Durga Ka Mandir (The Temple of Durga)

Complete English Translation: The Temple of Durga (Durga Ka Mandir)

1

Babu Braj Nath was deeply engrossed in studying law, and his two small children were equally engrossed in fighting. Shyama screamed that Munnu refused to give back her doll. Munnu wailed that Shyama had eaten his sweets.

Braj Nath shouted furiously at Bhama: "Are you going to remove these rascals from here or not? If you don't, I will take each of them in hand!"

Bhama, who was busy blowing life into the hearth fire, replied: "Good heavens, are you going to keep studying even in the evening? Take a breath of rest, at least!"

Braj Nath retorted: "Getting up from where you sit is beyond you; sitting right there, you will preach the law to me! If I pick one up and thrash him now, you will come rushing in like thunder, wailing, 'Alas, alas, he has murdered the child!'"

Bhama answered: "Well, I am neither sitting idle nor sleeping! If you were to amuse the children for a single moment, what harm would come to you? I didn't sign a bonded contract to look after them all by myself!"

Braj Nath was at a loss for a reply. Anger, when denied an outlet like blocked water, swells all the more violently. Although Braj Nath was well versed in ethical philosophy, his skill in practicing it was hardly evident at this moment. Treating plaintiff and defendant with the very same stick, he left both children crying and screaming, tucked his hefty law treatise under his arm, and marched off toward the College Park.

2

It was the rainy month of Sawan. Today, after many continuous days of downpours, the clouds had parted. Lush green trees stood cloaked in golden evening sunlight. A gentle breeze sang the sweet melodies of Sawan, and egrets swung gently upon the swaying branches like children on swings.

Braj Nath seated himself upon a wooden bench and opened his volume. But the contemplation of the Book of Nature proved far more captivating than this dry treatise. Sometimes he read the sky, sometimes the leaves, sometimes the enchanting greenery, and sometimes the boys playing in the open field before him.

Suddenly, his eyes fell upon a paper packet lying on the grass ahead. Maya—the worldly illusion of temptation—whispered behind the veil of curiosity: Come, let us see what is inside.

Reason warned: What business is it of yours? Let it lie there.

Yet Maya, in the guise of curiosity, triumphed. Braj Nath rose and picked up the packet. Perhaps someone's coins wrapped in paper have dropped here. He unfolded it. They were gold sovereigns! He counted them—there were full eight coins. His astonishment knew no bounds.

Braj Nath’s heart began to thump violently against his ribs. Holding all eight sovereigns in his palm, he began to ponder: What should I do with these? If I leave them right here, who knows whose eye will fall upon them, who knows who might carry them off! No, leaving them here is not proper. Let me go to the police station, report the find, and hand over these sovereigns to the sub-inspector. Whoever owns them will claim them; or even if the rightful owner never finds them, no blame will rest upon my shoulders, and I shall be absolved of all moral responsibility.

Maya began to weave her subtle enchantments from behind the curtain. He did not proceed to the police station. He thought: Let me go home and have a little joke with Bhama. Dinner must be ready. I can go to the police station at my leisure tomorrow.

When Bhama saw the sovereigns, a pleasant thrill fluttered in her breast. She asked: "Whose are these?"

"Mine," said Braj Nath.

"Oh, go on, as if they could be yours!"

"I found them lying on the ground."

"A pure lie! If you were so favored by fortune, tell me the truth—where did you find them? Whose are they?"

"I am speaking the truth, I found them lying on the grass."

"Swear on my life?"

"I swear on your life."

Bhama tried to snatch the gold coins from her husband’s grasp.

Braj Nath said: "Why are you grabbing them?"

"Hand them over, let me keep them with me!"

"Leave them alone, I am going to the police station to report them."

Bhama's face fell instantly. She said: "Why report money that was found lying on the ground?"

"What else? Am I going to corrupt my conscience for the sake of these eight sovereigns?"

"Very well, go tomorrow morning. If you go right now, you will be delayed in returning for dinner."

Braj Nath thought that this sounded sensible enough. The police would hardly take any action at night anyway. When the sovereigns were destined to lie untouched until morning, my house was as good as the police station.

He placed the sovereigns inside the wooden trunk. After finishing their dinner and lying down to sleep, Bhama said with a playful laugh: "Why give up wealth that has come into our hands of its own accord? Hand them to me, let me have a gold necklace made for myself; my heart has been yearning for one for such a long time."

