The Project Gutenberg EBook of Stories from Tagore, by Rabindranath Tagore

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Title: Stories from Tagore

Author: Rabindranath Tagore

Release Date: August 24, 2010 [EBook #33525]

Language: English

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Transcriber's Notes:
Variations in spelling and hyphenation have been retained
as in the original.
Words listed in the 'Words to be Studied' sections are
linked in the text like this. Click on the word to see the
explanation.
A few typographical errors have been corrected. A
complete list of changes follows the text.
 STORIES FROM TAGORE

Publisher's Logo.
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
NEW YORK · BOSTON · CHICAGO · DALLAS
ATLANTA · SAN FRANCISCO

MACMILLAN & CO., LIMITED

LONDON · BOMBAY · CALCUTTA
MELBOURNE

THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD.

TORONTO
Stories from Tagore

New York
The Macmillan Company
1918
All rights reserved

Copyright 1916 and 1918

BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY

Set up and electrotyped. Published, October, 1918

 PREFACE
EVERY experienced teacher must have noticed the difficulty of instructing Indian
children out of books that are specially intended for use in English schools. It is
not merely that the subjects are unfamiliar, but almost every phrase has English
associations that are strange to Indian ears. The environment in which they are
written is unknown to the Indian school boy and his mind becomes
overburdened with its details which he fails to understand. He cannot give his
whole attention to the language and thus master it quickly.
The present Indian story-book avoids some at least of these impediments. The
surroundings described in it are those of the students' everyday life; the
sentiments and characters are familiar. The stories are simply told, and the notes
at the end will be sufficient to explain obscure passages. It should be possible for
the Indian student to follow the pages of the book easily and intelligently. Those
students who have read the stories in the original will have the further advantage
of knowing beforehand the whole trend of the narrative and thus they will be
able to concentrate their thoughts on the English language itself.
It is proposed to publish together in a single volume the original stories whose
English translations are given in this Reader. Versions of the same stories in the
different Indian vernaculars have already appeared, and others are likely to
follow.
Two of the longest stories in this book—"Master Mashai" and "The Son of
Rashmani"—are reproduced in English for the first time. The rest of the stories
have been taken, with slight revision, from two English volumes entitled "The
Hungry Stones" and "Mashi." A short paragraph has been added from the
original Bengali at the end of the story called "The Postmaster." This was
unfortunately omitted in the first English edition.
The list of words to be studied has been chosen from each story in order to bring
to notice different types of English words. The lists are in no sense exhaustive.
The end in view has been to endeavour to create an interest in Indian words and
their history, which may lead on to further study.
 CONTENTS
PAGE
THE CABULIWALLAH 3
THE HOME-COMING 21
ONCE THERE WAS A KING 35
THE CHILD'S RETURN 51
MASTER MASHAI 69
SUBHA 101
THE POSTMASTER 115
THE CASTAWAY 129
THE SON OF RASHMANI 151
THE BABUS OF NAYANJORE 203
NOTES 223

THE CABULIWALLAH

STORIES FROM TAGORE

 I

THE CABULIWALLAH
MY five years' old daughter Mini cannot live without chattering. I really believe
that in all her life she has not wasted a minute in silence. Her mother is often
vexed at this, and would stop her prattle, but I would not. To see Mini quiet is
unnatural, and I cannot bear it long. And so my own talk with her is always
lively.
One morning, for instance, when I was in the midst of the seventeenth chapter of
my new novel, my little Mini stole into the room, and putting her hand into
mine, said: "Father! Ramdayal the door-keeper calls a crow a krow! He doesn't
know anything, does he?"
Before I could explain to her the differences of language in this world, she was
embarked on the full tide of another subject. "What do you think, Father? Bhola
says there is an elephant in the clouds, blowing water out of his trunk, and that is
why it rains!"
And then, darting off anew, while I sat still making ready some reply to this last
saying: "Father! what relation is Mother to you?"
With a grave face I contrived to say: "Go and play with Bhola, Mini! I am busy!"
The window of my room overlooks the road. The child had seated herself at my
feet near my table, and was playing softly, drumming on her knees. I was hard at
work on my seventeenth chapter, where Pratap Singh, the hero, had just caught
Kanchanlata, the heroine, in his arms, and was about to escape with her by the
third-story window of the castle, when all of a sudden Mini left her play, and ran
to the window, crying: "A Cabuliwallah! a Cabuliwallah!" Sure enough in the
street below was a Cabuliwallah, passing slowly along. He wore the loose, soiled
clothing of his people, with a tall turban; there was a bag on his back, and he
carried boxes of grapes in his hand.
I cannot tell what were my daughter's feelings at the sight of this man, but she
began to call him loudly. "Ah!" I thought, "he will come in, and my seventeenth
chapter will never be finished!" At which exact moment the Cabuliwallah
turned, and looked up at the child. When she saw this, overcome by terror, she
fled to her mother's protection and disappeared. She had a blind belief that inside
the bag, which the big man carried, there were perhaps two or three other
children like herself. The pedlar meanwhile entered my doorway and greeted me
with a smiling face.
So precarious was the position of my hero and my heroine, that my first impulse
was to stop and buy something, since the man had been called. I made some
small purchases, and a conversation began about Abdurrahman, the Russians,
the English, and the Frontier Policy.
As he was about to leave, he asked: "And where is the little girl, sir?"
And I, thinking that Mini must get rid of her false fear, had her brought out.
She stood by my chair, and looked at the Cabuliwallah and his bag. He offered
her nuts and raisins, but she would not be tempted, and only clung the closer to
me, with all her doubts increased.
This was their first meeting.
One morning, however, not many days later, as I was leaving the house, I was
startled to find Mini, seated on a bench near the door, laughing and talking, with
the great Cabuliwallah at her feet. In all her life, it appeared, my small daughter
had never found so patient a listener, save her father. And already the corner of
her little sari was stuffed with almonds and raisins, the gift of her visitor. "Why
did you give her those?" I said, and taking out an eight-anna bit, I handed it to
him. The man accepted the money without demur, and slipped it into his pocket.
Alas, on my return an hour later, I found the unfortunate coin had made twice its
own worth of trouble! For the Cabuliwallah had given it to Mini; and her mother,
catching sight of the bright round object, had pounced on the child with: "Where
did you get that eight-anna bit?"
"The Cabuliwallah gave it me," said Mini cheerfully.
"The Cabuliwallah gave it you!" cried her mother much shocked. "O Mini! how
could you take it from him?"
I, entering at the moment, saved her from impending disaster, and proceeded to
make my own inquiries.
It was not the first or second time, I found, that the two had met. The
Cabuliwallah had overcome the child's first terror by a judicious bribery of nuts
and almonds, and the two were now great friends.
They had many quaint jokes, which afforded them much amusement. Seated in
front of him, looking down on his gigantic frame in all her tiny dignity, Mini
would ripple her face with laughter and begin: "O Cabuliwallah! Cabuliwallah!
what have you got in your bag?"
And he would reply, in the nasal accents of the mountaineer: "An elephant!" Not
much cause for merriment, perhaps; but how they both enjoyed the fun! And for
me, this child's talk with a grown-up man had always in it something strangely
fascinating.
Then the Cabuliwallah, not to be behindhand, would take his turn: "Well, little
one, and when are you going to the father-in-law's house?"
Now most small Bengali maidens have heard long ago about the father-in-law's
house; but we, being a little new-fangled, had kept these things from our child,
and Mini at this question must have been a trifle bewildered. But she would not
show it, and with ready tact replied: "Are you going there?"
Amongst men of the Cabuliwallah's class, however, it is well known that the
words father-in-law's house have a double meaning. It is a euphemism for jail,
the place where we are well cared for, at no expense to ourselves. In this sense
would the sturdy pedlar take my daughter's question. "Ah," he would say,
shaking his fist at an invisible policeman, "I will thrash my father-in-law!"
Hearing this, and picturing the poor discomfited relative, Mini would go off into
peals of laughter, in which her formidable friend would join.
These were autumn mornings, the very time of year when kings of old went
forth to conquest; and I, never stirring from my little corner in Calcutta, would
let my mind wander over the whole world. At the very name of another country,
my heart would go out to it, and at the sight of a foreigner in the streets, I would
fall to weaving a network of dreams,—the mountains, the glens, and the forests
of his distant home, with his cottage in its setting, and the free and independent
life of far-away wilds. Perhaps the scenes of travel conjure themselves up before
me and pass and repass in my imagination all the more vividly, because I lead
such a vegetable existence that a call to travel would fall upon me like a thunder-
bolt. In the presence of this Cabuliwallah I was immediately transported to the
foot of arid mountain peaks, with narrow little defiles twisting in and out
amongst their towering heights. I could see the string of camels bearing the
merchandise, and the company of turbanned merchants carrying some their
queer old firearms, and some their spears, journeying downward towards the
plains. I could see—. But at some such point Mini's mother would intervene,
imploring me to "beware of that man."
Mini's mother is unfortunately a very timid lady. Whenever she hears a noise in
the street, or sees people coming towards the house, she always jumps to the
conclusion that they are either thieves, or drunkards, or snakes, or tigers, or
malaria, or cockroaches, or caterpillars. Even after all these years of experience,
she is not able to overcome her terror. So she was full of doubts about the
Cabuliwallah, and used to beg me to keep a watchful eye on him.
I tried to laugh her fear gently away, but then she would turn round on me
seriously, and ask me solemn questions:—
Were children never kidnapped?
Was it, then, not true that there was slavery in Cabul?
Was it so very absurd that this big man should be able to carry off a tiny child?
I urged that, though not impossible, it was highly improbable. But this was not
enough, and her dread persisted. As it was indefinite, however, it did not seem
right to forbid the man the house, and the intimacy went on unchecked.
Once a year in the middle of January Rahmun, the Cabuliwallah, was in the habit
of returning to his country, and as the time approached he would be very busy,
going from house to house collecting his debts. This year, however, he could
always find time to come and see Mini. It would have seemed to an outsider that
there was some conspiracy between the two, for when he could not come in the
morning, he would appear in the evening.
Even to me it was a little startling now and then, in the corner of a dark room,
suddenly to surprise this tall, loose-garmented, much bebagged man; but when
Mini would run in smiling, with her "O Cabuliwallah! Cabuliwallah!" and the
two friends, so far apart in age, would subside into their old laughter and their
old jokes, I felt reassured.
One morning, a few days before he had made up his mind to go, I was correcting
my proof sheets in my study. It was chilly weather. Through the window the rays
of the sun touched my feet, and the slight warmth was very welcome. It was
almost eight o'clock, and the early pedestrians were returning home with their
heads covered. All at once I heard an uproar in the street, and, looking out, saw
Rahmun being led away bound between two policemen, and behind them a
crowd of curious boys. There were blood-stains on the clothes of the
Cabuliwallah, and one of the policemen carried a knife. Hurrying out, I stopped
them, and inquired what it all meant. Partly from one, partly from another, I
gathered that a certain neighbour had owed the pedlar something for a Rampuri
shawl, but had falsely denied having bought it, and that in the course of the
quarrel Rahmun had struck him. Now, in the heat of his excitement, the prisoner
began calling his enemy all sorts of names, when suddenly in a verandah of my
house appeared my little Mini, with her usual exclamation: "O Cabuliwallah!
Cabuliwallah!" Rahmun's face lighted up as he turned to her. He had no bag
under his arm to-day, so she could not discuss the elephant with him. She at once
therefore proceeded to the next question: "Are you going to the father-in-law's
house?" Rahmun laughed and said: "Just where I am going, little one!" Then,
seeing that the reply did not amuse the child, he held up his fettered hands. "Ah!"
he said, "I would have thrashed that old father-in-law, but my hands are bound!"
On a charge of murderous assault, Rahmun was sentenced to some years'
imprisonment.
Time passed away and he was not remembered. The accustomed work in the
accustomed place was ours, and the thought of the once free mountaineer
spending his years in prison seldom or never occurred to us. Even my light-
hearted Mini, I am ashamed to say, forgot her old friend. New companions filled
her life. As she grew older, she spent more of her time with girls. So much time
indeed did she spend with them that she came no more, as she used to do, to her
father's room. I was scarcely on speaking terms with her.
Years had passed away. It was once more autumn and we had made
arrangements for our Mini's marriage. It was to take place during the Puja
Holidays. With Durga returning to Kailas, the light of our home also was to
depart to her husband's house, and leave her father's in the shadow.
The morning was bright. After the rains, there was a sense of ablution in the air,
and the sun-rays looked like pure gold. So bright were they, that they gave a
beautiful radiance even to the sordid brick walls of our Calcutta lanes. Since
early dawn that day the wedding-pipes had been sounding, and at each beat my
own heart throbbed. The wail of the tune, Bhairavi, seemed to intensify my pain
at the approaching separation. My Mini was to be married that night.
From early morning noise and bustle had pervaded the house. In the courtyard
the canopy had to be slung on its bamboo poles; the chandeliers with their
tinkling sound must be hung in each room and verandah. There was no end of
hurry and excitement. I was sitting in my study, looking through the accounts,
when some one entered, saluting respectfully, and stood before me. It was
Rahmun the Cabuliwallah. At first I did not recognise him. He had no bag, nor
the long hair, nor the same vigour that he used to have. But he smiled, and I
knew him again.
"When did you come, Rahmun?" I asked him.
"Last evening," he said, "I was released from jail."
The words struck harsh upon my ears. I had never before talked with one who
had wounded his fellow, and my heart shrank within itself when I realised this;
for I felt that the day would have been better-omened had he not turned up.
"There are ceremonies going on," I said, "and I am busy. Could you perhaps
come another day?"
At once he turned to go; but as he reached the door he hesitated, and said: "May
I not see the little one, sir, for a moment?" It was his belief that Mini was still the
same. He had pictured her running to him as she used, calling "O Cabuliwallah!
Cabuliwallah!" He had imagined too that they would laugh and talk together, just
as of old. In fact, in memory of former days he had brought, carefully wrapped
up in paper, a few almonds and raisins and grapes, obtained somehow from a
countryman; for his own little fund was dispersed.
I said again: "There is a ceremony in the house, and you will not be able to see
any one to-day."
The man's face fell. He looked wistfully at me for a moment, then said "Good
morning," and went out.
I felt a little sorry, and would have called him back, but I found he was returning
of his own accord. He came close up to me holding out his offerings with the
words: "I brought these few things, sir, for the little one. Will you give them to
her?"
I took them and was going to pay him, but he caught my hand and said: "You are
very kind, sir! Keep me in your recollection. Do not offer me money!—You
have a little girl: I too have one like her in my own home. I think of her, and
bring fruits to your child—not to make a profit for myself."
Saying this, he put his hand inside his big loose robe, and brought out a small
and dirty piece of paper. With great care he unfolded this, and smoothed it out
with both hands on my table. It bore the impression of a little hand. Not a
photograph. Not a drawing. The impression of an ink-smeared hand laid flat on
the paper. This touch of his own little daughter had been always on his heart, as
he had come year after year to Calcutta to sell his wares in the streets.
Tears came to my eyes. I forgot that he was a poor Cabuli fruit-seller, while I
was—. But no, what was I more than he? He also was a father.
That impression of the hand of his little Pārbati in her distant mountain home
reminded me of my own little Mini.
I sent for Mini immediately from the inner apartment. Many difficulties were
raised, but I would not listen. Clad in the red silk of her wedding-day, with the
sandal paste on her forehead, and adorned as a young bride, Mini came, and
stood bashfully before me.
The Cabuliwallah looked a little staggered at the apparition. He could not revive
their old friendship. At last he smiled and said: "Little one, are you going to your
father-in-law's house?"
But Mini now understood the meaning of the word "father-in-law," and she
could not reply to him as of old. She flushed up at the question, and stood before
him with her bride-like face turned down.
I remembered the day when the Cabuliwallah and my Mini had first met, and I
felt sad. When she had gone, Rahmun heaved a deep sigh, and sat down on the
floor. The idea had suddenly come to him that his daughter too must have grown
in this long time, and that he would have to make friends with her anew.
Assuredly he would not find her as he used to know her. And besides, what
might not have happened to her in these eight years?
The marriage-pipes sounded, and the mild autumn sun streamed round us. But
Rahmun sat in the little Calcutta lane, and saw before him the barren mountains
of Afghanistan.
I took out a bank-note and gave it to him, saying: "Go back to your own
daughter, Rahmun, in your own country, and may the happiness of your meeting
bring good fortune to my child!"
Having made this present, I had to curtail some of the festivities. I could not
have the electric lights I had intended, nor the military band, and the ladies of the
house were despondent at it. But to me the wedding-feast was all the brighter for
the thought that in a distant land a long-lost father met again with his only child.

