Why this book

Premchand wrote this in the last years of British rule, when a woman's worth was weighed in gold bangles and a poor clerk's honesty was his only wealth. Gaban means embezzlement — and Premchand asks what a man will trade to seem richer than he is.

The Story

In Allahabad lived Ramanath, a charming, soft young man who loved to seem grand. His father Dinanath was an honest, low-paid clerk who lived within his means. But Ramanath dreamed far above the family's purse, and he could never bear to look poor before others.

Ramanath married Jalpa, a spirited, beautiful bride who since girlhood had dreamed of one thing above all: a chandrahar, a heavy golden necklace. She believed she had married into wealth; therefore she waited, glowing, certain the great necklace would one day be hers.

At the wedding the promised chandrahar never arrived, for the dowry fell short. Jalpa said nothing, but the absence ached in her like a wound. Ramanath, unwilling to confess the family was poor, let her keep believing — and silently vowed to find that necklace somehow.

Therefore Ramanath began to pretend. He borrowed from moneylenders to drape Jalpa in ornaments, threw money he did not have, and built a shining image of a wealthy husband. But each bangle deepened a secret debt, and the lie grew heavier than any gold.

To feed the illusion, Ramanath took a post as cashier and accountant, entrusted with the daily cash of Rai Sahib's firm. Every day the firm's money passed through his hands; therefore temptation sat on his desk, and his debts whispered that no one would ever notice a little missing.

So Ramanath dipped into his employer's cash, telling himself he would replace it before the reckoning. He bought Jalpa fresh ornaments; therefore she smiled, never guessing the price. But the borrowed sum only swelled, month by month, until it grew far beyond anything his salary could ever repay.

Then the day of accounts came near. Rai Sahib called for an audit of the firm's cash, and Ramanath's stolen gap could no longer be hidden. Fear seized him; therefore he saw only two roads — confess and be disgraced, or run. His courage failed the honest one.

Therefore, in the dead of night, Ramanath fled. He left Jalpa sleeping, without a word or a note, and boarded a train bound for Calcutta. Shame drove him from everything he knew; but running from the theft only carried the guilt with him into a stranger's city.

In Calcutta, penniless and hollow, Ramanath wandered the crowded lanes until an old Khatik shopkeeper named Devidin took pity and gave him food and a corner to sleep. Devidin asked no questions; therefore Ramanath hid his crime behind a false name and a fugitive's silence.

But a fugitive cashier does not stay hidden long. The police traced the Allahabad embezzlement to Calcutta, and an officer found Ramanath through the report of his own firm. Instead of arresting him, the officer smiled and offered a bargain — serve us, and your theft will vanish.

The police were prosecuting young patriots on a conspiracy they had invented. They needed a witness to swear he saw the men plotting sedition; therefore they wanted Ramanath's tongue. Cornered between prison and betrayal, he agreed, and let them coach him in a testimony that was all lies.

To keep their witness content and watched, the police lodged Ramanath in comfort and set Zohra upon him — a clever, beautiful courtesan paid to charm him and report his every mood. Zohra played her part flawlessly; therefore Ramanath, flattered and lonely, drifted deeper into their trap.

But Zohra was not made of stone. Night after night she heard Ramanath's guilt spill out, and she saw the innocent men his lie would ruin. A quiet unease crept into her; therefore, though she still smiled for the police, doubt had begun to loosen her loyalty.

Back in Allahabad, Jalpa learned the whole truth — the theft, the flight, the ornaments bought with stolen gold. She did not weep helplessly. Instead a fierce resolve woke in her; therefore she saw that the jewels she had craved were the very chains that had dragged her husband down.

Jalpa journeyed alone to distant Calcutta and, through kind old Devidin, at last found her missing husband. But the reunion brought no joy, for she found Ramanath a paid puppet of the police, groomed to send innocent patriots to the gallows with a single false oath.

Jalpa was horrified. She refused to let Ramanath buy his safety with innocent blood, and she begged him to choose truth over fear. Her shame at the stolen gold, she said, was nothing beside the shame of a lie that would hang honest men. But Ramanath, terrified, wavered.

Zohra, whose conscience had long been fraying, watched Jalpa's courage and could resist no more. The courtesan sent to trap Ramanath now turned against her masters; therefore she and Jalpa quietly joined forces, two women resolved to break the conspiracy the police had built.

The trial arrived. In the courtroom stood the young patriots the police had framed, their freedom resting on one man's word. The prosecutor called Ramanath — the cashier turned false witness — to give the testimony that would condemn them. Jalpa and Zohra watched from the crowd, breathless.

Ramanath opened his mouth to speak the lie. But he felt Jalpa's eyes upon him, and the innocent faces waiting, and something in him finally broke. Therefore, trembling, he confessed instead — the conspiracy was fabricated, his testimony false, the whole case a fraud built by the police.

The courtroom erupted; the fabricated case collapsed, and the patriots walked free. The police stood exposed, their scheme in ruins. Ramanath had thrown away his own safety; but for the first time in years he stood as an honest man, with nothing left to hide.

Therefore Ramanath returned to Jalpa a changed man, stripped of pretence and stolen gold alike. Zohra, redeemed by her own courage, found a cleaner life. The stolen money would be repaid slowly, honestly; but the couple were richer now in the one thing gold could never buy — trust.

What it means

Therefore Jalpa sold every ornament she owned — the bangles, the earrings, the longed-for gold. With the money she began to repay Rai Sahib's firm, and she set out to find Ramanath. The woman who once lived for jewels now cast them off to buy back her husband's honour.

Premchand's lesson is quiet but merciless: the hunger to seem richer than we are can rot an honest soul from within. Ramanath was ruined not by evil, but by weakness and vanity. And redemption, when it came, cost him everything false — leaving only the truth, which was enough.

🎧 Read-along audio is being prepared — text-only for now.