Complete English Translation: Haar Ki Jeet (The Defeat That Became Victory)
Sharadacharan
I had an old, simmering rivalry with Keshav. In writing, in eloquence, in wit, and in humor, he was leagues ahead of me. Under the moonlike brilliance of his talents, the faint flicker of my little earthen lamp could never find illumination. To bring him down just once was the supreme ambition of my life.
In those days, I never admitted my shortcomings. Who readily acknowledges his own flaws? Yet in truth, God had not granted me the intellectual power he possessed. If I found any consolation at all, it was in the belief that even if I could never walk shoulder-to-shoulder with him across the field of scholarship, the garland of success in the practical arena of the world would certainly rest upon my brow.
Unfortunately, however, when he plunged beside me into the ocean of love, and the pearl appeared about to fall directly into his grasp, I was plunged into utter despair.
We had both taken up the subject of Communism for our Master of Arts. Both of us were professed communists. In Keshav’s case, this was quite natural: his family possessed no great prestige, nor did he have the wealth that could compensate for such a lack. My situation was the exact opposite. I was an aristocrat, a taluqdar of ancestral lineage and noble estate. People looked upon my communist ideals with curious amusement.
Our professor of communism, Babu Haridas Bhatia, was devoted to communist principles in theory, yet perhaps in practical life he could not wholly disregard the power of wealth. When choosing a husband for his daughter, Lajjavati, he passed over the sharp-witted Keshav and chose me instead.
One evening, he came to my room and said with a troubled expression:
"Sharadacharan, for months I have been weighed down by a great anxiety. I hope that you can relieve me of it! I have no son of my own. I have regarded both you and Keshav as my sons. Although Keshav is far cleverer than you, I am convinced that the success you will achieve in the wider world is something he can never attain. Therefore, I have chosen you alone for my Lajja. May I hope that my heartfelt desire will be fulfilled?"
I was an independent young man. My parents had passed away to heaven during my early boyhood. Among my relatives, there was no elder whose prior consent I was obliged to seek. Upon obtaining a woman as gentle, lovely, and thoroughly educated as Lajjavati, what man would not praise his good fortune? My joy knew no bounds.
Lajja was like a blooming flower garden, filled with the enchanting fragrance of roses, the delightful coolness of lush greenery, the shimmering ripples of a fresh morning breeze, and the sweet melody of singing birds. She herself was passionately captivated by communism. On the representation of women and other social causes, she had engaged me in conversation countless times. Yet unlike Professor Bhatia, she was not a devotee of mere abstract doctrines; she sought to translate them into living action.
She had made the clever Keshav the object of her tender affection. Nevertheless, I knew that she would never disobey Professor Bhatia’s command, even though I was unwilling to make her my bride against her own inclinations. In such matters, I was an ardent believer in individual freedom. Consequently, I was unable to derive any petty pleasure from Keshav’s dejection and grief. We were both unhappy, and for the very first time, I felt genuine sympathy for Keshav.
I wished only to ask Lajjavati why she had cast me out of her esteem. But approaching her with such delicate questions filled me with hesitation. This was natural enough, for no modest woman readily unveils the secret chambers of her heart.
Yet perhaps Lajjavati herself considered it her duty to lay the reality of the matter before me. She was looking for an opportunity to do so, and by chance, she soon found it.
It was evening. Keshav had gone to the Rajput Hostel to deliver a lecture on communism. Professor Bhatia was presiding over the gathering. Lajja was sitting all alone in her bungalow.
Concealing the turmoil within my restless heart, burning with the scorch of grief and despair, I walked over and sat down beside her.
Lajja cast a fleeting glance at me and asked with gentle compassion:
"You look rather troubled?"
With feigned indifference, I replied: "What does it matter to you?"
Lajja: "Did you not go to listen to Keshav’s lecture?"
A sudden flame seemed to leap from my eyes. Restraining myself, I said: "I had a headache today."
As I spoke these words, several stray tears involuntarily rolled down from my eyes. I had no desire to display my sorrow and turn myself into an object of her pity. In my view, weeping was suited only to the nature of women. I had wanted to express cold anger toward her, yet out rushed tears instead. The sentiments of the heart do not obey the commands of the will.
Seeing me weep, tears welled up in Lajja’s eyes as well, and began to fall.
I do not harbor grudges; my heart is not malicious. Yet I do not know why, seeing Lajja weep brought me a strange sensation of pleasure at that moment. Even in that state of mourning, I could not refrain from throwing a barb at her. I said:
"Lajja, I weep for my own misfortune. Perhaps I am crying out against your injustice. But why are you shedding tears?"