WORDS TO BE STUDIED

precarious. From the root "prec," meaning prayer. Compare deprecate,

imprecation; "precarious" means, therefore, held by entreaty, and thus
insecure.
impending. From the Latin "pendere," to hang. Compare depend, expend,
expensive, pendant, suspend, interdependent, independent.
judicious. From the root "jus," "jud," meaning law, right. Compare judge,
judicial, judgment, just, prejudge, adjustment, adjudicate.
euphemism. A Greek root "phe," meaning speech. Compare blasphemy.
transported. From the Latin "portare," to carry. Compare porter, import, export,
deport, support, deportation.
intervene. From the Latin "venire," to come. Compare convenient, convene,
supervene, prevent.
conclusion. From the Latin "claudere," to close, shut. Compare include,
preclude, exclude, exclusive, exclusion.
exclamation. From the Latin "clamare," to cry out. Compare clamour, proclaim,
proclamation, clamorous, disclaim, declaim.
separation. From the Latin "parare," to make ready. Compare prepare,
preparation, compare, comparison, comparative.
recollect. From the Latin "legere," to choose. Compare collect, elect, election,
college, eligible.
impression. From the Latin "premere," to press. Compare impressive, depress,
express, suppress, oppress, pressure.
photograph. From two Greek roots "phōt," meaning light and "graph," meaning
to write. Compare epigraph, epigram, photographic, phosphorus, graph,
 diagram.
intend. From the Latin "tendere," meaning to stretch. Compare extend,
superintend, attend, attendant, extensive, tense, pretend, distend, contend.

THE HOME-COMING
 II

THE HOME-COMING
PHATIK CHAKRAVORTI was ringleader among the boys of the village. A new
mischief got into his head. There was a heavy log lying on the mud-flat of the
river waiting to be shaped into a mast for a boat. He decided that they should all
work together to shift the log by main force from its place and roll it away. The
owner of the log would be angry and surprised, and they would all enjoy the fun.
Every one seconded the proposal, and it was carried unanimously.
But just as the fun was about to begin, Mākhan, Phatik's younger brother,
sauntered up and sat down on the log in front of them all without a word. The
boys were puzzled for a moment. He was pushed, rather timidly, by one of the
boys and told to get up; but he remained quite unconcerned. He appeared like a
young philosopher meditating on the futility of games. Phatik was furious.
"Mākhan," he cried, "if you don't get down this minute I'll thrash you!"
Mākhan only moved to a more comfortable position.
Now, if Phatik was to keep his regal dignity before the public, it was clear he
ought to carry out his threat. But his courage failed him at the crisis. His fertile
brain, however, rapidly seized upon a new manœuvre which would discomfit his
brother and afford his followers an added amusement. He gave the word of
command to roll the log and Mākhan over together. Mākhan heard the order and
made it a point of honour to stick on. But he overlooked the fact, like those who
attempt earthly fame in other matters, that there was peril in it.
The boys began to heave at the log with all their might, calling out, "One, two,
three, go!" At the word "go" the log went; and with it went Mākhan's philosophy,
glory and all.
The other boys shouted themselves hoarse with delight. But Phatik was a little
frightened. He knew what was coming. And, sure enough, Mākhan rose from
Mother Earth blind as Fate and screaming like the Furies. He rushed at Phatik
and scratched his face and beat him and kicked him, and then went crying home.
The first act of the drama was over.
Phatik wiped his face, and sat down on the edge of a sunken barge by the river
bank, and began to chew a piece of grass. A boat came up to the landing and a
middle-aged man, with grey hair and dark moustache, stepped on shore. He saw
the boy sitting there doing nothing and asked him where the Chakravortis lived.
Phatik went on chewing the grass and said: "Over there," but it was quite
impossible to tell where he pointed. The stranger asked him again. He swung his
legs to and fro on the side of the barge and said: "Go and find out," and
continued to chew the grass as before.
But now a servant came down from the house and told Phatik his mother wanted
him. Phatik refused to move. But the servant was the master on this occasion. He
took Phatik up roughly and carried him, kicking and struggling in impotent rage.
When Phatik came into the house, his mother saw him. She called out angrily:
"So you have been hitting Mākhan again?"
Phatik answered indignantly: "No, I haven't! Who told you that?"
His mother shouted: "Don't tell lies! You have."
Phatik said sullenly: "I tell you, I haven't. You ask Mākhan!" But Mākhan
thought it best to stick to his previous statement. He said: "Yes, mother. Phatik
did hit me."
Phatik's patience was already exhausted. He could not bear this injustice. He
rushed at Mākhan and hammered him with blows: "Take that," he cried, "and
that, and that, for telling lies."
His mother took Mākhan's side in a moment, and pulled Phatik away, beating
him with her hands. When Phatik pushed her aside, she shouted out: "What! you
little villain! Would you hit your own mother?"
It was just at this critical juncture that the grey-haired stranger arrived. He asked
what was the matter. Phatik looked sheepish and ashamed.
But when his mother stepped back and looked at the stranger, her anger was
changed to surprise. For she recognized her brother and cried: "Why, Dada!
Where have you come from?"
As she said these words, she bowed to the ground and touched his feet. Her
brother had gone away soon after she had married; and he had started business in
Bombay. His sister had lost her husband while he was there. Bishamber had now
come back to Calcutta and had at once made enquiries about his sister. He had
then hastened to see her as soon as he found out where she was.
The next few days were full of rejoicing. The brother asked after the education
of the two boys. He was told by his sister that Phatik was a perpetual nuisance.
He was lazy, disobedient, and wild. But Mākhan was as good as gold, as quiet as
a lamb, and very fond of reading. Bishamber kindly offered to take Phatik off his
sister's hands and educate him with his own children in Calcutta. The widowed
mother readily agreed. When his uncle asked Phatik if he would like to go to
Calcutta with him, his joy knew no bounds and he said: "Oh, yes, uncle!" in a
way that made it quite clear that he meant it.
It was an immense relief to the mother to get rid of Phatik. She had a prejudice
against the boy, and no love was lost between the two brothers. She was in daily
fear that he would either drown Mākhan some day in the river, or break his head
in a fight, or run him into some danger. At the same time she was a little
distressed to see Phatik's extreme eagerness to get away.
Phatik, as soon as all was settled, kept asking his uncle every minute when they
were to start. He was on pins and needles all day long with excitement and lay
awake most of the night. He bequeathed to Mākhan, in perpetuity, his fishing-
rod, his big kite, and his marbles. Indeed, at this time of departure, his generosity
towards Mākhan was unbounded.
When they reached Calcutta, Phatik made the acquaintance of his aunt for the
first time. She was by no means pleased with this unnecessary addition to her
family. She found her own three boys quite enough to manage without taking
any one else. And to bring a village lad of fourteen into their midst was terribly
upsetting. Bishamber should really have thought twice before committing such
an indiscretion.
In this world of human affairs there is no worse nuisance than a boy at the age of
fourteen. He is neither ornamental nor useful. It is impossible to shower
affection on him as on a little boy; and he is always getting in the way. If he talks
with a childish lisp he is called a baby, and if he answers in a grown-up way he is
called impertinent. In fact any talk at all from him is resented. Then he is at the
unattractive, growing age. He grows out of his clothes with indecent haste; his
voice grows hoarse and breaks and quavers; his face grows suddenly angular and
unsightly. It is easy to excuse the shortcomings of early childhood, but it is hard
to tolerate even unavoidable lapses in a boy of fourteen. The lad himself
becomes painfully self-conscious. When he talks with elderly people he is either
unduly forward, or else so unduly shy that he appears ashamed of his very
existence.
Yet it is at this very age when, in his heart of hearts, a young lad most craves for
recognition and love; and he becomes the devoted slave of any one who shows
him consideration. But none dare openly love him, for that would be regarded as
undue indulgence and therefore bad for the boy. So, what with scolding and
chiding, he becomes very much like a stray dog that has lost his master.
For a boy of fourteen his own home is the only Paradise. To live in a strange
house with strange people is little short of torture, while the height of bliss is to
receive the kind looks of women and never to be slighted by them.
It was anguish to Phatik to be the unwelcome guest in his aunt's house, despised
by this elderly woman and slighted on every occasion. If ever she asked him to
do anything for her, he would be so overjoyed that he would overdo it; and then
she would tell him not to be so stupid, but to get on with his lessons.
The cramped atmosphere of neglect oppressed Phatik so much that he felt that he
could hardly breathe. He wanted to go out into the open country and fill his
lungs with fresh air. But there was no open country to go to. Surrounded on all
sides by Calcutta houses and walls, he would dream night after night of his
village home and long to be back there. He remembered the glorious meadow
where he used to fly his kite all day long; the broad river-banks where he would
wander about the live-long day singing and shouting for joy; the narrow brook
where he could go and dive and swim at any time he liked. He thought of his
band of boy companions over whom he was despot; and, above all, the memory
of that tyrant mother of his, who had such a prejudice against him, occupied him
day and night. A kind of physical love like that of animals, a longing to be in the
presence of the one who is loved, an inexpressible wistfulness during absence, a
silent cry of the inmost heart for the mother, like the lowing of a calf in the
twilight,—this love, which was almost an animal instinct, agitated the shy,
nervous, lean, uncouth and ugly boy. No one could understand it, but it preyed
upon his mind continually.
There was no more backward boy in the whole school than Phatik. He gaped and
remained silent when the teacher asked him a question, and like an overladen ass
patiently suffered all the blows that came down on his back. When other boys
were out at play, he stood wistfully by the window and gazed at the roofs of the
distant houses. And if by chance he espied children playing on the open terrace
of any roof, his heart would ache with longing.
One day he summoned up all his courage and asked his uncle: "Uncle, when can
I go home?"
His uncle answered: "Wait till the holidays come."
But the holidays would not come till October and there was a long time still to
wait.
One day Phatik lost his lesson book. Even with the help of books he had found it
very difficult indeed to prepare his lesson. Now it was impossible. Day after day
the teacher would cane him unmercifully. His condition became so abjectly
miserable that even his cousins were ashamed to own him. They began to jeer
and insult him more than the other boys. He went to his aunt at last and told her
that he had lost his book.
His aunt pursed her lips in contempt and said: "You great clumsy, country lout!
How can I afford, with all my family, to buy you new books five times a
month?"
That night, on his way back from school, Phatik had a bad headache with a fit of
shivering. He felt he was going to have an attack of malarial fever. His one great
fear was that he would be a nuisance to his aunt.
The next morning Phatik was nowhere to be seen. All searches in the
neighbourhood proved futile. The rain had been pouring in torrents all night, and
those who went out in search of the boy got drenched through to the skin. At last
Bishamber asked help from the police.
At the end of the day a police van stopped at the door before the house. It was
still raining and the streets were all flooded. Two constables brought out Phatik
in their arms and placed him before Bishamber. He was wet through from head
to foot, muddy all over, his face and eyes flushed red with fever and his limbs
trembling. Bishamber carried him in his arms and took him into the inner
apartments. When his wife saw him she exclaimed: "What a heap of trouble this
boy has given us! Hadn't you better send him home?"
Phatik heard her words and sobbed out loud: "Uncle, I was just going home; but
they dragged me back again."
The fever rose very high, and all that night the boy was delirious. Bishamber
brought in a doctor. Phatik opened his eyes, flushed with fever, and looked up to
the ceiling and said vacantly: "Uncle, have the holidays come yet?"
Bishamber wiped the tears from his own eyes and took Phatik's lean and burning
hands in his own and sat by him through the night. The boy began again to
mutter. At last his voice became excited: "Mother!" he cried, "don't beat me like
that.... Mother! I am telling the truth!"
The next day Phatik became conscious for a short time. He turned his eyes about
the room, as if expecting some one to come. At last, with an air of
disappointment, his head sank back on the pillow. He turned his face to the wall
with a deep sigh.
Bishamber knew his thoughts and bending down his head whispered: "Phatik, I
have sent for your mother."
The day went by. The doctor said in a troubled voice that the boy's condition was
very critical.
Phatik began to cry out: "By the mark—three fathoms. By the mark—four
fathoms. By the mark——." He had heard the sailor on the river-steamer calling
out the mark on the plumb-line. Now he was himself plumbing an unfathomable
sea.
Later in the day Phatik's mother burst into the room, like a whirlwind, and began
to toss from side to side and moan and cry in a loud voice.
Bishamber tried to calm her agitation, but she flung herself on the bed, and cried:
"Phatik, my darling, my darling."
Phatik stopped his restless movements for a moment. His hands ceased beating
up and down. He said: "Eh?"
The mother cried again: "Phatik, my darling, my darling."
Phatik very slowly turned his head and without seeing anybody said: "Mother,
the holidays have come."