Maya had now assumed the playful disguise of humor.

Braj Nath scolded her with sharp contempt: "In your greed for a necklace, do you wish to put a hanging noose around your neck?"

3

The next morning, Braj Nath prepared to head to the police station. He would miss one law lecture, but no matter. He was employed as a translator at the Allahabad High Court; having seen little prospect of rapid advancement in his clerical post, he had been immersing himself for the past year in preparing for the bar examination.

He was just putting on his clothes when his friend Munshi Gorelal came in, took a seat, and after pouring out a long tale of woe regarding his domestic troubles, spoke in an exceedingly humble tone: "Brother, at this moment I am so hopelessly entangled in these difficulties that my intellect refuses to function. You are a man of substance. Please render me a little assistance at this hour. Not much—just give me thirty rupees. Somehow or other I shall manage. Today is the thirtieth. By tomorrow evening, your money will be returned to you."

Braj Nath was by no means a wealthy man, but he had cultivated an outward air of grandeur. This false vanity (mithyabhiman) was a great flaw in his character. Merely to impress upon others an illusion of his prosperity, he would often sacrifice his own genuine necessities to satisfy the minor requirements of acquaintances. Bhama, however, possessed not the slightest sympathy for him in this regard; therefore, whenever such an ordeal fell upon Braj Nath, their domestic peace was inevitably shattered for a time. Yet he lacked the moral courage to refuse or make an excuse.

He went hesitantly to Bhama and said: "You wouldn't happen to have thirty rupees on hand, would you? Munshi Gorelal is asking for a loan."

Bhama replied coldly: "I have no money."

"Surely you must have some, you are only making an excuse."

"Very well, let it be an excuse."

"Then what am I to tell him?"

"Tell him there is no money in the house! If you cannot bring yourself to say it, I shall say it from behind the purdah screen."

"I could easily say it, but he will never believe me. He will think I am merely making an excuse."

"Let him think whatever he pleases!"

"I cannot bring myself to be so discourteous. We associate with one another day and night—how can I refuse him?"

"Very well, do whatever seems good to your heart! I have told you once: I have no money."

Braj Nath was deeply mortified. He was convinced that Bhama did have the money, but was refusing simply to humiliate him. Stubborn pride hardened his resolve. He went to the trunk, took out two of the gold sovereigns, and handed them to Gorelal, saying: "Brother, tomorrow evening, the moment you return from the court, bring the money. These coins belong to someone else as a sacred trust; I was just on my way to deliver them. If the money does not arrive tomorrow, I shall be terribly disgraced; I will not be fit to show my face anywhere."

Gorelal thought to himself: Whose trust could it possibly be other than his wife's? Pocketing the sovereigns, he took the road home.

4

It was the evening of the first of the month. Braj Nath sat at his front door, waiting anxiously for Gorelal.

Five o'clock struck; Gorelal had not yet arrived. Braj Nath kept his eyes fixed upon the road. He held a newspaper in his hands, but his mind refused to read. Every three minutes, he looked up toward the road. Yet he consoled himself: Today is payday. That is why there is a delay in his coming. He must be on his way.

Six o'clock struck; still no trace of Gorelal. Court clerks and peons were trickling home one by one. Several times Braj Nath was deceived: Ah, he is coming! Surely it is he! The same achkan coat, the same cap, the same gait! Yes, it is he, coming right toward this house! A heavy load seemed to lift from his chest; but as the figure drew near, he realized it was someone else. The imagined phantom of hope dissolved into false illusion.

Braj Nath’s spirits sank into deep dejection. He rose from his chair, stood at the threshold of the veranda, and swept his gaze in both directions down the thoroughfare. Not a trace. Two or three times, seeing horse-carriages approaching in the distance, he mistook them for Gorelal. Such was the feverish intensity of his longing!

Seven o'clock struck; streetlamps were lighted. Darkness began to envelop the street. Braj Nath paced the veranda in an agitated state of mind. He resolved to walk over to Gorelal’s house. He took a few steps in that direction, but his heart trembled: What if he meets me on the way? He will think I have grown frantic over a petty sum of money!