Lajja looked at me with a gaze of mild reproach and answered:
"You will never understand the secret behind my tears, because you have never made any effort to understand. You relieve your troubled heart by hurling bitter words at me. Whom am I to scorch? What do you know of how much agonizing deliberation, how much suppressing of my heart, how many sleepless nights tossing and turning, and how many bitter tears it cost me before I reached this decision? Your family prestige and your ancestral estate stand like a towering wall across my path. I cannot scale that wall. I know that at this present moment, you do not possess even the slightest trace of pride in your lineage or wealth. But I also know that your communism—nurtured within the sheltered, cool shade of college halls—will not long withstand the scorching desert winds and searing heat of practical life. When that day arrives, you will inevitably regret your choice and grow bitter. I shall become like a drowned fly in your milk, a thorn festering in your heart."
Moved to tenderness, I asked: "Will the very reasons that extinguish my communism allow your communism to survive?"
Lajja: "Yes. I have absolute faith that they will have no effect upon me whatsoever. My family has never possessed an estate, and you know the modest circumstances of our house very well. Babu Ji attained his present status solely through ceaseless toil and steadfast perseverance. I have not forgotten the days when my mother was still alive, and Babu Ji used to return home at eleven o'clock at night after giving private tuitions. Thus, pride in estates and aristocratic glory can never take root in me—just as that pride can never be wholly erased from your soul. I could only succumb to such vanity if I were to lose all memory of my past."
With impetuous arrogance, I declared: "I may not be able to wipe away my family's ancestral name, for that lies beyond my power; but for your sake, I am ready to renounce my entire estate this very day."
A cruel smile played on Lajja's lips as she said:
"There you go again with that romantic sentimentality! Had you spoken these words to an ignorant, innocent girl, she might have been beside herself with joy. But in a matter so grave, upon which the entire happiness and sorrow of two lives depend, I cannot take refuge in sentimentality. Marriage is not an artificial game. God is my witness, I am helpless; I do not yet know which way my little boat will drift. But I will not make your life a bed of thorns."
When I walked away from her that evening, I was not so much despondent as deeply thoughtful. Lajja had placed an entirely new problem before my eyes.
We both completed our Master of Arts together. Keshav passed in the first division; I passed in the second. He obtained a professorship at a college in Nagpur. I returned home to take charge of the administration of my ancestral estate.
When the time came to part, the two of us embraced and wept bitterly. We left our rivalry and jealousy behind within the college walls.
I was the first taluqdar in my province ever to earn an M.A. degree. At first, the government officials showered me with lavish hospitality; but when they became acquainted with my social principles, their gracious favor cooled considerably. I too ceased visiting them. I spent the greater portion of my time dwelling among the tenant-farmers.
Not even a full year had passed when the death of an old taluqdar left a vacant seat in the Legislative Council. I made no effort of my own to enter the Council. But the peasant-cultivators placed the responsibility of representing them squarely upon my shoulders.
Poor Keshav was delivering lectures in his college; no one even knew where he was or what he was doing. Meanwhile, thanks to my family prestige, I had become a Member of the Legislative Council! My speeches began to appear in the newspapers. My questions in the assembly were widely praised. I came to enjoy special respect within the Council. Several gentlemen stepped forward who were secret admirers of populism; previously suppressed by circumstances, they now spoke out openly. We formed a separate group of progressives and began championing the rights of the peasantry with vigor.
The majority of the great landlords treated me with disdain. Several gentlemen even issued veiled threats; yet I did not abandon the path I had chosen. Why should I let such a golden opportunity for service slip through my hands?
By the time the second year drew to a close, I was counted among the prominent leaders of the people. I had to labor intensely, read extensively, write tirelessly, and speak frequently; yet I never faltered. For this capacity for hard work, I was indebted to Keshav. It was he who had accustomed me to such rigorous effort.
Letters from Keshav and Professor Bhatia arrived regularly. Occasionally, I met Lajjavati as well. In her letters, the measure of reverence and love grew greater day by day. She praised my national service in generous, inspiring words. The doubts she had once entertained regarding my character were gradually dissolving away. My penance was beginning to win over the goddess of my devotion.
Keshav’s letters, on the other hand, dripped with melancholy. His college suffered from a lack of funds. Three years had passed, yet he had received no promotion. From his letters, it seemed as if he had grown thoroughly disillusioned with life. Perhaps the chief cause was that the sweetest dream of his youth had not yet been realized.