WORDS TO BE STUDIED

proposal. From the Latin word "ponere," to place. Compare position, post,
 depose, impose, component, composition, repose.
unanimously. From the Latin "unus," one, and "animus," mind. Compare
magnanimous, pusillanimous.
philosopher. From the Greek "philos," a friend, and "sophia," wisdom. Compare
philology, philanthropy, theosophy.
moustache. A French word which has found its home in English. French is
frequently giving to English new words. Compare, in this story, manœuvre,
discomfit, mischief.
juncture. From the Latin "jungere," to join. Compare junction, conjunction,
subjunctive, adjunct.
unattractive. From the negative "un," meaning "not," and the root "tract-,"
meaning to draw. Compare traction, tractor, attract, extract, subtract.
atmosphere. From the Greek word "atmos," the air, and "sphaira," a "globe."
Compare sphere, hemisphere, photosphere.
wistfulness. Probably from the English word "wish," wishfulness. Several,
however, regard it as coming from an old word "whist" or "wist," meaning
silent. The vernacular word "udās" has the same meaning.
abjectly. From the Latin word "jacere," to throw. Compare ad-jec-tive, subject,
object, project, inject, reject.
neighbourhood. From a Saxon word meaning near, nigh; "hood" or "head" is a
common addition to Saxon words denoting the quality or character.
Compare knighthood, manhood, boyhood, womanhood.
holidays. This word is made up of two words, "holy" and "days." The religious
days of the Church were those on which no one worked and thus they got
the meaning of holidays as opposed to working days.

ONCE THERE WAS A KING

 III

ONCE THERE WAS A KING

"ONCE upon a time there was a king."
When we were children there was no need to know who the king in the fairy
story was. It didn't matter whether he was called Shiladitya or Shaliban, whether
he lived at Kashi or Kanauj. The thing that made a seven-year-old boy's heart go
thump, thump with delight was this one sovereign truth, this reality of all
realities: "Once there was a king."
But the readers of this modern age are far more exact and exacting. When they
hear such an opening to a story, they are at once critical and suspicious. They
apply the searchlight of science to its legendary haze and ask: "Which king?"
The story-tellers have become more precise in their turn. They are no longer
content with the old indefinite, "There was a king," but assume instead a look of
profound learning and begin: "Once there was a king named Ajatasatru."
The modern reader's curiosity, however, is not so easily satisfied. He blinks at
the author through his scientific spectacles and asks again: "Which Ajatasatru?"
When we were young, we understood all sweet things; and we could detect the
sweets of a fairy story by an unerring science of our own. We never cared for
such useless things as knowledge. We only cared for truth. And our
unsophisticated little hearts knew well where the Crystal Palace of Truth lay and
how to reach it. But to-day we are expected to write pages of facts, while the
truth is simply this:
"There was a king."
I remember vividly that evening in Calcutta when the fairy story began. The rain
and the storm had been incessant. The whole of the city was flooded. The water
was knee-deep in our lane. I had a straining hope, which was almost a certainty,
that my tutor would be prevented from coming that evening. I sat on the stool in
the far corner of the verandah looking down the lane, with a heart beating faster
and faster. Every minute I kept my eye on the rain, and when it began to
diminish I prayed with all my might: "Please, God, send some more rain till half-
past seven is over." For I was quite ready to believe that there was no other need
for rain except to protect one helpless boy one evening in one corner of Calcutta
from the deadly clutches of his tutor.
If not in answer to my prayer, at any rate according to some grosser law of
nature, the rain did not give up.
But, alas, nor did my teacher!
Exactly to the minute, in the bend of the lane, I saw his approaching umbrella.
The great bubble of hope burst in my breast, and my heart collapsed. Truly, if
there is a punishment to fit the crime after death, then my tutor will be born
again as me, and I shall be born as my tutor.
As soon as I saw his umbrella I ran as hard as I could to my mother's room. My
mother and my grandmother were sitting opposite one another playing cards by
the light of a lamp. I ran into the room, and flung myself on the bed beside my
mother, and said:
"Mother, the tutor has come, and I have such a bad headache; couldn't I have no
lessons to-day?"
I hope no child of immature age will be allowed to read this story, and I sincerely
trust it will not be used in text-books or primers for junior classes. For what I did
was dreadfully bad, and I received no punishment whatever. On the contrary, my
wickedness was crowned with success.
My mother said to me: "All right," and turning to the servant added: "Tell the
tutor that he can go back home."
It was perfectly plain that she didn't think my illness very serious, as she went on
with her game as before and took no further notice. And I also, burying my head
in the pillow, laughed to my heart's content. We perfectly understood one
another, my mother and I.
But every one must know how hard it is for a boy of seven years old to keep up
the illusion of illness for a long time. After about a minute I got hold of
Grandmother and said: "Grannie, do tell me a story."
I had to ask this many times. Grannie and Mother went on playing cards and
took no notice. At last Mother said to me: "Child, don't bother. Wait till we've
finished our game." But I persisted: "Grannie, do tell me a story." I told Mother
she could finish her game to-morrow, but she must let Grannie tell me a story
there and then.
At last Mother threw down the cards and said: "You had better do what he wants.
I can't manage him." Perhaps she had it in her mind that she would have no
tiresome tutor on the morrow, while I should be obliged to be back at those
stupid lessons.
As soon as ever Mother had given way, I rushed at Grannie. I got hold of her
hand, and, dancing with delight, dragged her inside my mosquito curtain on to
the bed. I clutched hold of the bolster with both hands in my excitement, and
jumped up and down with joy, and when I had got a little quieter said: "Now,
Grannie, let's have the story!"
Grannie went on: "And the king had a queen."
That was good to begin with. He had only one!
It is usual for kings in fairy stories to be extravagant in queens. And whenever
we hear that there are two queens our hearts begin to sink. One is sure to be
unhappy. But in Grannie's story that danger was past. He had only one queen.
We next hear that the king had not got any son. At the age of seven I didn't think
there was any need to bother if a man had no son. He might only have been in
the way.
Nor are we greatly excited when we hear that the king has gone away into the
forest to practise austerities in order to get a son. There was only one thing that
would have made me go into the forest, and that was to get away from my tutor!
But the king left behind with his queen a small girl, who grew up into a beautiful
princess.
Twelve years pass away, and the king goes on practising austerities, and never
thinks all this while of his beautiful daughter. The princess has reached the full
bloom of her youth. The age of marriage has passed, but the king does not
return. And the queen pines away with grief and cries: "Is my golden daughter
destined to die unmarried? Ah me, what a fate is mine!"
Then the queen sent men to the king to entreat him earnestly to come back for a
single night and take one meal in the palace. And the king consented.
The queen cooked with her own hand, and with the greatest care, sixty-four
dishes. She made a seat for him of sandal-wood and arranged the food in plates
of gold and cups of silver. The princess stood behind with the peacock-tail fan in
her hand. The king, after twelve years' absence, came into the house, and the
princess waved the fan, lighting up all the room with her beauty. The king
looked in his daughter's face and forgot to take his food.
At last he asked his queen: "Pray, who is this girl whose beauty shines as the
gold image of the goddess? Whose daughter is she?"
The queen beat her forehead and cried: "Ah, how evil is my fate! Do you not
know your own daughter?"
The king was struck with amazement. He said at last: "My tiny daughter has
grown to be a woman."
"What else?" the queen said with a sigh. "Do you not know that twelve years
have passed by?"
"But why did you not give her in marriage?" asked the king.
"You were away," the queen said. "And how could I find her a suitable
husband?"
The king became vehement with excitement. "The first man I see to-morrow," he
said, "when I come out of the palace shall marry her."
The princess went on waving her fan of peacock feathers, and the king finished
his meal.
The next morning, as the king came out of his palace, he saw the son of a
Brahman gathering sticks in the forest outside the palace gates. His age was
about seven or eight.
The King said: "I will marry my daughter to him."
Who can interfere with a king's command? At once the boy was called, and the
marriage garlands were exchanged between him and the princess.
At this point I came up close to my wise Grannie and asked her eagerly: "When
then?"
In the bottom of my heart there was a devout wish to substitute myself for that
fortunate wood-gatherer of seven years old. The night was resonant with the
patter of rain. The earthen lamp by my bedside was burning low. My
grandmother's voice droned on as she told the story. And all these things served
to create in a corner of my credulous heart the belief that I had been gathering
sticks in the dawn of some indefinite time in the kingdom of some unknown
king, and in a moment garlands had been exchanged between me and the
princess, beautiful as the Goddess of Grace. She had a gold band on her hair and
gold earrings in her ears. She had a necklace and bracelets of gold, and a golden
waist-chain round her waist, and a pair of golden anklets tinkled above her feet.
If my grandmother were an author, how many explanations she would have to
offer for this little story! First of all, every one would ask why the king remained
twelve years in the forest? Secondly, why should the king's daughter remain
unmarried all that while? This would be regarded as absurd.
Even if she could have got so far without a quarrel, still there would have been a
great hue and cry about the marriage itself. First, it never happened. Secondly,
how could there be a marriage between a princess of the Warrior Caste and a boy
of the priestly Brahman Caste? Her readers would have imagined at once that the
writer was preaching against our social customs in an underhand way. And they
would write letters to the papers.
So I pray with all my heart that my grandmother may be born a grandmother
again, and not through some cursed fate take birth as her luckless grandson.
With a throb of joy and delight, I asked Grannie: "What then?"
Grannie went on: Then the princess took her little husband away in great
distress, and built a large palace with seven wings, and began to cherish her
husband with great care.
I jumped up and down in my bed and clutched at the bolster more tightly than
ever and said: "What then?"
Grannie continued: The little boy went to school and learnt many lessons from
his teachers, and as he grew up his class-fellows began to ask him: "Who is that
beautiful lady living with you in the palace with the seven wings?"
The Brahman's son was eager to know who she was. He could only remember
how one day he had been gathering sticks and a great disturbance arose. But all
that was so long ago that he had no clear recollection.
Four or five years passed in this way. His companions always asked him: "Who
is that beautiful lady in the palace with the seven wings?" And the Brahman's
son would come back from school and sadly tell the princess: "My school
companions always ask me who is that beautiful lady in the palace with the
seven wings, and I can give them no reply. Tell me, oh, tell me, who you are!"
The princess said: "Let it pass to-day. I will tell you some other day." And every
day the Brahman's son would ask: "Who are you?" and the princess would reply:
"Let it pass to-day. I will tell you some other day." In this manner four or five
more years passed away.
At last the Brahman's son became very impatient and said: "If you do not tell me
to-day who you are, O beautiful lady, I will leave this palace with the seven
wings." Then the princess said: "I will certainly tell you to-morrow."
Next day the Brahman's son, as soon as he came home from school, said: "Now,
tell me who you are." The princess said: "To-night I will tell you after supper,
when you are in bed."
The Brahman's son said: "Very well"; and he began to count the hours in
expectation of the night. And the princess, on her side, spread white flowers over
the golden bed, and lighted a gold lamp with fragrant oil, and adorned her hair,
and dressed herself in a beautiful robe of blue, and began to count the hours in
expectation of the night.
That evening when her husband, the Brahman's son, had finished his meal, too
excited almost to eat, and had gone to the golden bed in the bedchamber strewn
with flowers, he said to himself: "To-night I shall surely know who this beautiful
lady is in the palace with the seven wings."
The princess took for her food that which was left over by her husband, and
slowly entered the bedchamber. She had to answer that night the question, who
was the beautiful lady that lived in the palace with the seven wings. And as she
went up to the bed to tell him she found a serpent had crept out of the flowers
and had bitten the Brahman's son. Her boy-husband was lying on the bed of
flowers, with face pale in death.
My heart suddenly ceased to throb, and I asked with choking voice: "What
then?"
Grannie said: "Then ..."
But what is the use of going on any further with the story? It would only lead on
to what was more and more impossible. The boy of seven did not know that, if
there were some "What then?" after death, no grandmother of a grandmother
could tell us all about it.
But the child's faith never admits defeat, and it would snatch at the mantle of
death itself to turn him back. It would be outrageous for him to think that such a
story of one teacherless evening could so suddenly come to a stop. Therefore the
grandmother had to call back her story from the ever-shut chamber of the great
End, but she does it so simply: it is merely by floating the dead body on a banana
stem on the river, and having some incantations read by a magician. But in that
rainy night and in the dim light of a lamp death loses all its horror in the mind of
the boy, and seems nothing more than a deep slumber of a single night. When
the story ends the tired eyelids are weighed down with sleep. Thus it is that we
send the little body of the child floating on the back of sleep over the still water
of time, and then in the morning read a few verses of incantation to restore him
to the world of life and light.
 WORDS TO BE STUDIED

sovereign. This word is taken directly from the French language. It is connected
with the Latin "supremus."
blinks. Many English words are made up from the supposed sound or motion to
be represented. Compare to splash, to plump, to quack, to throb, to swish.
suspicious. From the Latin word "spicere," to look. Compare auspicious,
respect, inspect, aspect.
unsophisticated. This word comes from the Greek "sophistes," meaning a
sophist, that is to say, one who makes a pretence of being wise.
Unsophisticated means one who makes no pretence to be learned.
umbrella. This word has come into English from the Italian language. "Umbra"
in Latin means "shade" and Ombrella in Italian means "little shade."
extravagant. From the Latin root "vag," meaning to wander. The word means
"wandering outside" and so "going beyond bounds." Compare vagrant,
vagabond, vague.
explanation. From the Latin "planus," meaning plain. Compare explanatory,
explain, plain, plane.
incantation. From the Latin "cantare," to chant, something chanted over a
person.
magician. From the Greek "magus," an astrologer. Compare magic, the Magi,
magical.