He had walked only a short distance when he saw someone coming. He fancied it was Gorelal, turned around, and took refuge on his veranda; but once again it was an illusion, once again a false hope. Then he began to wonder: Why is it taking so long? Could he still be at the office? Impossible! His colleagues passed by long ago. There can be only two explanations: either he decided to come tomorrow, thinking who would venture out at night; or he is deliberately sitting at home, unwilling to repay. At that time the necessity was his; now the necessity is mine. Why shouldn't I send someone to him? But whom can I send? Munnu could go—the house is right on the main street.

Thinking this, he went into his room, lit the lamp, and sat down to write a note; but his eyes remained glued to the doorway. Suddenly, he heard the sound of footsteps. Quickly slipping the note under a book, he stepped out onto the veranda. He saw a neighborhood greengrocer who had come to have a telegram read.

Braj Nath said to him: "Brother, I have no leisure right now; come back after a while."

The man pleaded: "Babuji, the whole family is terrified; please glance at it just once!"

Exasperated, Braj Nath snatched the telegram from his hand, cast a cursory glance over it, and snapped: "It is from Calcutta. The goods have not arrived."

The greengrocer asked timidly: "Babuji, please see who sent it."

At this, Braj Nath threw the telegram down and said: "I have no time right now!"

Eight o'clock struck. Braj Nath began to lose all hope. Munnu could not be sent out at such an hour of the night. He resolved in his mind: I must go myself tonight, come what may! Let him take offense—why should I worry about his feelings? I shall tell him plainly: Give me back my money! Courtesy can only be maintained with gentlemen; to practice courtesy with scoundrels is sheer folly.

He put on his achkan, went inside, and said to Bhama: "I am stepping out on an errand; bolt the front doors."

He set out, but his feet dragged at every step. Gorelal’s house became visible in the distance; a lamp was burning inside. Braj Nath stopped in his tracks, wondering: What shall I say when I arrive? What if the moment I enter, he pulls out the money, hands it to me, and apologizes for the delay? I will feel horribly ashamed! He will think me petty, base, and devoid of patience. No, why should I even bring up the subject of money? I will say: Brother, I have had a severe stomachache since evening; do you happen to have any aged vinegar? But no, such an excuse sounds clumsy and absurd. The deception will be uncovered at once. Oh, why need there be any pretext at all? The moment he sees me, he will understand on his own. There will be no necessity to speak of the matter.

Lost in these conflicting thoughts, Braj Nath continued forward—just as waves on a river may churn in any direction, yet the current never abandons its course.

He reached Gorelal’s house. The outer door was shut. Braj Nath lacked the courage to call out; he thought Gorelal must be eating dinner. He walked past the front of the house and strolled slowly for nearly a mile. The sound of nine o'clock striking chimed in his ears. Gorelal must have finished his meal by now, he thought, and turned back.

When he reached the door, it was completely dark. That lamp of hope had been extinguished. He stood in agonizing hesitation for a minute. What should I do? It is still quite early; he couldn't have gone to sleep so soon. He climbed onto the veranda on tiptoe, pressed his ear against the wooden door, and listened, glancing furtively around to make sure no one was watching.

Faint whispers caught his ear. He listened with rapt attention. A woman was saying: "All the money has been spent; from where will you repay Braj Nath?"

Gorelal replied: "What is the great hurry? We will repay him later. I have already submitted my leave application; it will certainly be sanctioned tomorrow. When we return after three months, we shall see about it."

To Braj Nath, it felt as though someone had delivered a stinging slap across his face!

Filled with rage and utter despair, he stepped down from the veranda. As he walked back home, his feet could scarcely hold a straight path, stumbling like a traveler exhausted from a grueling day’s march.

5

All night long, Braj Nath tossed and turned on his bed. Sometimes he burned with fury at Gorelal's deceit, sometimes with regret at his own foolish simplicity. God knows what poor soul that money belongs to! What suffering must have fallen upon them!

But what was the use of anger or sorrow now? He began to consider: Where will the money come from? Bhama has already refused; my salary leaves no surplus. If it were a matter of five or ten rupees, I could have pinched and scraped. What can I do? Borrow from someone? But who would lend to me? Up to this day, I have never had occasion to ask anyone for a loan, nor do I possess any friend who would help. The people I know only come to trouble me; what will they ever give me? Yes, if I set aside my law studies for a while and toil day and night at translation work, the money can be earned. It will require at least a month of grueling labor. And with cheap translators undercutting the trade, the rates have fallen terribly. Ah, ruthless man! You have played me false! What past life’s enmity have you avenged upon me? You have left me utterly ruined!