During the summer vacation of the third year, Professor Bhatia came to visit me and departed in high spirits. Exactly one week later, a letter arrived from Lajjavati: the court had delivered its verdict; the decree had been granted in my favor! For the very first time, Keshav had suffered defeat against me. My joy knew no bounds.
Professor Bhatia intended to tour all the provinces of India. He was writing a comprehensive treatise on Communism, for which he needed to conduct research in every major city. He wished to take Lajja along with him. It was decided that upon their return, during the coming month of Chaitra, our union would take place.
I began passing those days of separation with unbearable impatience. Until then, I had believed that the game would remain in Keshav's hands; I had been hopeless, yet calm. Now hope had arrived, and with it came a terrible restlessness.
It was the month of March. The period of waiting was nearly over. The days of grueling toil had passed; the hour to reap the harvest had arrived.
Professor Bhatia wrote from Dhaka that owing to several unavoidable obligations, his return would be delayed from March until May.
During this interval, Diwan Lala Somnath Kapoor, the Prime Minister of Kashmir, arrived in Naini Tal. The provincial budget had been presented, and heated debates were underway in the Legislative Council. A formal reception was hosted by the Governor in honor of the Diwan. The representatives of the Council were also invited. On behalf of the Council, I had the privilege of delivering the address of welcome.
Diwan Sahib took an immense liking to my speech. As we parted, he spoke with me for several minutes and instructed me to visit him at his residence.
Accompanying him was his daughter, Sushila. She stood behind him with her head lowered. It seemed as though she were reading the ground beneath her feet. Yet I could not keep my eyes under control. In that brief span of time, her gaze lifted not once, but several times—and just as a child rushes toward a stranger upon hearing a coaxing call, but then takes fright and clings tightly to its mother’s lap, so she too grew timid and drew back halfway.
If Lajja was a blooming flower garden, Sushila was a cool, crystal stream meandering through verdant groves—where herds of playful deer roamed, where flocks of birds displayed endless beauty, and where ripples made sweet music!
When I returned home, I was as exhausted as a traveler who has completed a long, grueling journey. Beauty is the nectar of life. I do not know why its effect should be so fatal.
When I lay down, that very countenance hovered before my eyes. I wanted to banish it. I was terrified that if I fell into that whirlpool even for an instant, I would never be able to steady myself again. I already belonged to Lajjavati; she was the sovereign queen of my heart. I had no right to look elsewhere.
Yet all my self-restraint, all my logical arguments proved utterly futile. Against the surging rush of torrential waters, who can tether a boat with a single thread? In the end, utterly defeated, I surrendered myself to the current of my thoughts. For some distance, the boat raced along with the swift waves, and then dissolved into the raging flood.
The next day, at the appointed hour, I arrived at Diwan Sahib’s residence. I was trembling and hesitating, much like a child who shuts his eyes in terror at the flash of lightning lest the lightning strike him or lest he see its blinding glare. Even an innocent peasant standing before a court of law could not have been so apprehensive. The reality was that my soul had already been vanquished; it possessed no strength left to resist.
Diwan Sahib shook my hand and conversed with me for an hour on economic and social questions. I marveled at his vast erudition. I had never seen a man so eloquent and charming. He was sixty years of age, yet he was an inexhaustible storehouse of humor and merriment. Who knows how many verses, couplets, and quatrains he had committed to memory! At every turn of conversation, he produced some apt citation. Alas, men of that disposition are disappearing from the world. What kind of educational system was that which produced such rare gems? Nowadays, vitality is nowhere to be seen. Every living creature is an embodiment of anxiety, upon whose lips a smile never dawns.
Presently, Diwan Sahib ordered tea, followed by fruits and dry nuts. Every few moments, I looked about with eager, restless eyes. My ears were wide open to drink the sweetness of her voice; my eyes remained glued to the doorway. There was fear as well as attachment, hesitation as well as magnetic pull. A child fears the swing, yet longs desperately to sit upon it.
By now it was nine o'clock at night. It was time for me to take my leave. Inwardly, I felt thoroughly embarrassed thinking what Diwan Sahib must be saying to himself: Does this young man have no work? Why does he not leave? He has been sitting here for two and a half hours!
All conversation had ended. His witty anecdotes had run out. That quiet silence descended which politely announces: You should leave now; we shall meet again. Several times I resolved to rise, yet in the torment of waiting, even a lover's soul refuses to depart—death itself has to face the agony of waiting! At last, the clock struck half-past nine, and there was no alternative left for me but to take my leave. My heart sank.