THE CHILD'S RETURN

 IV

THE CHILD'S RETURN

I

RAICHARAN was twelve years old when he came as a servant to his master's
house. He belonged to the same caste as his master and was given his master's
little son to nurse. As time went on the boy left Raicharan's arms to go to school.
From school he went on to college, and after college he entered the judicial
service. Always, until he married, Raicharan was his sole attendant.
But when a mistress came into the house, Raicharan found two masters instead
of one. All his former influence passed to the new mistress. This was
compensated by a fresh arrival. Anukul had a son born to him and Raicharan by
his unsparing attentions soon got a complete hold over the child. He used to toss
him up in his arms, call to him in absurd baby language, put his face close to the
baby's and draw it away again with a laugh.
Presently the child was able to crawl and cross the doorway. When Raicharan
went to catch him, he would scream with mischievous laughter and make for
safety. Raicharan was amazed at the profound skill and exact judgment the baby
showed when pursued. He would say to his mistress with a look of awe and
mystery: "Your son will be a judge some day."
New wonders came in their turn. When the baby began to toddle, that was to
Raicharan an epoch in human history. When he called his father Ba-ba and his
mother Ma-ma and Raicharan Chan-na, then Raicharan's ecstasy knew no
bounds. He went out to tell the news to all the world.
After a while Raicharan was asked to show his ingenuity in other ways. He had,
for instance, to play the part of a horse, holding the reins between his teeth and
prancing with his feet. He had also to wrestle with his little charge; and if he
could not, by a wrestler's trick, fall on his back defeated at the end a great outcry
was certain.
About this time Anukul was transferred to a district on the banks of the Padma.
On his way through Calcutta he bought his son a little go-cart. He bought him
also a yellow satin waistcoat, a gold-laced cap, and some gold bracelets and
anklets. Raicharan was wont to take these out and put them on his little charge,
with ceremonial pride, whenever they went for a walk.
Then came the rainy season and day after day the rain poured down in torrents.
The hungry river, like an enormous serpent, swallowed down terraces, villages,
cornfields, and covered with its flood the tall grasses and wild casuarinas on the
sandbanks. From time to time there was a deep thud as the river-banks crumbled.
The unceasing roar of the main current could be heard from far away. Masses of
foam, carried swiftly past, proved to the eye the swiftness of the stream.
One afternoon the rain cleared. It was cloudy, but cool and bright. Raicharan's
little despot did not want to stay in on such a fine afternoon. His lordship
climbed into the go-cart. Raicharan, between the shafts, dragged him slowly
along till he reached the rice-fields on the banks of the river. There was no one in
the fields and no boat on the stream. Across the water, on the farther side, the
clouds were rifted in the west. The silent ceremonial of the setting sun was
revealed in all its glowing splendour. In the midst of that stillness the child, all of
a sudden, pointed with his finger in front of him and cried: "Chan-na! Pitty fow."
Close by on a mud-flat stood a large Kadamba tree in full flower. My lord, the
baby, looked at it with greedy eyes and Raicharan knew his meaning. Only a
short time before he had made, out of these very flower balls, a small go-cart;
and the child had been so entirely happy dragging it about with a string, that for
the whole day Raicharan was not asked to put on the reins at all. He was
promoted from a horse into a groom.
But Raicharan had no wish that evening to go splashing knee-deep through the
mud to reach the flowers. So he quickly pointed his finger in the opposite
direction, calling out: "Look, baby, look! Look at the bird." And with all sorts of
curious noises he pushed the go-cart rapidly away from the tree.
But a child, destined to be a judge, cannot be put off so easily. And besides, there
was at the time nothing to attract his eyes. And you cannot keep up for ever the
pretence of an imaginary bird.
The little Master's mind was made up, and Raicharan was at his wits' end. "Very
well, baby," he said at last, "you sit still in the cart, and I'll go and get you the
pretty flower. Only mind you don't go near the water."
As he said this, he made his legs bare to the knee, and waded through the oozing
mud towards the tree.
The moment Raicharan had gone, his little Master's thoughts went off at racing
speed to the forbidden water. The baby saw the river rushing by, splashing and
gurgling as it went. It seemed as though the disobedient wavelets themselves
were running away from some greater Raicharan with the laughter of a thousand
children. At the sight of their mischief, the heart of the human child grew excited
and restless. He got down stealthily from the go-cart and toddled off towards the
river. On his way he picked up a small stick and leant over the bank of the
stream pretending to fish. The mischievous fairies of the river with their
mysterious voices seemed inviting him into their play-house.
Raicharan had plucked a handful of flowers from the tree and was carrying them
back in the end of his cloth, with his face wreathed in smiles. But when he
reached the go-cart there was no one there. He looked on all sides and there was
no one there. He looked back at the cart and there was no one there.
In that first terrible moment his blood froze within him. Before his eyes the
whole universe swam round like a dark mist. From the depth of his broken heart
he gave one piercing cry: "Master, Master, little Master."
But no voice answered "Chan-na." No child laughed mischievously back: no
scream of baby delight welcomed his return. Only the river ran on with its
splashing, gurgling noise as before,—as though it knew nothing at all and had no
time to attend to such a tiny human event as the death of a child.
As the evening passed by Raicharan's mistress became very anxious. She sent
men out on all sides to search. They went with lanterns in their hands and
reached at last the banks of the Padma. There they found Raicharan rushing up
and down the fields, like a stormy wind, shouting the cry of despair: "Master,
Master, little Master!"
When they got Raicharan home at last, he fell prostrate at the feet of his
mistress. They shook him, and questioned him, and asked him repeatedly where
he had left the child; but all he could say was that he knew nothing.
Though every one held the opinion that the Padma had swallowed the child,
there was a lurking doubt left in the mind. For a band of gipsies had been noticed
outside the village that afternoon, and some suspicion rested on them. The
mother went so far in her wild grief as to think it possible that Raicharan himself
had stolen the child. She called him aside with piteous entreaty and said:
"Raicharan, give me back my baby. Give me back my child. Take from me any
money you ask, but give me back my child!"
Raicharan only beat his forehead in reply. His mistress ordered him out of the
house.
Anukul tried to reason his wife out of this wholly unjust suspicion: "Why on
earth," he said, "should he commit such a crime as that?"
The mother only replied: "The baby had gold ornaments on his body. Who
knows?"
It was impossible to reason with her after that.

II

Raicharan went back to his own village. Up to this time he had had no son, and
there was no hope that any child would now be born to him. But it came about
before the end of a year that his wife gave birth to a son and died.
An overwhelming resentment at first grew up in Raicharan's heart at the sight of
this new baby. At the back of his mind was resentful suspicion that it had come
as a usurper in place of the little Master. He also thought it would be a grave
offence to be happy with a son of his own after what had happened to his
master's little child. Indeed, if it had not been for a widowed sister, who
mothered the new baby, it would not have lived long.
But a change gradually came over Raicharan's mind. A wonderful thing
happened. This new baby in turn began to crawl about, and cross the doorway
with mischief in its face. It also showed an amusing cleverness in making its
escape to safety. Its voice, its sounds of laughter and tears, its gestures, were
those of the little Master. On some days, when Raicharan listened to its crying,
his heart suddenly began thumping wildly against his ribs, and it seemed to him
that his former little Master was crying somewhere in the unknown land of death
because he had lost his Chan-na.
Phailna (for that was the name Raicharan's sister gave to the new baby) soon
began to talk. It learnt to say Ba-ba and Ma-ma with a baby accent. When
Raicharan heard those familiar sounds the mystery suddenly became clear. The
little Master could not cast off the spell of his Chan-na and therefore he had been
reborn in his own house.
The three arguments in favour of this were, to Raicharan, altogether beyond
dispute:
The new baby was born soon after his little master's death.
His wife could never have accumulated such merit as to give birth to a son in
middle age.
The new baby walked with a toddle and called out Ba-ba and Ma-ma.—There
was no sign lacking which marked out the future judge.
Then suddenly Raicharan remembered that terrible accusation of the mother.
"Ah," he said to himself with amazement, "the mother's heart was right. She
knew I had stolen her child."
When once he had come to this conclusion, he was filled with remorse for his
past neglect. He now gave himself over, body and soul, to the new baby and
became its devoted attendant. He began to bring it up as if it were the son of a
rich man. He bought a go-cart, a yellow satin waistcoat, and a gold-embroidered
cap. He melted down the ornaments of his dead wife and made gold bangles and
anklets. He refused to let the little child play with any one of the neighbourhood
and became himself its sole companion day and night. As the baby grew up to
boyhood, he was so petted and spoilt and clad in such finery that the village
children would call him "Your Lordship," and jeer at him; and older people
regarded Raicharan as unaccountably crazy about the child.
At last the time came for the boy to go to school. Raicharan sold his small piece
of land and went to Calcutta. There he got employment with great difficulty as a
servant and sent Phailna to school. He spared no pains to give him the best
education, the best clothes, the best food. Meanwhile, he himself lived on a mere
handful of rice and would say in secret: "Ah, my little Master, my dear little
Master, you loved me so much that you came back to my house! You shall never
suffer from any neglect of mine."
Twelve years passed away in this manner. The boy was able to read and write
well. He was bright and healthy and good-looking. He paid a great deal of
attention to his personal appearance and was specially careful in parting his hair.
He was inclined to extravagance and finery and spent money freely. He could
never quite look on Raicharan as a father, because, though fatherly in affection,
he had the manner of a servant. A further fault was this, that Raicharan kept
secret from every one that he himself was the father of the child.
The students of the hostel, where Phailna was a boarder, were greatly amused by
Raicharan's country manners, and I have to confess that behind his father's back
Phailna joined in their fun. But, in the bottom of their hearts, all the students
loved the innocent and tender-hearted old man, and Phailna was very fond of
him also. But, as I have said before, he loved him with a kind of condescension.
Raicharan grew older and older, and his employer was continually finding fault
with him for his incompetent work. He had been starving himself for the boy's
sake, so he had grown physically weak and no longer up to his daily task. He
would forget things and his mind became dull and stupid. But his employer
expected a full servant's work out of him and would not brook excuses. The
money that Raicharan had brought with him from the sale of his land was
exhausted. The boy was continually grumbling about his clothes and asking for
more money.

III

Raicharan made up his mind. He gave up the situation where he was working as
a servant, and left some money with Phailna and said: "I have some business to
do at home in my village, and shall be back soon."
He went off at once to Baraset where Anukul was magistrate. Anukul's wife was
still broken down with grief. She had had no other child.
One day Anukul was resting after a long and weary day in court. His wife was
buying, at an exorbitant price, a herb from a mendicant quack, which was said to
ensure the birth of a child. A voice of greeting was heard in the courtyard.
Anukul went out to see who was there. It was Raicharan. Anukul's heart was
softened when he saw his old servant. He asked him many questions and offered
to take him back into service.
Raicharan smiled faintly and said in reply: "I want to make obeisance to my
mistress."
Anukul went with Raicharan into the house, where the mistress did not receive
him as warmly as his old master. Raicharan took no notice of this, but folded his
hands and said: "It was not the Padma that stole your baby. It was I."
Anukul exclaimed: "Great God! Eh! What! Where is he?"
Raicharan replied: "He is with me. I will bring him the day after to-morrow."
It was Sunday. There was no magistrate's court sitting. Both husband and wife
were looking expectantly along the road, waiting from early morning for
Raicharan's appearance. At ten o'clock he came leading Phailna by the hand.
Anukul's wife, without a question, took the boy into her lap and was wild with
excitement, sometimes laughing, sometimes weeping, touching him, kissing his
hair and his forehead, and gazing into his face with hungry, eager eyes. The boy
was very good-looking and dressed like a gentleman's son. The heart of Anukul
brimmed over with a sudden rush of affection.
Nevertheless the magistrate in him asked: "Have you any proofs?"
Raicharan said: "How could there be any proof of such a deed? God alone
knows that I stole your boy, and no one else in the world."
When Anukul saw how eagerly his wife was clinging to the boy, he realised the
futility of asking for proofs. It would be wiser to believe. And then,—where
could an old man like Raicharan get such a boy from? And why should his
faithful servant deceive him for nothing?
"But," he added severely, "Raicharan, you must not stay here."
"Where shall I go, Master?" said Raicharan, in a choking voice, folding his
hands. "I am old. Who will take in an old man as a servant?"
The mistress said: "Let him stay. My child will be pleased. I forgive him."
But Anukul's magisterial conscience would not allow him. "No," he said, "he
cannot be forgiven for what he has done."
Raicharan bowed to the ground and clasped Anukul's feet. "Master," he cried,
"let me stay. It was not I who did it. It was God."
Anukul's conscience was more shocked than ever when Raicharan tried to put
the blame on God's shoulders.
"No," he said, "I could not allow it. I cannot trust you any more. You have done
an act of treachery."
Raicharan rose to his feet and said: "It was not I who did it."
"Who was it then?" asked Anukul.
Raicharan replied: "It was my fate."
But no educated man could take this for an excuse. Anukul remained obdurate.
When Phailna saw that he was the wealthy magistrate's son, and not Raicharan's,
he was angry at first, thinking that he had been cheated all this time of his
birthright. But seeing Raicharan in distress, he generously said to his father:
"Father, forgive him. Even if you don't let him live with us, let him have a small
monthly pension."
After hearing this, Raicharan did not utter another word. He looked for the last
time on the face of his son. He made obeisance to his old master and mistress.
Then he went out and was mingled with the numberless people of the world.
At the end of the month Anukul sent him some money to his village. But the
money came back. There was no one there of the name of Raicharan.

