like a pillar of stone, his hands trembling. As the bullocks were dragged away, they looked back again and again, their eyes brimming with tears.
That night, no fire was lit in Girdhari's hearth.
It was midnight. The entire village was wrapped in deep slumber. Only Girdhari was awake.
He rose quietly from his cot, walked out into the empty courtyard, and stepped into the cattle shed. The shed was deserted and silent; the empty mangers and dangling ropes seemed to mock him. Girdhari broke down and caressed the empty wooden pegs where his bullocks had stood only hours before.
Then, moving like a phantom, he slipped out of the village and walked down the narrow earthen paths toward his five bighas of sugarcane land.
The night was pitch-black. The wind rustled through the tall cane stalks, sounding like a chorus of weeping spirits. Girdhari walked the perimeter of the field, stepping on the soft, moist earth that his father, grandfather, and ancestors had fertilized with their sweat. He knelt down, took a handful of the soil, pressed it to his forehead, and kissed it with tears streaming down his face.
Near the boundary of the field stood an ancient, deep masonry well.
The next morning, when Subhagi woke up, she found Girdhari's cot empty. She searched the hut, the cowshed, and the village lanes, but he was nowhere to be found. A terrible dread seized her heart. She ran toward the fields, screaming his name.
Villagers gathered and rushed to the well. Floating in the dark, cold depths of the water was Girdhari's lifeless body.
The village was plunged into horror. Kalikadin felt a fleeting pang of guilt, but greed soon overpowered his conscience. With the land legally settled in his name, he hired plows and laborers to cultivate the coveted five bighas.
A few days later, just as dusk fell and the crimson glow faded from the sky, Kalikadin was returning from the fields. Suddenly, near the edge of the cane field, he saw a dark figure standing motionless by the boundary ditch.
Kalikadin called out, "Who is standing there in the dark?"
The figure turned. In the dim twilight, Kalikadin saw Girdhari's pale, hollow face, his eyes glowing with an eerie, unearthly light, his hands clutching a plowshare.
A bloodcurdling shriek escaped Kalikadin's lips. He dropped his staff, fell to the ground in terror, and scrambled back to the village on all fours, gasping for breath and foaming at the mouth. He was struck down by a violent fever that lasted for weeks.
Word spread like wildfire: Girdhari had become a ghost and was guarding his ancestral land!
From that day forward, no laborer dared set foot in those five bighas. Even in broad daylight, peasants avoided the path running beside the field. If an ox strayed near the cane, the herdsmen would throw stones from a distance rather than approach the boundary.
Lala Onkarnath tried everything. He reduced the rent, offered the land without any nazrana, and even pleaded with distant tenant-farmers from other villages to cultivate it. But the moment prospective tenants heard Girdhari's name, they turned pale and fled.
The rich, fertile soil that had yielded sweet cane for four generations was reclaimed by weeds, thorns, and wild reeds. The masonry well fell into ruin, its water turning dark and stagnant.
Six months later, Girdhari's young son found work as a day-laborer at a distant brick kiln. Money began coming into the household once more. Subhagi bought food and rough clothing, and the family no longer starved.
Yet their social honor and dignity were gone forever. In the eyes of the village, they were no longer kisans—proud, independent cultivators of the soil—they had been reduced to mere mazdoors, rootless laborers toiling for daily bread.
Premchand's poignant masterpiece reveals that for the Indian peasant, land is not merely an economic asset; it is his ancestral pride, the cradle of his dignity, and the very soul of his existence. When stripped of his land, the peasant loses everything—and his sacrifice leaves behind a curse that hollows the earth itself.
Summary of Sacrifice
'Sacrifice' (Balidan) is one of Premchand's most devastating tragedies of Indian rural life, capturing the merciless socio-economic forces that strip a proud peasant of his ancestral soil and drive him to destruction.
Following the death of his aging father Harkhu, the peasant Girdhari spends lavishly on the funeral and shradh rites to protect his family's prestige in village Belari. The extravagant rituals leave him bankrupt and heavily indebted to the village moneylender Mangal Singh. Taking advantage of his vulnerability, the ruthless zamindar Lala Onkarnath demands an exorbitant entry premium (nazrana) of one hundred rupees to renew the lease on his five bighas of fertile sugarcane land.
Unable to raise the money, Girdhari watches in agony as the cunning neighbor Kalikadin outbids him and acquires the lease. To settle his debts, Girdhari is then forced to sell his beloved pair of plow bullocks to Mangal Singh. Deprived of his land and his animals—the twin pillars of peasant identity—Girdhari commits suicide by leaping into the field well.
Girdhari's ghost begins haunting the field boundaries, terrorizing Kalikadin and driving away any laborer who attempts to plow the soil. The land becomes an untamed wasteland of thorns, a haunting monument to peasant sacrifice. Although Girdhari's son eventually finds employment at a brick kiln and feeds the family, their status as sovereign farmers is permanently extinguished, reducing them to destitute laborers.
Publication History
'Sacrifice' (Balidan) was first published in Hindi in May 1918 in the prestigious literary journal Saraswati and later included in Premchand's story collection Prem-Purnima and Mansarovar (Vol. 4). It is widely regarded as one of the earliest and most powerful depictions of agrarian dispossession in modern Indian literature, anticipating themes that Premchand would later expand in his magnum opus Godan.
This unabridged English translation was published in 2026 by MunshiPremchand.com as part of the MunshiPremchand.com English Translation Series.
Themes & Critical Significance
- The Spiritual Sanctity of Ancestral Land: For Girdhari, the five bighas of sugarcane soil represent not just livelihood, but ancestral blood, filial identity, and existential dignity. Losing the land is equivalent to spiritual death.
- Feudal Exploitation and Institutional Greed: Lala Onkarnath embodies the parasitic landlord class who mask their extortion behind modern platitudes of property rights while extracting devastating nazrana premiums from destitute tenants.
- Rural Betrayal and Fragmentation: Rather than showing solidarity, fellow villagers like Kalikadin exploit Girdhari's downfall for personal gain, highlighting how colonial and feudal pressures eroded communal cohesion in rural India.
- The Tyranny of Social Rites: Harkhu's elaborate funeral forces Girdhari into ruinous debt, exposing the destructive social pressure that compels impoverished peasants to prioritize caste vanity over economic survival.
- The Tragic Descent from Peasant to Proletariat: The story documents the painful historical transition of independent Indian cultivators (kisans) into alienated wage laborers (mazdoors), mourning the permanent loss of autonomy and self-respect.