What I had described as fear was not truly fear; it was the utter extremity of longing.
When I walked away from there, I felt as limp and lifeless as if my soul had departed from my body. I began cursing myself. I felt humiliated by my own pettiness: You imagine you are someone of great importance! Nobody here cares whether you live or die. Granted, she carries herself with the charm of an unmarried maiden. But the world is not lacking in unmarried young women, nor is beauty such an unattainable rarity. If you fall into this miserable condition every time you behold a lovely maiden, then only God can save you!
She too must be thinking the same in her heart. Why should her eyes look upon every handsome youth? These are not the ways of women from noble families. If this thirst for external beauty is blameworthy in men, it is catastrophic for women. Duality cannot deal as devastating a blow to unity as physical beauty can.
The following evening, I was sitting on my veranda glancing through letters. I had no desire to visit the club. My spirit was somewhat dejected. Suddenly, I saw Diwan Sahib arriving in his phaeton carriage. He despised motor cars, often calling them infernal flying machines. Beside him sat Sushila!
My heart began to pound violently. Whether her eyes were raised toward me or not, my gaze remained fixed upon the carriage until it vanished from sight.
On the third day, I sat on the veranda once again, my eyes glued to the roadway. The carriage came and rolled past.
This now became an everyday occurrence. My sole occupation was to sit on the veranda all day long. Who knew when the carriage might pass by? In the late afternoon especially, nothing could induce me to stir from my seat.
In this manner, a whole month slipped away. I had no enthusiasm left for the work of the Council. I took no interest in newspapers or novels. I had no desire to go on walks. How lovers acquire the obsession of wandering through forests and mountains and tangling themselves in briars is something I could never comprehend; for me, heavy fetters seemed to have been clamped onto my feet. There was only the veranda, myself, and the endless waiting for the carriage.
My capacity for rational thought had also vanished. In accordance with English etiquette, I could have invited Diwan Sahib, or even Sushila herself, to my home; but in truth, I was still terrified of her. Even then, I still considered Lajjavati my betrothed. She was still the queen of my heart, even if another power had established dominion over it!
Another month passed by, yet I wrote no letter to Lajja. I no longer possessed the courage even to write to her. Perhaps I regarded exchanging letters with her as a moral crime. I had betrayed her. I had no right to sully her pure image within my tainted conscience.
What would be the end of this? This anxiety hung constantly over my spirit like a dark, suffocating fog. Day by day, I wasted away under the scorching fire of worry. Friends often asked: "What illness has struck you?" My face turned pale and lusterless. Food tasted like bitter medicine. When I went to bed, I felt as though someone had locked me inside a cage. If anyone came to visit, my spirit fled leagues away from them. It was a bizarre, miserable condition.
One evening, Diwan Sahib’s carriage pulled up at my gate. He had published a collection of his public speeches and had come to present me with a copy. I urged him earnestly to step inside and sit down, but he replied that Sushila would feel awkward entering, and would be frightened sitting alone in the carriage. As he walked back, I accompanied him and followed behind him right up to the carriage.
As he stepped in, I cast aside all hesitation and gazed at Sushila with longing eyes, like a parched traveler in the heat of summer drinking his fill of water, not knowing when he might ever find water again.
In that single gaze of mine, there was an intensity, a supplication, an agitation, a sorrow, a reverence, an urgency, and a helplessness that could have melted a statue of stone. Sushila, after all, was a woman of flesh and blood. She too looked back at me with fearless, innocent eyes—without the slightest shyness, without the slightest hesitation. Whatever remained incomplete in my defeat was fully accomplished. At the same time, she seemed to shower heavenly nectar upon me. A new surge of life coursed through my heart and soul. When I returned inside, I was as overjoyed as if I had discovered the wish-fulfilling tree of paradise.
One day, I wrote a letter to Professor Bhatia:
"For some days now, I have fallen victim to a hidden ailment. It is possible that it marks the onset of tuberculosis. Therefore, I do not consider it proper that our marriage should take place this coming May."
I wished to turn away from Lajjavati in such a way that my honor would not be diminished in their eyes. At times, I raged against my own selfishness. In practicing this deceit, this unfaithfulness toward Lajja, I had fallen utterly in my own esteem. Yet I had no control over my mind.