WORDS TO BE STUDIED

judicial. From the Latin word "judex," a judge. Compare judicious, judge,
judgment, just.
compensate. From the Latin word "pensare," to weigh. Compare dispense,
dispensary, compensation. (This must not be confused with the Latin word
"pendere," to hang. Compare suspend, expend, depend.)
ecstasy. From two Greek words "ex" and "stasis," meaning standing outside
oneself.
transferred. From the Latin word "ferre," to carry. Compare offer, defer, confer,
prefer, proffer, infer, conference, fertile.
crumble. To break into crumbs or little pieces.
promoted. From the Latin word "movēre," to move. Compare motive, motion,
motor, promotion, commotion.
excited. From the Latin word "ciere," to set in motion. Compare incite,
excitement, exciting, cite.
lantern. A French word derived from the Greek "lampein," to shine. Compare,
magic-lantern, lamp.
gipsy. Also spelt gypsy, from "Egyptian"; because the gipsies were supposed to
come from Egypt.
usurper. From the Latin word "usurpare." This word is made up of "usus," use
and "rapere," to snatch. Compare use, usual, usufruct, rapid, rapt, rapture.
magisterial. From the Latin word "magister," a judge. Compare magistrate,
magistracy.
obdurate. From the Latin word "dūrus," hard. Compare endure, endurance,
obduracy.

MASTER MASHAI
 V

MASTER MASHAI
I

ADHAR BABU lives upon the interest of the capital left him by his father. Only the
brokers, negotiating loans, come to his drawing room and smoke the silver-
chased hookah, and the clerks from the attorney's office discuss the terms of
some mortgage or the amount of the stamp fees. He is so careful with his money
that even the most dogged efforts of the boys from the local football club fail to
make any impression on his pocket.
At the time this story opens a new guest came into his household. After a long
period of despair, his wife, Nanibala, bore him a son.
The child resembled his mother,—large eyes, well-formed nose, and fair
complexion. Ratikanta, Adharlal's protégé, gave verdict,—"He is worthy of this
noble house." They named him Venugopal.
Never before had Adharlal's wife expressed any opinion differing from her
husband's on household expenses. There had been a hot discussion now and then
about the propriety of some necessary item and up to this time she had merely
acknowledged defeat with silent contempt. But now Adharlal could no longer
maintain his supremacy. He had to give way little by little when things for his
son were in question.

II

As Venugopal grew up, his father gradually became accustomed to spending

money on him. He obtained an old teacher, who had a considerable repute for his
learning and also for his success in dragging impassable boys through their
examinations. But such a training does not lead to the cultivation of amiability.
This man tried his best to win the boy's heart, but the little that was left in him of
the natural milk of human kindness had turned sour, and the child repulsed his
advances from the very beginning. The mother, in consequence, objected to him
strongly, and complained that the very sight of him made her boy ill. So the
teacher left.
Just then, Haralal made his appearance with a dirty dress and a torn pair of old
canvas shoes. Haralal's mother, who was a widow, had kept him with great
difficulty at a District school out of the scanty earnings which she made by
cooking in strange houses and husking rice. He managed to pass the
Matriculation and determined to go to College. As a result of his half-starved
condition, his pinched face tapered to a point in an unnatural manner,—like Cape
Comorin in the map of India; and the only broad portion of it was his forehead,
which resembled the ranges of the Himalayas.
The servant asked Haralal what he wanted, and he answered timidly that he
wished to see the master.
The servant answered sharply: "You can't see him." Haralal was hesitating, at a
loss what to do next, when Venugopal, who had finished his game in the garden,
suddenly came to the door. The servant shouted at Haralal: "Get away." Quite
unaccountably Venugopal grew excited and cried: "No, he shan't get away." And
he dragged the stranger to his father.
Adharlal had just risen from his mid-day sleep and was sitting quietly on the
upper verandah in his cane chair, rocking his legs. Ratikanta was enjoying his
hookah, seated in a chair next to him. He asked Haralal how far he had got in his
reading. The young man bent his head and answered that he had passed the
Matriculation. Ratikanta looked stern and expressed surprise that he should be so
backward for his age. Haralal kept silence. It was Ratikanta's special pleasure to
torture his patron's dependants, whether actual or potential.
Suddenly it struck Adharlal that he would be able to employ this youth as a tutor
for his son on next to nothing. He agreed, there and then, to take him at a salary
of five rupees a month with board and lodging free.

III

This time the post of tutor remained occupied longer than before. From the very
beginning of their acquaintance Haralal and his pupil became great friends.
Never before did Haralal have such an opportunity of loving any young human
creature. His mother had been so poor and dependent, that he had never had the
privilege of playing with the children where she was employed at work. He had
not hitherto suspected the hidden stores of love which lay all the while
accumulating in his own heart.
Venu, also, was glad to find a companion in Haralal. He was the only boy in the
house. His two younger sisters were looked down upon, as unworthy of being
his playmates. So his new tutor became his only companion, patiently bearing
the undivided weight of the tyranny of his child friend.

IV

Venu was now eleven. Haralal had passed his Intermediate, winning a
scholarship. He was working hard for his B.A. degree. After College lectures
were over, he would take Venu out into the public park and tell him stories about
the heroes from Greek History and Victor Hugo's romances. The child used to
get quite impatient to run to Haralal, after school hours, in spite of his mother's
attempts to keep him by her side.
This displeased Nanibala. She thought that it was a deep-laid plot of Haralal's to
captivate her boy, in order to prolong his own appointment. One day she talked
to him from behind the purdah: "It is your duty to teach my son only for an hour
or two in the morning and evening. But why are you always with him? The child
has nearly forgotten his own parents. You must understand that a man of your
position is no fit companion for a boy belonging to this house."
Haralal's voice choked a little as he answered that for the future he would merely
be Venu's teacher and would keep away from him at other times.
It was Haralal's usual practice to begin his College study early before dawn. The
child would come to him directly after he had washed himself. There was a
small pool in the garden and they used to feed the fish in it with puffed rice.
Venu was also engaged in building a miniature garden-house, at the corner of the
garden, with its liliputian gates and hedges and gravel paths. When the sun
became too hot they would go back into the house, and Venu would have his
morning lesson from Haralal.
On the day in question Venu had risen earlier than usual, because he wished to
hear the end of the story which Haralal had begun the evening before. But he
found his teacher absent. When asked about him, the door-servant said that he
had gone out. At lesson time Venu remained unnaturally quiet. He never even
asked Haralal why he had gone out, but went on mechanically with his lessons.
When the child was with his mother taking his breakfast, she asked him what
had happened to make him so gloomy, and why he was not eating his food. Venu
gave no answer. After his meal his mother caressed him and questioned him
repeatedly. Venu burst out crying and said,—"Master Mashai." His mother asked
Venu,—"What about Master Mashai?" But Venu found it difficult to name the
offence which his teacher had committed.
His mother said to Venu: "Has your Master Mashai been saying anything to you
against me?"
Venu could not understand the question and went away.

There was a theft in Adhar Babu's house. The police were called in to
investigate. Even Haralal's trunks were searched. Ratikanta said with meaning:
"The man who steals anything, does not keep his thefts in his own box."
Adharlal called his son's tutor and said to him: "It will not be convenient for me
to keep any of you in my own house. From to-day you will have to take up your
quarters outside, only coming in to teach my son at the proper time."
Ratikanta said sagely, drawing at his hookah: "That is a good proposal,—good
for both parties."
Haralal did not utter a word, but he sent a letter saying that it would be no longer
possible for him to remain as tutor to Venu.
When Venu came back from school, he found his tutor's room empty. Even that
broken steel trunk of his was absent. The rope was stretched across the corner,
but there were no clothes or towel hanging on it. Only on the table, which
formerly was strewn with books and papers, stood a bowl containing some gold-
fish with a label on which was written the word "Venu" in Haralal's hand-
writing. The boy ran up at once to his father and asked him what had happened.
His father told him that Haralal had resigned his post. Venu went to his room and
flung himself down and began to cry. Adharlal did not know what to do with
him.
The next day, when Haralal was sitting on his wooden bedstead in the Hostel,
debating with himself whether he should attend his college lectures, suddenly he
saw Adhar Babu's servant coming into his room followed by Venu. Venu at once
ran up to him and threw his arms round his neck asking him to come back to the
house.
Haralal could not explain why it was absolutely impossible for him to go back,
but the memory of those clinging arms and that pathetic request used to choke
his breath with emotion long after.

VI

Haralal found out, after this, that his mind was in an unsettled state, and that he
had but a small chance of winning the scholarship, even if he could pass the
examination. At the same time, he knew that, without the scholarship, he could
not continue his studies. So he tried to get employment in some office.
Fortunately for him, an English Manager of a big merchant firm took a fancy to
him at first sight. After only a brief exchange of words the Manager asked him if
he had any experience, and could he bring any testimonial. Haralal could only
answer "No"; nevertheless a post was offered him of twenty rupees a month and
fifteen rupees were allowed him in advance to help him to come properly
dressed to the office.
The Manager made Haralal work extremely hard. He had to stay on after office
hours and sometimes go to his master's house late in the evening. But, in this
way, he learnt his work quicker than others, and his fellow clerks became jealous
of him and tried to injure him, but without effect. He rented a small house in a
narrow lane and brought his mother to live with him as soon as his salary was
raised to forty rupees a month. Thus happiness came back to his mother after
weary years of waiting.
Haralal's mother used to express a desire to see Venugopal, of whom she had
heard so much. She wished to prepare some dishes with her own hand and to ask
him to come just once to dine with her son. Haralal avoided the subject by
saying that his house was not big enough to invite him for that purpose.

VII

The news reached Haralal that Venu's mother had died. He could not wait a
moment, but went at once to Adharlal's house to see Venu. After that they began
to see each other frequently.
But times had changed. Venu, stroking his budding moustache, had grown quite
a young man of fashion. Friends, befitting his present condition, were numerous.
That old dilapidated study chair and ink-stained desk had vanished, and the room
now seemed to be bursting with pride at its new acquisitions,—its looking-
glasses, oleographs, and other furniture. Venu had entered college, but showed
no haste in crossing the boundary of the Intermediate examination.
Haralal remembered his mother's request to invite Venu to dinner. After great
hesitation, he did so. Venugopal, with his handsome face, at once won the
mother's heart. But as soon as ever the meal was over he became impatient to go,
and looking at his gold watch he explained that he had pressing engagements
elsewhere. Then he jumped into his carriage, which was waiting at the door, and
drove away. Haralal with a sigh said to himself that he would never invite him
again.

VIII

One day, on returning from office, Haralal noticed the presence of a man in the
dark room on the ground floor of his house. Possibly he would have passed him
by, had not the heavy scent of some foreign perfume attracted his attention.
Haralal asked who was there, and the answer came:
"It is I, Master Mashai."
"What is the matter, Venu?" said Haralal. "When did you arrive?"
"I came hours ago," said Venu. "I did not know that you returned so late."
They went upstairs together and Haralal lighted the lamp and asked Venu
whether all was well. Venu replied that his college classes were becoming a
fearful bore, and his father did not realize how dreadfully hard it was for him to
go on in the same class, year after year, with students much younger than
himself. Haralal asked him what he wished to do. Venu then told him that he
wanted to go to England and become a barrister. He gave an instance of a
student, much less advanced than himself, who was getting ready to go. Haralal
asked him if he had received his father's permission. Venu replied that his father
would not hear a word of it until he had passed the Intermediate, and that was an
impossibility in his present frame of mind. Haralal suggested that he himself
should go and try to talk over his father.
"No," said Venu, "I can never allow that!"
Haralal asked Venu to stay for dinner and while they were waiting he gently
placed his hand on Venu's shoulder and said:
"Venu, you should not quarrel with your father, or leave home."
Venu jumped up angrily and said that if he was not welcome, he could go
elsewhere. Haralal caught him by the hand and implored him not to go away
without taking his food. But Venu snatched away his hand and was just leaving
the room when Haralal's mother brought the food in on a tray. On seeing Venu
about to leave she pressed him to remain and he did so with bad grace.
While he was eating the sound of a carriage stopping at the door was heard. First
a servant entered the room with creaking shoes and then Adhar Babu himself.
Venu's face became pale. The mother left the room as soon as she saw strangers
enter. Adhar Babu called out to Haralal in a voice thick with anger:
"Ratikanta gave me full warning, but I could not believe that you had such
devilish cunning hidden in you. So, you think you're going to live upon Venu?
This is sheer kidnapping, and I shall prosecute you in the Police Court."
Venu silently followed his father and went out of the house.