From the following day, Braj Nath became obsessed with the pursuit of money. In the morning, he attended his law lectures; in the evening, he brought home bundles of court judgments from the High Court and sat translating far past midnight. He could not find a moment even to lift his head. Often the clock struck one or two in the morning before he finished. Only when his brain was completely paralyzed with exhaustion would he collapse helplessly upon his cot.

Having no habit of such grueling exertion, he began to suffer frequent headaches. Sometimes his digestion failed; sometimes fever overtook him. In spite of all this, he drove himself relentlessly like a machine.

Occasionally, Bhama would say with irritation: "Oh, lie down and rest! What a great saint of righteousness you have become! If there were half a dozen more men like you, the entire business of the world would grind to a halt!"

Braj Nath offered no reply to these discouraging taunts; the moment dawn broke, he sat down at the very same grinding wheel again.

In this manner, three weeks went by, and he managed to scrape together twenty-five rupees. Braj Nath thought to himself: In two or three more days, my ship will reach the shore!

But on the twenty-first day, a violent, raging fever seized him, refusing to abate for three continuous days. He was forced to take leave from work and became completely bedridden.

It was the month of Bhadon. Bhama initially thought it was a bilious disorder. But when the fever showed no sign of subsiding even after a week of doctor’s medicines, she grew terrified. During the height of the fever, Braj Nath would often lapse into incoherent delirium. Hearing his raving, Bhama would flee from the room in terror, locking the children safely in another room.

A gnawing dread began to haunt her mind: Could this terrible agony be the consequence of those found gold coins? Who knows if the owner of that money cast some curse or dark magic upon it! Surely that must be it—why else should the doctor's medicine have no effect?

In times of dire distress, we become god-fearing; when medicine fails, we seek refuge in the divine. Bhama too turned to the gods. Except for Janmashtami, Shivratri, and Hartalika Teej, she had never observed any religious fasts. This time, she undertook the rigorous nine-day fast of Navratri.

Eight days passed. The ninth and final morning arrived. Bhama administered medicine to Braj Nath and, taking both children with her, set out to offer worship at the Temple of Mother Durga. Her heart was brimming with desperate devotion toward the goddess.

Reaching the temple courtyard, she saw devotees seated on prayer mats chanting the Durga Path. Fragrant clouds of incense and agarwood floated through the air. She stepped inside the sanctum. Before her stood the magnificent, imposing idol of Durga. An extraordinary, divine radiance shimmered upon her countenance. Rays of brilliant light seemed to stream from her large, luminous eyes. An atmosphere of sublime sanctity pervaded the temple.

Bhama found herself unable to gaze directly into that radiant image. A pure, reverent awe welled up within her soul. She shut her eyes, sank to her knees, and with folded hands pleaded in a tearful voice: "O Mother, have mercy upon me!"

She felt as though the Goddess smiled upon her. A beam of celestial light seemed to issue from those divine eyes and enter her heart. In her ears echoed these words spoken by the Goddess herself: Return that which belongs to another, and all shall be well with you.

Bhama rose to her feet. The pure light of spotless devotion shone in her eyes. Her face radiated a holy love. The Mother had immersed her soul in Her divine effulgence.

Just then, another woman entered the temple. Her silver-white hair hung disheveled around a withered, careworn face. Her body was draped in a single coarse white sari; upon her wrists she wore only glass bangles, without another ornament to her name. She appeared the very embodiment of grief and desolation. She too bowed her head before the Goddess and, spreading both corners of her sari in desperate supplication, cried out: "O Mother Durga! Whoever has taken my money, bring utter ruin upon him!"

Just as the strings of a sitar shudder violently when struck by the plectrum, so Bhama’s heart quivered with terror at that dreadful curse. Those words pierced her heart like poisoned arrows. She gazed toward the Goddess with frightened eyes. The radiant form of the Mother now seemed terrifying; fierce tongues of fire appeared to leap from Her eyes! Within Bhama's soul—from the vault of the sky, from the ancient trees outside the temple, from the stone pillars, from the burning lamps atop the altar, and from the formidable mouth of the Goddess—the words resonated with deafening thunder: Return that which belongs to another, or utter ruin shall befall you!