Thinking of how much suffering that poor, innocent woman would endure, I wept several times. Until that moment, I was not even slightly acquainted with Sushila’s temperament, thoughts, or inner nature. Solely for her physical beauty and outward charm, I was sacrificing the long-cherished hopes of my faithful Lajja. Like an ignorant child, I was kicking away my nourishing bowl of milk and rice for the mere name of sweets.
I had written to the Professor asking him not to mention my illness to Lajjavati; but the Professor was not a man of deep reserve. On the very fourth day, a letter arrived from Lajja, in which she had poured out her entire heart. She was ready to endure anything for my sake—even the agonizing torments of widowhood! Her fervent wish was that our union should not be delayed by a single moment.
Holding that letter, I sat for hours in a daze of numbness. Before such transcendent self-sacrifice, how utterly despicable was my own pettiness, my selfishness, and my moral weakness!
Lajjavati
Did not Savitri marry Satyavan even after knowing everything? Why should I be afraid? Why should I waver from the path of duty?
I shall observe fasts for him, go on sacred pilgrimages, perform rigorous penances. Fear cannot separate me from him. I never loved him so deeply before; I never felt such aching impatience. This is the hour of my trial, and I have made my resolve.
Father has just returned from his travels; his hands are empty, and he has been unable to make any preparations. A delay of two to four months would have given him time to prepare; but I will brook no delay now. He and I shall become one another's within this very month; our souls will be united forever, and then no misfortune, no catastrophe will ever be able to tear me away from him.
A delay of even a single day is intolerable to me now. I am not the slave of rituals and customs. Nor is he their slave. Babu Ji is no worshiper of rigid ceremonies. Why then should I not depart for Naini Tal at once? I shall nurse him, comfort him. I shall free him from all anxieties, from every hindrance and obstacle. I will take the entire administration of the estate into my own hands!
It is solely on account of becoming so overwhelmed by Council work that his health has reached this state. The newspapers are filled mostly with his questions, his criticisms, and his speeches. I shall plead with him to resign from the Council for a few days. How fondly he used to listen to my singing! I shall gladden his heart by singing my songs to him, read stories aloud to him, and keep him calm and peaceful.
A cure for this disease may not be found in this country. I shall fall at his feet and beg him to travel to a sanatorium in Europe for a few months to undergo systematic treatment. Tomorrow morning, I shall borrow books on this disease from the college library and study them thoroughly. Within two or three days, the college will close. I shall speak to Babu Ji this very day about leaving for Naini Tal.
Alas! When I saw him yesterday, I could scarcely recognize him!
How ruddy his face used to be, how robust his physique—it looked as though vermilion ran through his veins! What graceful bearing! What gallant vigor! Within just three years, such a terrible transformation has occurred: his face has turned pale, his body has wasted away to a mere skeleton. His appetite is not even half of what it was; he remains constantly immersed in brooding.
I never see him go anywhere. There are so many servants, such a picturesque place! Every means of entertainment is present; yet his own life now seems dark and meaningless to him. A curse upon this foul disease! If it was so ravenous, why did it not make me its prey instead? I would have welcomed it with loving arms. If only there were some way this disease would release him and seize me!
How he used to blossom whenever he saw me, and I would smile in return; every limb would radiate joy. Yet this is my second day here, and not once has a smile appeared upon his face. When I stepped onto the veranda, he did smile, but what a hopeless, weary smile it was! Babu Ji could not hold back his tears; he went into another room and wept for a long time.
People claim that men enter the Council merely out of hunger for prestige and honor; that their only goal is to earn a name. What a harsh accusation against those poor members, what gross ingratitude! To serve the nation, one must wear away the body and burn up one's blood. This is the reward of national service.
Yet the servants here do not care in the slightest. Babu Ji mentioned his illness to a few acquaintances, but they too showed no concern. Such is the sympathy of friends! Everyone is engrossed in his own affairs; no one cares what happens to others.
Yes, this much seems clear to me as well: his belief that he has tuberculosis is mere delusion. I see none of its true symptoms. May God grant that my deduction is correct! To me, it appears to be an entirely different ailment. I have taken his temperature several times; the warmth was quite ordinary, and there was no sudden fluctuation. Even if it is this disease, it is only in its initial stage; there is no reason why its roots cannot be eradicated with proper care.
From tomorrow, I shall take him out for daily drives. A motor car is not necessary; riding in a carriage will be far more beneficial. He seems rather careless himself. I have seen sufferers of this disease exercise great caution: they check the thermometer twenty times a day; they are extremely mindful of diet, consuming fruits, milk, and nourishing foods. They do not merely eat two or three morsels of whatever the cook thoughtlessly places before them and walk away.