IX

The firm to which Haralal belonged began to buy up large quantities of rice and
dhal from the country districts. To pay for this, Haralal had to take the cash every
Saturday morning by the early train and disburse it. There were special centres
where the brokers and middlemen would come with their receipts and accounts
for settlement. Some discussion had taken place in the office about Haralal being
entrusted with this work, without any security, but the Manager undertook all the
responsibility and said that a security was not needed. This special work used to
go on from the middle of December to the middle of April. Haralal would get
back from it very late at night.
One day, after his return, he was told by his mother that Venu had called and that
she had persuaded him to take his dinner at their house. This happened more
than once. The mother said that it was because Venu missed his own mother, and
the tears came into her eyes as she spoke about it.
One day Venu waited for Haralal to return and had a long talk with him.
"Master Mashai!" he said. "Father has become so cantankerous of late that I
cannot live with him any longer. And, besides, I know that he is getting ready to
marry again. Ratikanta is seeking a suitable match, and they are always
conspiring about it. There used to be a time when my father would get anxious,
if I were absent from home even for a few hours. Now, if I am away for more
than a week, he takes no notice,—indeed he is greatly relieved. If this marriage
takes place, I feel that I cannot live in the house any longer. You must show me a
way out of this. I want to become independent."
Haralal felt deeply pained, but he did not know how to help his former pupil.
Venu said that he was determined to go to England and become a barrister.
Somehow or other he must get the passage money out of his father: he could
borrow it on a note of hand and his father would have to pay when the creditors
filed a suit. With this borrowed money he would get away, and when he was in
England his father was certain to remit his expenses.
"But who is there," Haralal asked, "who would advance you the money?"
"You!" said Venu.
"I!" exclaimed Haralal in amazement.
"Yes," said Venu, "I've seen the servant bringing heaps of money here in bags."
"The servant and the money belong to someone else."
Haralal explained why the money came to his house at night, like birds to their
nest, to be scattered next morning.
"But can't the Manager advance the sum?" Venu asked.
"He may do so," said Haralal, "if your father stands security."
The discussion ended at this point.

One Friday night a carriage and pair stopped before Haralal's lodging house.
When Venu was announced Haralal was counting money in his bedroom, seated
on the floor. Venu entered the room dressed in a strange manner. He had
discarded his Bengali dress and was wearing a Parsee coat and trousers and had
a cap on his head. Rings were prominent on almost all the fingers of both hands,
and a thick gold chain was hanging round his neck: there was a gold-watch in his
pocket, and diamond studs could be seen peeping from his shirt sleeves. Haralal
at once asked him what was the matter and why he was wearing that dress.
"My father's marriage," said Venu, "comes off to-morrow. He tried hard to keep
it from me, but I found it out. I asked him to allow me to go to our garden-house
at Barrackpur for a few days, and he was only too glad to get rid of me so easily.
I am going there, and I wish to God I had never to come back."
Haralal looked pointedly at the rings on his fingers. Venu explained that they had
belonged to his mother. Haralal then asked him if he had already had his dinner.
He answered, "Yes, haven't you had yours?"
"No," said Haralal, "I cannot leave this room until I have all the money safely
locked up in this iron chest."
"Go and take your dinner," said Venu, "while I keep guard here: your mother will
be waiting for you."
For a moment Haralal hesitated, and then he went out and had his dinner. In a
short time he came back with his mother and the three of them sat among the
bags of money talking together. When it was about midnight, Venu took out his
watch and looked at it and jumped up saying that he would miss his train. Then
he asked Haralal to keep all his rings and his watch and chain until he asked for
them again. Haralal put them all together in a leather bag and laid it in the iron
safe. Venu went out.
The canvas bags containing the currency notes had already been placed in the
safe: only the loose coins remained to be counted over and put away with the
rest.

XI

Haralal lay down on the floor of the same room, with the key under his pillow,
and went to sleep. He dreamt that Venu's mother was loudly reproaching him
from behind the curtain. Her words were indistinct, but rays of different colours
from the jewels on her body kept piercing the curtain like needles and violently
vibrating. Haralal struggled to call Venu, but his voice seemed to forsake him. At
last, with a noise, the curtain fell down. Haralal started up from his sleep and
found darkness piled up round about him. A sudden gust of wind had flung open
the window and put out the light. Haralal's whole body was wet with
perspiration. He relighted the lamp and saw, by the clock, that it was four in the
morning. There was no time to sleep again; for he had to get ready to start.
After Haralal had washed his face and hands his mother called from her own
room,—"Baba, why are you up so soon?"
It was the habit of Haralal to see his mother's face the first thing in the morning
in order to bring a blessing upon the day. His mother said to him: "I was
dreaming that you were going out to bring back a bride for yourself." Haralal
went to his own bedroom and began to take out the bags containing the silver
and the currency notes.
Suddenly his heart stopped beating. Three of the bags appeared to be empty. He
knocked them against the iron safe, but this only proved his fear to be true. He
opened them and shook them with all his might. Two letters from Venu dropped
out from one of the bags. One was addressed to his father and one to Haralal.
Haralal tore open his own letter and began reading. The words seemed to run
into one another. He trimmed the lamp, but felt as if he could not understand
what he read. Yet the purport of the letter was clear. Venu had taken three
thousand rupees, in currency notes, and had started for England. The steamer
was to sail before day-break that very morning. The letter ended with the words:
"I am explaining everything in a letter to my father. He will pay off the debt; and
then, again, my mother's ornaments, which I have left in your care, will more
than cover the amount I have taken."
Haralal locked up his room and hired a carriage and went with all haste to the
jetty. But he did not know even the name of the steamer which Venu had taken.
He ran the whole length of the wharves from Prinsep's Ghat to Metiaburuj. He
found that two steamers had started on their voyage to England early that
morning. It was impossible for him to know which of them carried Venu, or how
to reach him.
When Haralal got home, the sun was strong and the whole of Calcutta was
awake. Everything before his eyes seemed blurred. He felt as if he were pushing
against a fearful obstacle which was bodiless and without pity. His mother came
on the verandah to ask him anxiously where he had gone. With a dry laugh he
said to her,—"To bring home a bride for myself," and then he fainted away.
On opening his eyes after a while, Haralal asked his mother to leave him.
Entering his room he shut the door from the inside while his mother remained
seated on the floor of the verandah in the fierce glare of the sun. She kept calling
to him fitfully, almost mechanically,—"Baba, Baba!"
The servant came from the Manager's office and knocked at the door, saying that
they would miss the train if they did not start out at once. Haralal called from
inside, "It will not be possible for me to start this morning."
"Then where are we to go, Sir?"
"I will tell you later on."
The servant went downstairs with a gesture of impatience.
Suddenly Haralal thought of the ornaments which Venu had left behind. Up till
now he had completely forgotten about them, but with the thought came instant
relief. He took the leather bag containing them, and also Venu's letter to his
father, and left the house.
Before he reached Adharlal's house he could hear the bands playing for the
wedding, yet on entering he could feel that there had been some disturbance.
Haralal was told that there had been a theft the night before and one or two
servants were suspected. Adhar Babu was sitting in the upper verandah flushed
with anger and Ratikanta was smoking his hookah. Haralal said to Adhar Babu,
"I have something private to tell you." Adharlal flared up, "I have no time now!"
He was afraid that Haralal had come to borrow money or to ask his help.
Ratikanta suggested that if there was any delicacy in making the request in his
presence he would leave the place. Adharlal told him angrily to sit where he was.
Then Haralal handed over the bag which Venu had left behind. Adharlal asked
what was inside it and Haralal opened it and gave the contents into his hands.
Then Adhar Babu said with a sneer: "It's a paying business that you two have
started—you and your former pupil! You were certain that the stolen property
would be traced, and so you come along with it to me to claim a reward!"
Haralal presented the letter which Venu had written to his father. This only made
Adharlal all the more furious.
"What's all this?" he shouted, "I'll call for the police! My son has not yet come of
age,—and you have smuggled him out of the country! I'll bet my soul you've lent
him a few hundred rupees, and then taken a note of hand for three thousand! But
I am not going to be bound by this!"
"I never advanced him any money at all," said Haralal.
"Then how did he find it?" said Adharlal, "Do you mean to tell me he broke
open your safe and stole it?"
Haralal stood silent.
Ratikanta sarcastically remarked: "I don't believe this fellow ever set hands on as
much as three thousand rupees in his life."
When Haralal left the house he seemed to have lost the power of dreading
anything, or even of being anxious. His mind seemed to refuse to work. Directly
he entered the lane he saw a carriage waiting before his own lodging. For a
moment he felt certain that it was Venu's. It was impossible to believe that his
calamity could be so hopelessly final.
Haralal went up quickly, but found an English assistant from the firm sitting
inside the carriage. The man came out when he saw Haralal and took him by the
hand and asked him: "Why didn't you go out by train this morning?" The servant
had told the Manager his suspicions and he had sent this man to find out.
Haralal answered: "Notes to the amount of three thousand rupees are missing."
The man asked how that could have happened.
Haralal remained silent.
The man said to Haralal: "Let us go upstairs together and see where you keep
your money." They went up to the room and counted the money and made a
thorough search of the house.
When the mother saw this she could not contain herself any longer. She came
out before the stranger and said: "Baba, what has happened?" He answered in
broken Hindustani that some money had been stolen.
"Stolen!" the mother cried, "Why! How could it be stolen? Who could do such a
dastardly thing?" Haralal said to her: "Mother, don't say a word."
The man collected the remainder of the money and told Haralal to come with
him to the Manager. The mother barred the way and said:
"Sir, where are you taking my son? I have brought him up, starving and straining
to do honest work. My son would never touch money belonging to others."
The Englishman, not knowing Bengali, said, "Achcha! Achcha!" Haralal told his
mother not to be anxious; he would explain it all to the Manager and soon be
back again. The mother entreated him, with a distressed voice,
"Baba, you haven't taken a morsel of food all morning." Haralal stepped into the
carriage and drove away, and the mother sank to the ground in the anguish of her
heart.
The Manager said to Haralal: "Tell me the truth. What did happen?"
Haralal said to him, "I haven't taken any money."
"I fully believe it," said the Manager, "but surely you know who has taken it."
Haralal looked on the ground and remained silent.
"Somebody," said the Manager, "must have taken it away with your
connivance."
"Nobody," replied Haralal, "could take it away with my knowledge without
taking first my life."
"Look here, Haralal," said the Manager, "I trusted you completely. I took no
security. I employed you in a post of great responsibility. Every one in the office
was against me for doing so. The three thousand rupees is a small matter, but the
shame of all this to me is a great matter. I will do one thing. I will give you the
whole day to bring back this money. If you do so, I shall say nothing about it and
I will keep you on in your post."
It was now eleven o'clock. Haralal with bent head went out of the office. The
clerks began to discuss the affair with exultation.
"What can I do? What can I do?" Haralal repeated to himself, as he walked along
like one dazed, the sun's heat pouring down upon him. At last his mind ceased to
think at all about what could be done, but the mechanical walk went on without
ceasing.
This city of Calcutta, which offered its shelter to thousands and thousands of
men had become like a steel trap. He could see no way out. The whole body of
people were conspiring to surround and hold him captive—this most
insignificant of men, whom no one knew. Nobody had any special grudge
against him, yet everybody was his enemy. The crowd passed by, brushing
against him: the clerks of the offices were eating their lunch on the road side
from their plates made of leaves: a tired wayfarer on the Maidan, under the
shade of a tree, was lying with one hand beneath his head and one leg upraised
over the other: The up-country women, crowded into hackney carriages, were
wending their way to the temple: a chuprassie came up with a letter and asked
him the address on the envelope,—so the afternoon went by.
Then came the time when the offices were all about to close. Carriages started
off in all directions, carrying people back to their homes. The clerks, packed
tightly on the seats of the trams, looked at the theatre advertisements as they
returned to their lodgings. From to-day, Haralal had neither his work in the
office, nor release from work in the evening. He had no need to hurry to catch
the tram to take him to his home. All the busy occupations of the city—the
buildings—the horses and carriages—the incessant traffic—seemed, now at one
time, to swell into dreadful reality, and at another time, to subside into the
shadowy unreal.
Haralal had taken neither food, nor rest, nor shelter all that day.
The street lamps were lighted from one road to another and it seemed to him that
a watchful darkness, like some demon, was keeping its eyes wide open to guard
every movement of its victim. Haralal did not even have the energy to enquire
how late it was. The veins on his forehead throbbed, and he felt as if his head
would burst. Through the paroxysms of pain, which alternated with the apathy of
dejection, only one thought came again and again to his mind; among the
innumerable multitudes in that vast city, only one name found its way through
his dry throat,—"Mother!"
He said to himself, "At the deep of night, when no one is awake to capture me—
me, who am the least of all men,—I will silently creep to my mother's arms and
fall asleep, and may I never wake again!"
Haralal's one trouble was lest some police officer should molest him in the
presence of his mother, and this kept him back from going home. When it
became impossible for him at last to bear the weight of his own body, he hailed a
carriage. The driver asked him where he wanted to go. He said: "Nowhere, I
want to drive across the Maidan to get the fresh air." The man at first did not
believe him and was about to drive on, when Haralal put a rupee into his hand as
an advance payment. Thereupon the driver crossed, and then re-crossed, the
Maidan from one side to the other, traversing the different roads.
Haralal laid his throbbing head on the side of the open window of the carriage
and closed his eyes. Slowly all the pain abated. His body became cool. A deep
and intense peace filled his heart and a supreme deliverance seemed to embrace
him on every side. It was not true,—the day's despair which threatened him with
its grip of utter helplessness. It was not true, it was false. He knew now that it
was only an empty fear of the mind. Deliverance was in the infinite sky and
there was no end to peace. No king or emperor in the world had the power to
keep captive this nonentity, this Haralal. In the sky, surrounding his emancipated
heart on every side, he felt the presence of his mother, that one poor woman. She
seemed to grow and grow till she filled the infinity of darkness. All the roads and
buildings and shops of Calcutta gradually became enveloped by her. In her
presence vanished all the aching pains and thoughts and consciousness of
Haralal. It burst,—that bubble filled with the hot vapour of pain. And now there
was neither darkness nor light, but only one tense fulness.
The Cathedral clock struck one. The driver called out impatiently: "Babu, my
horse can't go on any longer. Where do you want to go?"
There came no answer.
The driver came down and shook Haralal and asked him again where he wanted
to go.
There came no answer.
And the answer was never received from Haralal, where he wanted to go.