Bhama stepped forward and spoke to the elderly woman: "Tell me, mother, has someone taken your money?"

The old woman looked at her as a drowning person clutches at a straw, and said: "Yes, my daughter!"

"How long ago was it?"

"About a month and a half."

"How much money was it?"

"Full one hundred and twenty rupees."

"How did you lose it?"

"God alone knows where it fell! My husband was a soldier in the army. Many years ago, he departed for the next world. The government grants me a pension of sixty rupees a year. This time, I received two years' pension together. I was returning from the treasury. I know not when or where it slipped from my grasp. There were eight gold sovereigns."

"If you were to get them back, what would you give in return?"

"Not much, my child—I would gladly give fifty rupees from it."

"What use is money? Give something far better than that."

"My daughter, what else can I give? As long as breath remains in my body, I shall sing your praises!"

"No, I have no need of that."

"My child, what else do I possess in this world?"

"Give me your blessing! My husband lies gravely ill; pray that he recovers his health."

"Was it he who found the money?"

"Yes, he has been searching for you ever since that very day."

The old woman sank to her knees, spread the hem of her sari, and with a trembling voice prayed: "O Goddess Mother! Shower Your blessings upon them!"

Bhama looked once more toward the Goddess with reverent eyes. Divine love now illuminated Her holy countenance. Her eyes brimmed with compassionate grace. At that sublime moment, from somewhere in the celestial realms, an inner voice whispered into Bhama's soul: Go, all shall be well with you.

It was evening. Bhama sat beside Braj Nath in a horse-drawn ikka, traveling toward Tulsi’s humble home to return her sacred trust.

All the hard-earned money from Braj Nath's grueling translation labor had already been consumed by the doctor's fees and apothecary bills. But Bhama had sold her own gold earrings to a neighbor to raise the money. On the day those earrings had first been made and brought home, Bhama had been overjoyed. Today, in selling them, her joy was infinitely greater.

When Braj Nath had first shown her those eight gold sovereigns, a flutter of greedy delight had stirred in her heart; but that joy had not dared show its face upon her countenance. Today, as that gold departed from her hands, a deep spiritual bliss sparkled in her eyes, danced upon her lips, flushed her cheeks, and radiated through every fiber of her being. That former sensation had been the pleasure of the senses; this was the joy of the immortal soul. That pleasure had cowered behind shame; this bliss burst forth in radiant, dignified pride.

Tulsi's blessing bore fruit. Today, after three full weeks, Braj Nath sat propped up against pillows. Again and again, he looked upon Bhama with eyes brimming with tender love. Today she appeared to him like a goddess. Hitherto he had known only the outward charm of her physical beauty; today, for the first time, he beheld the sublime glory of her spiritual beauty.

Tulsi’s house was situated in a narrow alley. The carriage halted on the main street. Braj Nath stepped down and, leaning upon his walking stick and supported by Bhama’s gentle hands, reached Tulsi's doorway.

Tulsi took the money, raised both trembling hands, and bestowed her blessing: "May Mother Durga shower all blessings upon you!"

Tulsi’s withered, pale face blossomed like tree leaves bathed in fresh rain. Her frail body seemed to expand with life; the deep wrinkles on her cheeks appeared to vanish. It was as though she had been granted a miraculous rebirth.

After returning home, Braj Nath was sitting at his front doorway when Gorelal came and took a seat beside him.

Braj Nath turned his face away.

Gorelal said: "Brother, how are you feeling?"

"I am quite well," Braj Nath replied coldly.

Gorelal pleaded: "Please forgive me! I am deeply grieved that there was such a delay in repaying your money. On the very first of the month, an urgent letter arrived from my village, and somehow securing three months' leave, I had to rush home. The tale of misfortune there is endless. But the moment I heard the sad news of your illness, I came running today. Here, please take your money. I am thoroughly ashamed of this delay."

Braj Nath’s anger melted away. What immense power resides in genuine humility! He said: "Yes, I was indeed very ill; but now I am well again. You took needless trouble on my account. If it is inconvenient for you right now, you may return the money later. I have already discharged that debt. There is no hurry."

When Gorelal had taken his leave, Braj Nath carried the money inside to Bhama and said: "Here, take your money; Gorelal has returned it."