I am becoming convinced that he suffers from some entirely different grievance. Once I find a moment of leisure, I shall investigate the truth. Is there any financial anxiety? Is the estate burdened with debt? A little debt is bound to exist; that is the vanity of aristocrats. If debt is indeed the root cause, it must surely be a very heavy sum.
My mind is so weighed down by varied anxieties that I have no heart to write anything!
The cherished desires of my entire life have been reduced to dust. Oh, wretched fate! How fortunate I once considered myself; now there is no one more unfortunate than I in the whole world. That priceless jewel which I could not attain through long penance and devotion has fallen effortlessly into the lap of this doe-eyed beauty!
Sharada has only seen her recently. Perhaps the occasion to converse with her has not even arrived. Yet how devoted he has become to her! How madly intoxicated in love with her! God did not grant men a heart; He gave them only eyes. They do not know how to value the heart; they sell themselves away solely for outward beauty and charm.
If I could be convinced in any way that Sushila would keep him happier than I could, that she would make his life more meaningful, I would not have the slightest objection to stepping aside for her. But she is so proud, so unfeeling, so fond of luxury, that I fear Sharada may come to regret his choice.
Yet this is merely my own selfish imagination. Granted that Sushila is proud, unfeeling, and luxurious—Sharada has offered his love to her. He is wise, intelligent, and far-sighted. He can weigh his own gains and losses. He must have resolved upon this only after thinking through everything. When he has made up his mind, I have no right to become a thorn in the path of his happiness.
Bearing it with patience, comforting my soul, I ought to take my leave from here—hopeless, despairing, broken-hearted. My only prayer to God is that He keep him happy. I have not the slightest jealousy, not the slightest pride. I am merely the handmaiden of his desires. If it brought him happiness to give me poison, I would gladly drink the cup of venom.
Love is the very breath of life. It is for this alone that we desire to live. If the opportunity arrives even to die for its sake, that is blessed fortune. If everything can be set right merely by my stepping aside, I have no refusal. God’s will!
Yet having attained a human body, who is free from worldly attachment? When the vine of love has been nurtured for ages and watered with tears, one cannot bear to see it trampled underfoot. The heart is torn asunder. Now the paper seems to float before my eyes; tears surge endlessly; how can I restrain my spirit?
Alas! The one whom I regarded as my own, at whose feet I had offered my life, leaning upon whom the vine of my existence had blossomed, whom I worshiped in the temple of my heart, and to be absorbed in whose contemplation was the sweetest joy of life—from him I am now being separated for all eternity!
Ah! To whom shall I turn with my lament now? Before whom shall I weep? To whom shall I tell my tale of sorrow? My frail heart cannot endure this thunderbolt. This blow will claim my life. And that will be for the best. For a heart bereft of love, the world is a dark dungeon, filled with despair and gloom.
I know that if Babu Ji were to press him to marry me today, he would agree; he is the very embodiment of courtesy and accommodation. Merely to spare my feelings, he would stake his very life. He belongs to that class of gentle men who have never learned to say "no." He has not yet spoken to Diwan Sahib regarding Sushila. Perhaps he is observing my reaction. It is this very dilemma that has reduced him to this pitiful state of health. He will always strive to keep me happy. He will never wound my heart; he will never mention Sushila even by mistake. I know his nature well. He is a jewel among men.
Yet I do not wish to become the shackle upon his feet. Whatever suffering comes, let it fall upon me alone. Why should I drag him down? If drowning is inevitable, why should I not drown alone, rather than pulling him down with me?
I also know that if this sorrow wears me away and takes my life, he will never forgive himself. His entire life will be offered up to regret and remorse; he will never find peace. What a dreadful dilemma! I do not even have the freedom to die.
To keep him happy, I must appear cheerful myself. I will have to behave with cold cruelty toward him. I shall have to play a woman's deceitful artifice. I must show that on account of this illness, talk of marriage has become irrelevant. I must take the guilt of breaking the betrothal upon my own head. Apart from this, is there any other way of deliverance?
May God grant me the strength to emerge victorious from this ordeal!
Sharadacharan
A single glance settled everything. Lajja had conquered me.
With a single glance, Sushila too had once conquered me. In that glance of Sushila's, there was a powerful attraction, a charming simplicity, an outburst of delight that could not be concealed by any means, a childlike jubilation, as though she had found a wonderful toy.
