Title of story panch parmeshwar
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Jumman Shiakh and Algu Chowdhry were very close friends. They were partners in cultivation. Some of their dealings were also done jointly. They trusted each other without reservation. When Jumman had gone on hajj he had left his house under Algu’s care. And whenever Algu went out he left his house to Jumman to look after. They neither inter-dined, nor were they of the same religion. But there was between them a certain concurrence of views. And that indeed is the basis of true friendship.
Their friendship began when they were boys, and Jumman’s worshipful father, Jumeraati, was their tutor. Algu had served his guru with great dedication, scrubbing many plates, washing many cups. He never let the guru’s hookah remain idle even for a moment, because he got half an hour’s respite from books every time he went on to light the chillum. Algu’s father was old-fashioned in his views. He believed that serving the guru was more important than toiling to acquire knowledge. He would say that one acquired knowledge, not by reading books but through the guru’s blessings and kindliness. Therefore, if Jumeraati Shaikh’s blessings or close contact with him did not yield results, Algu should then rest content with the thought that he had tried his best but he did not succeed because he was not destined to acquire knowledge.
However, Jumeraati Shaikh himself did not subscribe to this view. He had greater faith in his rod. And because of that rod Jumman was greatly admired in the villages around here. Not even the court clerk could raise any objection to the documents prepared by Jumman. The postman, the constable and the tehsil peon – all relied on his generosity. As a result, while Algu was respected for his money, Jumman Shaikh was esteemed for his invaluable knowledge.
2
Jumman Shaikh had an old aunt who had some property. She had no other near relation than Jumman. He had coaxed her into transferring this property in his name by making tall promises. Until the transfer deed had been registered, the aunt was pampered and indulged. She was treated to many tasty dishes. It was raining halwas and pulaos; but this hospitality came to a stamping halt as soon as the transfer deed was stamped. Jumman’s wife, Kariman, began to dish out, along with rotis, hot and bitter curries of words. Jumman Shikh too became cold. Now the poor aunt had to swallow bitter words every day: Who knows how long would this old woman live! She thinks she has bought us by just transferring a few bighas of barren land. Rotis don’t go down her throat if her dal is not fried in ghee! We would have bought a whole village with the amount of money she has already swallowed!
Khaala listened to all this for a few days, and when she could stand it no longer she complained to Jumman. Jumman didn’t think it right to interfere in what was the domain of the mistress of the house. And this unpleasant state of affairs dragged on for some more time. At last the aunt said to Jumman, ‘Son, I can’t carry on like this. You pay me a sum regularly. I shall set up my own kitchen.’
Jumman retorted rudely, ‘Do you think we grow money here?’
Khaala asked politely, ‘Do I or do I not need a bare minimum?’
Jumman replied sternly, ‘We had never thought you had conquered death.’
Khaala was offended. She threatened to call the panchayat. Jumman laughed heartily like the hunter who laughs to himself as he watches the deer walking into his trap. He said, ‘Why not? Call the panchayat by all means. Let things be decided once for all. I don’t like these everyday quarrels.’
Jumman had no doubt at all who would win at the panchayat. There was no one in the villages around who did not owe him a debt of gratitude; no one who would dare to antagonize him. Angels won’t won't descend from heavens to hold the panchayat.
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