WORDS TO BE STUDIED

broker. This word meant originally a "broacher," one who broached or made a
hole in casks of wine to test their value for sale. Then it came to mean a
middleman in a sale.
attorney. This word comes from the Old French "tourner" meaning to turn. The
original sense of the word is "one who turns or transfers (property)," and
thus it comes to mean one who is appointed to do legal business in the
name of another. Compare the phrase "power of attorney."
mortgage. This comes from the two words "mort-" meaning "death" and "gage"
meaning "pledge,"—a death pledge. It is used for the transfer of property as
a pledge or guarantee that the debt will be paid. Compare mortuary, mortal,
 mortify, mortmain; also compare engage, disengage, wage, wager.
repulsed. From the Latin "puls-" meaning "to drive." This Latin root has another
form "pel," also meaning "to drive." We have thus two series of words:—
repel, impel, compel, expel, dispel, and
repulse, impulse (noun), compulsion, expulsion.
amiability. This word comes from the Latin "amicus" friend and is the same in
origin as "amicability." Compare amicable and amiable.
salary. This originally meant "salt-money" from the Latin "sal" meaning "salt."
First, it meant the "salt-money" given to soldiers, then it meant a fixed pay.
Compare the use of namak in India,—namak khānā,—which is somewhat
similar.
liliputian. This word has come into the English language from a famous story
book called "Gulliver's Travels." "Liliput" was a place where tiny people
lived and "Brobdingnag" was a place where giants lived. These two words
are therefore sometimes used, in an amusing manner, to represent
respectively the land of dwarfs and the land of giants.
B.A. degree. These titles were originally used in the old medieval universities of
Europe. The word "bachelor" was taken from its use in chivalry, where it
meant a young knight not yet fully qualified or equipped. Then came the
"Master," or fully qualified person. A secondary meaning of bachelor,
which is now the most common, is "an unmarried person,"—a man not
being considered fully qualified or equipped till he is married.
romance. This word has a very interesting history. The Latin language was the
literary language of the South of Europe for many centuries and the
vernacular languages were despised. The word for "vernacular" was
"romanicus" as contrasted with "Latinus," i.e. Latin. The old folk stories of
the Middle Ages were written in the vernacular or "romance" languages,
and as these stories were strange and mysterious, the word romance became
used for this kind of literature.
pathetic. From the Greek word "pathos" meaning "suffering." Compare pathos,
sympathy, pathology, electropathy, allopathy, homœopathy.
dilapidated. From the Latin "lapis" meaning a "stone." It probably means to
separate stone from stone. Compare lapidary, dilapidation.
intermediate. From the Latin "medius" meaning "middle." Compare mediate,
immediate, medium, mediocrity, mediator.
police. From the Greek "polis" meaning a "city." Compare politics, policy,
metropolis, politician.
barrister. From the word "bar." There was a bar in the law court, from which
the lawyer pleaded his case. So the pleader was called a bar-ister. Compare
the phrase "called to the Bar."
obstacle. From the Latin root "sta-" meaning to stand. Compare obstinate,
station, status, statute, instant, distance, constant.
dastardly. A word of doubtful origin,—probably akin to the word "dazed."
reality. From the Latin word "res" meaning a "thing." Compare real, unreal,
realize, republic, really, realization.
alternated. From the Latin "alter" meaning "other." Compare alteration,
alternative, alter, altercate.
infinity. From the Latin "finis" meaning "end." Compare finish, finite, definite,
confine.
SUBHA
 VI

SUBHA
WHEN the girl was given the name of Subhashini, who could have guessed that
she would prove dumb? Her two elder sisters were Sukeshini and Suhasini, and
for the sake of uniformity her father named his youngest girl Subhashini. She
was called Subha for short.
Her two elder sisters had been married with the usual cost and difficulty, and
now the youngest daughter lay like a silent weight upon the heart of her parents.
All the world seemed to think that, because she did not speak, therefore she did
not feel; it discussed her future and its own anxiety freely in her presence. She
had understood from her earliest childhood that God had sent her like a curse to
her father's house, so she withdrew herself from ordinary people and tried to live
apart. If only they would all forget her she felt she could endure it. But who can
forget pain? Night and day her parents' minds were aching on her account.
Especially her mother looked upon her as a deformity in herself. To a mother a
daughter is a more closely intimate part of herself than a son can be; and a fault
in her is a source of personal shame. Banikantha, Subha's father, loved her rather
better than his other daughters; her mother regarded her with aversion as a stain
upon her own body.
If Subha lacked speech, she did not lack a pair of large dark eyes, shaded with
long lashes; and her lips trembled like a leaf in response to any thought that rose
in her mind.
When we express our thought in words, the medium is not found easily. There
must be a process of translation, which is often inexact, and then we fall into
error. But black eyes need no translating; the mind itself throws a shadow upon
them. In them thought opens or shuts, shines forth or goes out in darkness, hangs
steadfast like the setting moon or like the swift and restless lightning illumines
all quarters of the sky. They who from birth have had no other speech than the
trembling of their lips learn a language of the eyes, endless in expression, deep
as the sea, clear as the heavens, wherein play dawn and sunset, light and shadow.
The dumb have a lonely grandeur like Nature's own. Wherefore the other
children almost dreaded Subha and never played with her. She was silent and
companionless as noontide.
The hamlet where she lived was Chandipur. Its river, small for a river of Bengal,
kept to its narrow bounds like a daughter of the middle class. This busy streak of
water never overflowed its banks, but went about its duties as though it were a
member of every family in the villages beside it. On either side were houses and
banks shaded with trees. So stepping from her queenly throne, the river-goddess
became a garden deity of each home, and forgetful of herself performed her task
of endless benediction with swift and cheerful foot.
Banikantha's house looked out upon the stream. Every hut and stack in the place
could be seen by the passing boatmen. I know not if amid these signs of worldly
wealth any one noticed the little girl who, when her work was done, stole away
to the waterside and sat there. But here Nature fulfilled her want of speech and
spoke for her. The murmur of the brook, the voice of the village folk, the songs
of the boatmen, the crying of the birds and rustle of trees mingled and were one
with the trembling of her heart. They became one vast wave of sound which beat
upon her restless soul. This murmur and movement of Nature were the dumb
girl's language; that speech of the dark eyes, which the long lashes shaded, was
the language of the world about her. From the trees, where the cicalas chirped, to
the quiet stars there was nothing but signs and gestures, weeping and sighing.
And in the deep mid-noon, when the boatmen and fisher-folk had gone to their
dinner, when the villagers slept and birds were still, when the ferry-boats were
idle, when the great busy world paused in its toil and became suddenly a lonely,
awful giant, then beneath the vast impressive heavens there were only dumb
Nature and a dumb girl, sitting very silent,—one under the spreading sunlight,
the other where a small tree cast its shadow.
But Subha was not altogether without friends. In the stall were two cows,
Sarbbashi and Panguli. They had never heard their names from her lips, but they
knew her footfall. Though she had no words, she murmured lovingly and they
understood her gentle murmuring better than all speech. When she fondled them
or scolded or coaxed them, they understood her better than men could do. Subha
would come to the shed and throw her arms round Sarbbashi's neck; she would
rub her cheek against her friend's, and Panguli would turn her great kind eyes
and lick her face. The girl paid them three regular visits every day and others
that were irregular. Whenever she heard any words that hurt her, she would come
to these dumb friends out of due time. It was as though they guessed her anguish
of spirit from her quiet look of sadness. Coming close to her, they would rub
their horns softly against her arms, and in dumb, puzzled fashion try to comfort
her. Besides these two, there were goats and a kitten; but Subha had not the same
equality of friendship with them, though they showed the same attachment.
Every time it got a chance, night or day, the kitten would jump into her lap, and
settle down to slumber, and show its appreciation of an aid to sleep as Subha
drew her soft fingers over its neck and back.
Subha had a comrade also among the higher animals, and it is hard to say what
were the girl's relations with him; for he could speak, and his gift of speech left
them without any common language. He was the youngest boy of the Gosains,
Pratap by name, an idle fellow. After long effort, his parents had abandoned the
hope that he would ever make his living. Now losels have this advantage, that,
though their own folk disapprove of them, they are generally popular with every
one else. Having no work to chain them, they become public property. Just as
every town needs an open space where all may breathe, so a village needs two or
three gentlemen of leisure, who can give time to all; then, if we are lazy and
want a companion, one is to hand.
Pratap's chief ambition was to catch fish. He managed to waste a lot of time this
way, and might be seen almost any afternoon so employed. It was thus most
often that he met Subha. Whatever he was about, he liked a companion; and,
when one is catching fish, a silent companion is best of all. Pratap respected
Subha for her taciturnity, and, as every one called her Subha, he showed his
affection by calling her Su. Subha used to sit beneath a tamarind, and Pratap, a
little distance off, would cast his line. Pratap took with him a small allowance of
betel, and Subha prepared it for him. And I think that, sitting and gazing a long
while, she desired ardently to bring some great help to Pratap, to be of real aid,
to prove by any means that she was not a useless burden to the world. But there
was nothing to do. Then she turned to the Creator in prayer for some rare power,
that by an astonishing miracle she might startle Pratap into exclaiming: "My! I
never dreamt our Su could have done this!"
Only think, if Subha had been a water nymph, she might have risen slowly from
the river, bringing the gem of a snake's crown to the landing-place. Then Pratap,
leaving his paltry fishing, might dive into the lower world, and see there, on a
golden bed in a palace of silver, whom else but dumb little Su, Banikantha's
child? Yes, our Su, the only daughter of the king of that shining city of jewels!
But that might not be, it was impossible. Not that anything is really impossible,
but Su had been born, not into the royal house of Patalpur, but into Banikantha's
family, and she knew no means of astonishing the Gosains' boy.
Gradually she grew up. Gradually she began to find herself. A new inexpressible
consciousness like a tide from the central places of the sea, when the moon is
full, swept through her. She saw herself, questioned herself, but no answer came
that she could understand.
Once upon a time, late on a night of full moon, she slowly opened her door and
peeped out timidly. Nature, herself at full moon, like lonely Subha, was looking
down on the sleeping earth. Her strong young life beat within her; joy and
sadness filled her being to its brim; she reached the limits even of her own
illimitable loneliness, nay, passed beyond them. Her heart was heavy, and she
could not speak. At the skirts of this silent troubled Mother there stood a silent
troubled girl.
The thought of her marriage filled her parents with an anxious care. People
blamed them, and even talked of making them outcasts. Banikantha was well
off; they had fish-curry twice daily; and consequently he did not lack enemies.
Then the women interfered, and Bani went away for a few days. Presently he
returned and said: "We must go to Calcutta."
They got ready to go to this strange country. Subha's heart was heavy with tears,
like a mist-wrapt dawn. With a vague fear that had been gathering for days, she
dogged her father and mother like a dumb animal. With her large eyes wide
open, she scanned their faces as though she wished to learn something. But not a
word did they vouchsafe. One afternoon in the midst of all this, as Pratap was
fishing, he laughed: "So then, Su, they have caught your bridegroom, and you
are going to be married! Mind you don't forget me altogether!" Then he turned
his mind again to his fish. As a stricken doe looks in the hunter's face, asking in
silent agony: "What have I done to you?" so Subha looked at Pratap. That day
she sat no longer beneath her tree. Banikantha, having finished his nap, was
smoking in his bedroom when Subha dropped down at his feet and burst out
weeping as she gazed towards him. Banikantha tried to comfort her, and his
cheek grew wet with tears.
It was settled that on the morrow they should go to Calcutta. Subha went to the
cow-shed to bid farewell to her childhood's comrades. She fed them with her
hand; she clasped their necks; she looked into their faces, and tears fell fast from
the eyes which spoke for her. That night was the tenth of the moon. Subha left
her room, and flung herself down on her grassy couch beside her dear river. It
was as if she threw her arms about Earth, her strong silent mother, and tried to
say: "Do not let me leave you, mother. Put your arms about me, as I have put
mine about you, and hold me fast."
One day in a house in Calcutta, Subha's mother dressed her up with great care.
She imprisoned her hair, knotting it up in laces, she hung her about with
ornaments, and did her best to kill her natural beauty. Subha's eyes filled with
tears. Her mother, fearing they would grow swollen with weeping, scolded her
harshly, but the tears disregarded the scolding. The bridegroom came with a
friend to inspect the bride. Her parents were dizzy with anxiety and fear when
they saw the god arrive to select the beast for his sacrifice. Behind the stage, the
mother called her instructions aloud, and increased her daughter's weeping
twofold, before she sent her into the examiner's presence. The great man, after
scanning her a long time, observed: "Not so bad."
He took special note of her tears, and thought she must have a tender heart. He
put it to her credit in the account, arguing that the heart, which to-day was
distressed at leaving her parents, would presently prove a useful possession. Like
the oyster's pearls, the child's tears only increased her value, and he made no
other comment.
The almanac was consulted, and the marriage took place on an auspicious day.
Having delivered over their dumb girl into another's hands, Subha's parents
returned home. Thank God! Their caste in this and their safety in the next world
were assured! The bridegroom's work lay in the west, and shortly after the
marriage he took his wife thither.
In less than ten days every one knew that the bride was dumb! At least, if any
one did not, it was not her fault, for she deceived no one. Her eyes told them
everything, though no one understood her. She looked on every hand, she found
no speech, she missed the faces, familiar from birth, of those who had
understood a dumb girl's language. In her silent heart there sounded an endless,
voiceless weeping, which only the Searcher of Hearts could hear.

