Showing posts with label This is my hometown. Show all posts
Showing posts with label This is my hometown. Show all posts

This is my hometown | full english novel by premchand


Today, after sixty sixty years, I was fortunate to see the vision of my beloved, beloved husband. The moment I was away from my beloved country, and luck took me to the west, I was getting up and running. There was fresh blood running in my veins and Sena was full of excitement and big intentions. I did not separate from the beloved Hindustan with the tremendous hands of the oppressors and the oppressive hands of justice. No, the oppression of the oppressor and the rigors of the law can do whatever I want, but my estate can not save me. It was my great intentions and big wishes who pulled me out of the country. I did a lot of business in the USA, earned a lot of wealth and made a lot of luxury. By luck, the wife also found such a match that was unmatched in her form, whose beauty was discussed all over the United States, and in her heart there was no scope for such a view, she did not have any relation with me. I was fond of heartbeat and she was everything for me. I had five sons, beautiful, healthy and good, who shone the business even more and whose naive, young children were sitting in my lap at that time, when I took the step to finalize the lovely motherland. I left such priceless principles as a lot of wealth, wealthy wife, son of the beloved son, and fragments of beloved-beloved liver. That is why we will see the last of the beloved Bharatmata. I was very stupid. If there are ten more, then I will be a full solar year, and now if there is no Arjuna in my heart, then that is to be found in the country of our country. This Arjuna is not born in my mind today, at that time even when my wife used to cheer my heart with sweet things and delicate actions. While my young son used to salute his old father with respect to his old father, and at that time also there was a thorn in my liver and the thorn was that I was exiled from my country here. This country is not mine, I am not of this country. The money was mine, the wife was mine, the boys were mine and the property was mine, but why did I stay away from my motherland, the broken huts, four six bighas of motherland and the childhood memories of motherhood and often used to be happy Even in pomp, it kicked the idea that it was in his own country!

But at the time when landed in Bombay and used to wear black coats and trousers, watching a broken English-speaking sailor, then the English shops, trams and motor vehicles were seen, then the rubbery wheels and the mouth were knocked out of the stairs, then the rail The station, and on the rail, ran to its village; the lovely village was populated between the green hills, then my eyes filled tears. I cried a lot, because it was not my lovely country, it was not that country whose lust always used to take waves in my heart. This was another country. It was America, England was but not cute India.

The train reached the forests, mountains, rivers and plains and reached near my lovely village, which at one time used to compete with Paradise in the abundance of flower-leaf and abundance of river basins. If I landed by the car then my heart was bouncing bamboo-now I will see my lovely house, meet my dear friends of my childhood. I do not remember at that time that I am an old man of ninety years. As I used to reach the village, my steps were rising very soon and in the heart one such joy was blowing waves which can not be narrated. On every thing, the eyes of the tornado will look at it - Aha, this is the nala in which we used to take daily horses and used to dive, but now there was a charioteering of prickly wires on both sides and there was a bungalow in which two-three English guns Looking around for a while There was strict prohibition for bathing or bathing in the drain. Went to the village and eyes began to find the childhood companions, but all of them had become the blood of death and all of my broken hut which had played for years in his lap, where the childhood and devotional looted, whose map has so far He is now in the eyes, he has now become a clay pile. The place was non-existent. Hundreds of men were walking on the streets, who were talking about the court and the police and the police station. Their faces were lifeless and frozen and they seemed to be broken by the troubles of the whole world. My colleagues have not been found to be healthy, beautiful, white-young boys. The arena of which I had laid the foundation of my hands, there was now a broken school, and the children of the ill-shaped children of the countenance who had hunger on their face were sitting in tatters. No, this is not my country. I did not come from such a distance to see this country. This is another country, not my lovely country.

We ran towards the banyan tree whose beauty shade in the shadow of our childhood, which was our childhood's hindola and the rest of the house. Seeing this lovely banyan, he started crying, and such a horrific, agonizing and painful memories became fresh, that the bells were sitting on the ground and crying. This is the lovely banyan, which we used to climb on the piggies, whose shoes were our hammock and whose fruits we knew more sweet and sweet than all the world's sweets. He used to put his arms around my throat, who always used to cry, used to celebrate, where did he go? Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh Is not my friend Next to this banyan, a red turban was sitting on a chair under the police station and the tree. Around ten-twenty and red turbaned hands were tied around him and a man with an inferior famine on whom now
Now there was a shower of whips, and Sister was lying. I came to realize, this is not my lovely country, it is another country, it is Europe, America is, but not my lovely country, it is not worth it.