Bhama said: "This is not my money, it belongs to Tulsi. Having taken another's wealth once, I have learned my lesson."

"But Tulsi has already been repaid in full!"

"What if she has? Consider this an offering to her sacred blessing."

Braj Nath asked: "And from where will your gold earrings come?"

Bhama smiled: "Even if the earrings are gone, no matter—my ears have learned their lifelong lesson!"

Summary of Durga Ka Mandir

Durga Ka Mandir ("The Temple of Durga") is a poignant moral tale exploring the psychological consequences of unexpected wealth, the peril of false social pride, and the redemptive power of faith and self-sacrifice.

Braj Nath, a translator at the Allahabad High Court studying for the bar, discovers a paper packet containing eight gold sovereigns (worth 120 rupees) in a public park. Intending initially to report them to the police, he brings them home to tease his wife Bhama, who is dazzled by the gold and dreams of making a necklace. Postponing the police report until morning, Braj Nath is confronted the next day by his friend Munshi Gorelal, who begs for an urgent loan of thirty rupees. Driven by mithyabhiman (false pride) and an inability to admit he has no spare cash, Braj Nath lends two of the sovereigns, strictly charging Gorelal to repay the money the next evening as it is a sacred trust.

Gorelal fails to appear, and when Braj Nath goes to his house, he overhears Gorelal admitting to his wife that he spent the money and is fleeing on three months' leave. Mortified at having compromised another person's trust, Braj Nath takes on grueling translation work late into the night to replace the money. The extreme overwork collapses his health, plunging him into a life-threatening fever.

Terrified by her husband's delirium and fearing that the found gold carries a curse, Bhama undertakes the rigorous nine-day fast of Navratri and visits the Durga Temple. There she hears the inner voice of the Goddess commanding her to return what belongs to another. Moments later, an elderly widow named Tulsi enters the temple, desperately cursing the person who found her lost two-year army pension of eight sovereigns. Realizing that Tulsi is the rightful owner, Bhama promises to return the money and begs only for her blessing.

Because all their savings were consumed by medical bills, Bhama willingly sells her prized gold earrings to repay the full amount. Supported by Bhama, the convalescing Braj Nath personally restores the pension to Tulsi, whose joyful blessings bring about his miraculous recovery. When Gorelal eventually returns the thirty rupees with sincere apologies, Bhama refuses to keep the money, dedicating it as an offering to Tulsi's blessing and wittily remarking that while her earrings may be gone, her ears have learned their lifelong lesson. Witnessing her sublime moral transformation, Braj Nath perceives for the first time the true spiritual beauty of his wife.

Publication History

Durga Ka Mandir ("The Temple of Durga") was written by Munshi Premchand in 1917 and was subsequently published in Volume 7 of his definitive short-story collection Mansarovar. Written during the early maturation of Premchand's literary career, the story exemplifies his signature Adarshonmukh Yatharthavada (idealistic realism), showing how middle-class domestic temptations and moral lapses can be redeemed through self-awareness, penance, and higher ethical devotion.

This unabridged English translation was published in 2026 by MunshiPremchand.com as part of the MunshiPremchand.com English Translation Series.

Themes & Critical Significance

• The Burden of Illicit Wealth: Premchand illustrates how unearned or found money (paraya dhan) brings discord, anxiety, and moral decay into a household rather than true happiness, disrupting domestic peace and attracting misfortune.
• The Pitfall of False Pride (Mithyabhiman): Braj Nath's inability to admit financial limitations to an acquaintance leads him to compromise a sacred trust, exposing the vulnerability of lower-middle-class clerks who sacrifice their genuine interests to maintain an illusion of affluence.
• Psychological and Moral Transformation: Bhama undergoes a profound internal evolution—from initially coveting the gold sovereigns for personal jewelry to experiencing genuine spiritual horror at the widow's curse, and finally surrendering her own earrings with profound joy.
• Spiritual vs. Sensual Beauty: The narrative marks Braj Nath's transition from appreciating merely Bhama's physical charm to revering her inner moral fortitude and spiritual radiance, portraying marital love as a partnership anchored in mutual ethical elevation.
• The Psychology of Guilt and Illness: Premchand keenly portrays how psychological guilt over unpaid debts and compromised integrity manifests physically as bodily fever and delirium, which can only be healed when moral restitution is completed.