In Lajja’s glance, there was forgiveness, and there was compassion, despair, and deep anguish. She was sacrificing herself to my will. In self-restraint, she possessed supreme mastery. With her sharp intelligence, she had grasped the entire situation and made her decision at once. She did not wish to become a hindrance to my happiness. Along with that, she wished to show that she cared nothing for me: If you pull away by a barleycorn, I shall withdraw by a yard.
Yet the true sentiments of the heart are like fragrance, which cannot be hidden by concealment. In her cold cruelty, there was the agony of despair; in her smile, the glint of unshed tears. Why did she slip into the kitchen behind my back and prepare some delicacy which she knew was pleasing to my palate? Why did she secretly instruct my servants to keep me comfortable? Why did she hide the newspapers from my sight? Why did she compel me to go for evening strolls? Every single action of hers parted the veil from her heart.
She perhaps does not know that self-concealment is not a special virtue of women.
That day, when Professor Bhatia threw sarcastic remarks at me in the course of conversation, calling me a slave to wealth and luxury and seeking to ridicule my communism, with what consummate tact she turned the subject aside! What she said to him afterward I do not know; but sitting on the veranda, I heard father and daughter debating some subject in the garden.
What creature is so heartless that he would not surrender before selfless service?
I had known Lajjavati for a long time. Yet I realized that it was only in this meeting that I had seen her true self. Formerly, I was an admirer of her physical beauty, her generous thoughts, and the sweetness of her voice. Her radiant, divine soul-light had remained hidden from my eyes. It was only now that I understood how profound, how sacred, how boundless her love truly was!
Under such circumstances, any other woman would have gone mad with jealousy. If not with me, she would certainly have burned with rage against Sushila; she would have seethed inwardly, pierced her with biting sarcasm, and branded me a knave, a hypocrite, a heart of stone, and heaven knows what else.
Yet the pure, untainted love with which Lajja welcomed Sushila is something I shall never forget. There was not the faintest trace of malice, pettiness, or bitterness. She attended to her and carried her along with such warmth as though a younger sister were a guest in her home! Sushila was completely enchanted by this behavior.
Ah! That parting scene too is etched forever in my memory, when Lajjavati came to bid me farewell.
Professor Bhatia was already seated in the motor car. He had grown displeased with me and wanted to hasten away as quickly as possible.
Lajja, draped in a pure, luminous sari, came and stood before me. She looked like an ascetic who had surrendered her entire life at the altar of love—a garland of pure white blossoms lying at the feet of a deity. Smiling gently, she said to me:
"Do write a letter once in a while. I consider myself entitled to at least this much kindness."
With passionate emotion, I replied: "Yes, certainly!"
Lajjavati said again: "Perhaps this is our final meeting. Who knows where I shall dwell, where I shall go; whether I shall ever be able to come again or not. Do not forget me entirely. If any word has escaped my lips that caused you pain, forgive me... and take great care of your health."
Saying this, she extended her hands toward me. Her hands were trembling. Tears were surging violently behind her eyes. She wanted to step out of the room quickly, for she no longer trusted her own self-restraint. She looked at me with lowered, subdued eyes.
Yet in that half-veiled glance was the irresistible force and surge of pent-up waters. In such a torrent, I could not remain standing.
That single look won back a game that was already lost!
I seized both her hands in mine and cried in a voice choked with emotion: "No, Lajja! Between you and me, there shall never be separation again!"
Just then, the orderly entered and placed a letter from Sushila before me. It read:
"Dear Shri Sharadacharan Ji,
We are leaving from here tomorrow. I have a great deal of packing to do today, so I shall not be able to meet you. Tonight, I have firmly resolved upon my duty.
I do not wish to tear down Lajjavati’s established home. I was unaware of these facts earlier; otherwise, such intimacy would never have developed between us. My sole entreaty to you is this: do not let Lajja slip from your hands. She is a jewel among womankind!
I know that my outward appearance and complexion are somewhat fairer than hers, and perhaps you were caught in that very temptation; but I do not possess that self-sacrifice, that spirit of service, that sublime devotion. I could keep you cheerful, but I cannot elevate your life, nor make it sacred and illustrious.
Lajja is a goddess; she will transform you into a divine being. I do not consider myself worthy of you. Do not think of meeting me tomorrow; what purpose is served by tears and weeping? Please forgive me.
Yours,
Sushila"
I placed this letter into Lajja’s hands.
After reading it, she said softly: "I shall go to meet her this very day."
Understanding the noble generosity behind her intention, I said: "Forgive me, Lajja. I do not wish to test your boundless selflessness a second time."