Disappointed with this, I headed towards the Chowpala, where in the evening Dad used to drink hukka and laughter with the elders of the village and the elderly. We would also eat sticks on that sack. Occasionally there used to be Panchayat, whose sarpanch was always a father. There was a goshha attached to this chaupal. Where cows filled with villages were used and we used to do kulelas with calves here. Sorry, this Chaupal was no longer known. There was now a village vaccine station and a post office. In those days, there was a charcoal attached to this quadruple, which used to grow in the days of winter, and the head of jaggery would have been brainwashed. We used to sit in wait and wait for our millenniums and we used to wonder at the speed of the gangers who were drunk, where hundreds of times I drank with the juice of raw juice and pakwa. Here women and children from surrounding homes bring their own jars and carry them out of juice. Sadly, those crushers have just fallen as yet, but look at the place of the coop is now a sun-wrapping machine and there is a Tamboli and a cigarette shop in front of it. Being sad with the scenes of these hearts, I saw a man with a good look and said, 'Baba, I am a foreigner, give me a place to stay overnight.' This man saw me stared at the feet from head to foot and said, go ahead, there is no place here. I went ahead and got the order from here - go ahead. On the fifth question, a sahib placed a handful of gram flour over my hands. The gram fell off my hands and tears started flowing with eyes. Hi, this is not my lovely country, it is another country. It is not a lovely country to entertain our guests and travelers, but it does not matter.

I took a box of cigarettes and sat in a secluded place and remembered the past days that the person came to me thinking of the Dharamsala who was making my departure while going abroad. I would cross the road somewhere in the night, but there was no room for the poor pilgrims to stay in the building, but sorry, sorry for the Dharamshala. There was a place of liquor and alcoholism, gambling and abusement. Seeing this condition, Barbar had a cold sigh of relief, I screamed loudly-no, and not thousands of times, this is not my birth, my sweet country, my beloved India. This is some other country. This is Europe, America is, but India is not Harijaj.

It was dark night. The jackals and dogs were chanting their chords. I went to the bank of the same drain for a painful heart and sat down and thought, what should I do now? Should I go back to my beloved children and mix my Namirad dirt with America? Now I had no control, I was sure to separate myself from the past, but the memory of the beloved husband was made in the heart. Now I am unconscious, I do not have any heritage. He kept quietly kneeling in his thoughts for a long time. At night the eyes were cut in the eyes, the watch sounded three times and the voice of someone's voice came into the ears. Dil Gudgudaya, this is the Nagma of Vatan, the passion of your country. I got up immediately Do I see that fifteen to twenty women, wearing old, weak, white dhoti, are going to baths in their hands and sings -

Lord, do not lie to me

It is difficult to tell the condition of my heart that the condition of this heart and agonizing anger has been made. I had listened to the chanchal, cheerful and cheerful beauty of America from the chanchal and heard the words of love and love from their words, which were even more sweet than the charming songs. I had enjoyed the incomplete words of the beloved children and the potato bani. I had heard chiropractic Twitter But whatever joy, the joy that came to me in the song, was never achieved in life. I started muttering myself-

Lord, do not lie to me

Tension was happening that I had heard many people speak and some people saw Shiva Shiva, Har, every Ganga Ganges, Narayana Narayan, for the Bronze Kandanal in the hands. My heart, then the auspiciousness, this is the language of my country's beloved country. The heart of joy killed the garden garden I got along with these men and after crossing a two-three-four-five-mile hill path, we reached the bank of the river whose name is sacred, whose dip in the waves and whose death in death is considered by every Hindu as the highest virtue. . Ganga flowed six miles from my beloved village, and at some time in the morning at the time of the morning, on the horse came to visit the Ganga Mata's philosophy. The wish of his philosophy was always in my heart. Here I saw thousands of people dive in the cold, cold water. Some people were chanting Gayatri Mantra sitting on the sand. Some people were engaged in havan. Some people were vaccinated on the forehead. Some people were studying Vedantanta recitation. My heart again grumbled and I said with a loud voice - Yeah, this is my country, this is my lovely son, this is my India. And this was the philosophy of this, that Arjuna was in my heart to get it in the soil.

I was going crazy in happiness I threw off my old coat and trouser and fell into the lap of Ganga Mata, as if a naïve, naïve child had stayed with the pariahs throughout the day, came running in the lap of his beloved mother, with his chest Stick to Yes, now I am in my country. This is my lovely son, this is my brother, Ganga Mary
Mother is

I have built a small hut on the bank of Gangaji and now I have no other work to do except the Ramnam. I am bathing in the evening every evening - and it is my craving that my breath came out in this place and my bones climb to the wave of Gangamata waves.

My boys and my wife called me again and again, but now I can not go there except the edge of this Ganges and this lovely country. I will hand over my soil to Gangaji. No desire of the world can be removed from here, because it is my beloved country, my beloved motherland and I long for that I will die in my country.