Having said this, I walked down to Professor Bhatia. He was sitting in the motor car with a sullen, sulking countenance. Had Lajjavati come out instead of me, he would surely have showered his fury upon her.
I touched his feet in deep reverence, bowed my head, and said:
"You have always regarded me as your son. Now, I pray you, make that sacred bond unbreakable forever."
Professor Bhatia looked at me at first with incredulous, bewildered eyes; and then, a warm smile breaking across his face, he said:
"Why, that was the greatest desire of my entire life!"
Summary of Haar Ki Jeet (The Defeat That Became Victory)
Haar Ki Jeet ("The Defeat That Became Victory") is Premchand's psychological and moral exploration of romantic temptation, class consciousness, and ethical transformation.
The narrator, Sharadacharan, is a wealthy young taluqdar studying Communism for his Master’s degree. He exists in an intense intellectual rivalry with his brilliant classmate Keshav, who comes from a humble background. Their professor, Babu Haridas Bhatia, while lecturing on socialist egalitarianism, harbors a practical regard for wealth and selects Sharadacharan to marry his enlightened daughter, Lajjavati. However, Lajjavati candidly warns Sharadacharan that his aristocratic upbringing and theoretical communism will crumble in the real world, whereas Keshav's principles are genuine.
After graduation, Keshav becomes an underpaid college lecturer in Nagpur, while Sharadacharan uses his aristocratic status to win election to the Legislative Council as an advocate for tenant farmers. His tireless public work gradually wins Lajjavati’s deep love and respect. A wedding is planned for the coming spring.
While staying in Naini Tal during a council session, Sharadacharan meets Diwan Lala Somnath Kapoor, the Prime Minister of Kashmir, and his daughter Sushila. Dazzled by Sushila’s beauty, Sharadacharan is swept away by infatuation. To evade his betrothal with Lajjavati without tarnishing his reputation, he writes to Professor Bhatia falsely claiming he has contracted tuberculosis.
Rather than breaking the engagement, Lajjavati rushes to Naini Tal, ready to marry him immediately and sacrifice her youth to nurse him through illness. When she discovers that Sharadacharan's real affliction is infatuation with Sushila, she does not succumb to jealousy or malice. Instead, she treats Sushila with warmth and decides to step aside, planning to take the blame for breaking the engagement so that Sharadacharan can marry Sushila without guilt.
When Sushila learns of Lajjavati’s supreme nobility, she withdraws with dignity, writing a letter urging Sharadacharan to honor Lajjavati, whom she recognizes as a spiritual jewel. Conquered by Lajjavati's tearful parting glance and boundless devotion, Sharadacharan realizes his moral blindness. He casts aside his infatuation, clasps Lajjavati's hands, and asks Professor Bhatia for her hand in marriage. His superficial surrender to physical beauty is overturned, and the moral defeat becomes the ultimate victory of genuine love.
Publication History
Haar Ki Jeet (हार की जीत) was written by Munshi Premchand during his prolific middle period (circa 1920) and was later collected in Mansarovar, Part 8 (मानसरोवर भाग 8).
(Note: While Premchand's contemporary, the noted Hindi-Urdu author Sudarshan, wrote a famous pedagogical story also titled "Haar Ki Jeet" about Baba Bharati, his horse Sultan, and the dacoit Khadag Singh, Premchand's "Haar Ki Jeet" is an independent, psychological, and social story centered on Sharadacharan, Lajjavati, Sushila, and Keshav.)
This unabridged English translation was published in 2026 by MunshiPremchand.com as part of the MunshiPremchand.com English Translation Series.
Themes & Critical Significance
- Sensory Infatuation vs. Spiritual Devotion: Premchand contrasts the fleeting physical attraction Sharadacharan experiences toward Sushila with the enduring, selfless spiritual love embodied by Lajjavati.
- The Paradox of Moral Victory (Haar Ki Jeet): In the calculus of the soul, worldly triumph through deceit is an utter defeat, while the surrender of ego and recognition of spiritual nobility turns defeat into the highest victory.
- Hypocrisy in Bourgeois Socialism: The story highlights the contradiction between academic socialism and lived reality. While Sharadacharan and Professor Bhatia preach equality, their choices are conditioned by aristocratic prestige and material security.
- Sublime Magnanimity of Womanhood: Both Lajjavati and Sushila display profound moral agency. Rather than becoming rivals competing for male affection, each woman independently prioritizes dignity, truth, and self-sacrifice over possessive desire.