WORDS TO BE STUDIED

uniformity. From the Latin "unus," meaning "one" and "forma" meaning
"form." Compare universe, unison, unite, formalism, formation, reform,
deformed, deformity (the last word occurs in the next paragraph of the
story).
translation. The Latin word meaning "to bring" has two roots, viz. "fer" and
 "lat." This word is taken from the second root. We have the two parallel
series of words in English:
transfer, refer, confer, differ, etc.
translate, relate, collate, dilate, etc.
puzzled. This is one of the few words in the English language whose origin is
doubtful. It probably comes from the word to "pose" (which itself is a
shortened form of "oppose") meaning to set forward a difficult problem.
losels. An uncommon English word meaning a person who is good for nothing.
The word is derived from the verb to "lose."
taciturnity. The Latin word "tacitus," means "quiet" or "silent." Compare tacit,
tacitly, reticence, reticent.
My! This is used by common people in England. It is probably the short form of
"My eye!"
dogged. The word in this sense means to follow like a dog; to follow closely.
From this we have the adjective "dogged" pronounced as two syllables dog-
géd, meaning persevering, persistent, never giving in, e.g. doggéd courage.
disregarded. From the French "garder" or "guarder," meaning "to keep." This
French word appears in many English forms. Compare reward, guard,
guerdon, guardian, ward, warder, regard.
dizzy. This word comes from an old Saxon root, which has left many words in
modern English. Compare daze, dazed, dazzle, doze, drowse, drowsy.
deceived. From the Latin word "capere," meaning to take. The English verbs
such as "receive," "conceive," "perceive" have come into English from the
French. The Latin root is more clearly seen in the nouns such as
"deception," "reception," "perception," etc. It should be carefully noticed
that these "French" forms are spelt eive instead of ieve. A simple rule is this,
that after c write ei not ie, but after other consonants write ie. Compare the
spelling of believe, grieve, relieve with that of receive, deceive.

THE POSTMASTER
 VII

THE POSTMASTER
THE postmaster first took up his duties in the village of Ulapur. Though the
village was a small one, there was an indigo factory near by, and the proprietor,
an Englishman, had managed to get a post office established.
Our postmaster belonged to Calcutta. He felt like a fish out of water in this
remote village. His office and living-room were in a dark thatched shed, not far
from a green, slimy pond, surrounded on all sides by a dense growth.
The men employed in the indigo factory had no leisure; moreover, they were
hardly desirable companions for decent folk. Nor is a Calcutta boy an adept in
the art of associating with others. Among strangers he appears either proud or ill
at ease. At any rate, the postmaster had but little company; nor had he much to
do.
At times he tried his hand at writing a verse or two. That the movement of the
leaves and the clouds of the sky were enough to fill life with joy—such were the
sentiments to which he sought to give expression. But God knows that the poor
fellow would have felt it as the gift of a new life, if some genie of the Arabian
Nights had in one night swept away the trees, leaves and all, and replaced them
with a macadamised road, hiding the clouds from view with rows of tall houses.
The postmaster's salary was small. He had to cook his own meals, which he used
to share with Ratan, an orphan girl of the village, who did odd jobs for him.
When in the evening the smoke began to curl up from the village cowsheds, and
the cicalas chirped in every bush; when the mendicants of the Baül sect sang
their shrill songs in their daily meeting-place, when any poet, who had attempted
to watch the movement of the leaves in the dense bamboo thickets, would have
felt a ghostly shiver run down his back, the postmaster would light his little
lamp, and call out "Ratan."
Ratan would sit outside waiting for this call, and, instead of coming in at once,
would reply, "Did you call me, sir?"
"What are you doing?" the postmaster would ask.
"I must be going to light the kitchen fire," would be the answer.
And the postmaster would say: "Oh, let the kitchen fire be for awhile; light me
my pipe first."
At last Ratan would enter, with puffed-out cheeks, vigorously blowing into a
flame a live coal to light the tobacco. This would give the postmaster an
opportunity of conversing. "Well, Ratan," perhaps he would begin, "do you
remember anything of your mother?" That was a fertile subject. Ratan partly
remembered, and partly didn't. Her father had been fonder of her than her
mother; him she recollected more vividly. He used to come home in the evening
after his work, and one or two evenings stood out more clearly than others, like
pictures in her memory. Ratan would sit on the floor near the postmaster's feet,
as memories crowded in upon her. She called to mind a little brother that she had
—and how on some bygone cloudy day she had played at fishing with him on
the edge of the pond, with a twig for a make-believe fishing-rod. Such little
incidents would drive out greater events from her mind. Thus, as they talked, it
would often get very late, and the postmaster would feel too lazy to do any
cooking at all. Ratan would then hastily light the fire, and toast some unleavened
bread, which, with the cold remnants of the morning meal, was enough for their
supper.
On some evenings, seated at his desk in the corner of the big empty shed, the
postmaster too would call up memories of his own home, of his mother and his
sister, of those for whom in his exile his heart was sad,—memories which were
always haunting him, but which he could not talk about with the men of the
factory, though he found himself naturally recalling them aloud in the presence
of the simple little girl. And so it came about that the girl would allude to his
people as mother, brother, and sister, as if she had known them all her life. In
fact, she had a complete picture of each one of them painted in her little heart.
One noon, during a break in the rains, there was a cool soft breeze blowing; the
smell of the damp grass and leaves in the hot sun felt like the warm breathing of
the tired earth on one's body. A persistent bird went on all the afternoon
repeating the burden of its one complaint in Nature's audience chamber.
The postmaster had nothing to do. The shimmer of the freshly washed leaves,
and the banked-up remnants of the retreating rain-clouds were sights to see; and
the postmaster was watching them and thinking to himself: "Oh, if only some
kindred soul were near—just one loving human being whom I could hold near
my heart!" This was exactly, he went on to think, what that bird was trying to
say, and it was the same feeling which the murmuring leaves were striving to
express. But no one knows, or would believe, that such an idea might also take
possession of an ill-paid village postmaster in the deep, silent mid-day interval
of his work.
The postmaster sighed, and called out "Ratan." Ratan was then sprawling
beneath the guava-tree, busily engaged in eating unripe guavas. At the voice of
her master, she ran up breathlessly, saying: "Were you calling me, Dada?" "I was
thinking," said the postmaster, "of teaching you to read." And then for the rest of
the afternoon he taught her the alphabet.
Thus, in a very short time, Ratan had got as far as the double consonants.
It seemed as though the showers of the season would never end. Canals, ditches,
and hollows were all overflowing with water. Day and night the patter of rain
was heard, and the croaking of frogs. The village roads became impassable, and
marketing had to be done in punts.
One heavily clouded morning, the postmaster's little pupil had been long waiting
outside the door for her call, but, not hearing it as usual, she took up her dog-
eared book, and slowly entered the room. She found her master stretched out on
his bed, and, thinking that he was resting, she was about to retire on tip-toe,
when she suddenly heard her name—"Ratan!" She turned at once and asked:
"Were you sleeping, Dada?" The postmaster in a plaintive voice said: "I am not
well. Feel my head; is it very hot?"
In the loneliness of his exile, and in the gloom of the rains, his ailing body
needed a little tender nursing. He longed to remember the touch on the forehead
of soft hands with tinkling bracelets, to imagine the presence of loving
womanhood, the nearness of mother and sister. And the exile was not
disappointed. Ratan ceased to be a little girl. She at once stepped into the post of
mother, called in the village doctor, gave the patient his pills at the proper
intervals, sat up all night by his pillow, cooked his gruel for him, and every now
and then asked: "Are you feeling a little better, Dada?"
It was some time before the postmaster, with weakened body, was able to leave
his sick-bed. "No more of this," said he with decision. "I must get a transfer." He
at once wrote off to Calcutta an application for a transfer, on the ground of the
unhealthiness of the place.
Relieved from her duties as nurse, Ratan again took up her old place outside the
door. But she no longer heard the same old call. She would sometimes peep
inside furtively to find the postmaster sitting on his chair, or stretched on his bed,
and staring absent-mindedly into the air. While Ratan was awaiting her call, the
postmaster was awaiting a reply to his application. The girl read her old lessons
over and over again,—her great fear was lest, when the call came, she might be
found wanting in the double consonants. At last, after a week, the call did come
one evening. With an overflowing heart Ratan rushed into the room with her
—"Were you calling me, Dada?"
The postmaster said: "I am going away to-morrow, Ratan."
"Where are you going, Dada?"
"I am going home."
"When will you come back?"
"I am not coming back."
Ratan asked no other question. The postmaster, of his own accord, went on to
tell her that his application for a transfer had been rejected, so he had resigned
his post and was going home.
For a long time neither of them spoke another word. The lamp went on dimly
burning, and from a leak in one corner of the thatch water dripped steadily into
an earthen vessel on the floor beneath it.
After a while Ratan rose, and went off to the kitchen to prepare the meal; but she
was not so quick about it as on other days. Many new things to think of had
entered her little brain. When the postmaster had finished his supper, the girl
suddenly asked him: "Dada, will you take me to your home?"
The postmaster laughed. "What an idea!" said he; but he did not think it
necessary to explain to the girl wherein lay the absurdity.
That whole night, in her waking and in her dreams, the postmaster's laughing
reply haunted her—"What an idea!"
On getting up in the morning, the postmaster found his bath ready. He had stuck
to his Calcutta habit of bathing in water drawn and kept in pitchers, instead of
taking a plunge in the river as was the custom of the village. For some reason or
other, the girl could not ask him about the time of his departure, so she had
fetched the water from the river long before sunrise, that it should be ready as
early as he might want it. After the bath came a call for Ratan. She entered
noiselessly, and looked silently into her master's face for orders. The master said:
"You need not be anxious about my going away, Ratan; I shall tell my successor
to look after you." These words were kindly meant, no doubt: but inscrutable are
the ways of a woman's heart!
Ratan had borne many a scolding from her master without complaint, but these
kind words she could not bear. She burst out weeping, and said: "No, no, you
need not tell anybody anything at all about me; I don't want to stay on here."
The postmaster was dumbfounded. He had never seen Ratan like this before.
The new incumbent duly arrived, and the postmaster, having given over charge,
prepared to depart. Just before starting he called Ratan and said: "Here is
something for you; I hope it will keep you for some little time." He brought out
from his pocket the whole of his month's salary, retaining only a trifle for his
travelling expenses. Then Ratan fell at his feet and cried: "Oh, Dada, I pray you,
don't give me anything, don't in any way trouble about me," and then she ran
away out of sight.
The postmaster heaved a sigh, took up his carpet bag, put his umbrella over his
shoulder, and, accompanied by a man carrying his many-coloured tin trunk, he
slowly made for the boat.
When he got in and the boat was under way, and the rain-swollen river, like a
stream of tears welling up from the earth, swirled and sobbed at her bows, then
he felt a pain at heart; the grief-stricken face of a village girl seemed to represent
for him the great unspoken pervading grief of Mother Earth herself. At one time
he had an impulse to go back, and bring away along with him that lonesome
waif, forsaken of the world. But the wind had just filled the sails, the boat had
got well into the middle of the turbulent current, and already the village was left
behind, and its outlying burning-ground came in sight.
So the traveller, borne on the breast of the swift-flowing river, consoled himself
with philosophical reflections on the numberless meetings and partings going on
in the world—on death, the great parting, from which none returns.
But Ratan had no philosophy. She was wandering about the post office in a flood
of tears. It may be that she had still a lurking hope in some corner of her heart
that her Dada would return, and that is why she could not tear herself away. Alas
for our foolish human nature! Its fond mistakes are persistent. The dictates of
reason take a long time to assert their own sway. The surest proofs meanwhile
are disbelieved. False hope is clung to with all one's might and main, till a day
comes when it has sucked the heart dry and it forcibly breaks through its bonds
and departs. After that comes the misery of awakening, and then once again the
longing to get back into the maze of the same mistakes.

WORDS TO BE STUDIED

indigo. This word has a very interesting history. It means "Indian." The
celebrated dark-blue dye came from India. This dye was first known to the
Greeks who called it "Indikon," then to the Latins who called it Indicum,
then to the Italians and Spaniards who called it Indigo. It was introduced
into England from Italy by artists and painters who kept the Italian word
"indigo" without change.
genie. There is a Latin word "genius," meaning originally a spirit inhabiting a
special place. It is from this word that our English common noun "genius"
is taken, meaning a specially gifted or inspired person, e.g. "a man of
genius." But in the Arabian Nights a completely different Arabic word is
found, viz. "jinn" with its feminine form "jinni." This was written in
English "genie" and was confused with the word "genius." The plural of
genie when used in this sense is genii, which is really the plural of the Latin
word genius.
macadamised. This is quite a modern word in English. It comes from the name
of the inventor of this kind of road-paving, who was Mr. J. L. Macadam. He
discovered that different layers of small stone rolled in, one after the other,
can stand the wear and tear of traffic. We have similar words from proper
names. Compare, boycott, burke, lynch, etc.
allude. From the Latin "ludere," to play. Compare prelude, interlude, delude,
collusion, elude, elusive, allusion.
guava. This word came into English from the Spanish. It is of great interest to
trace the names of the fruits in English back to their sources, e.g. currant,
comes from Corinth; mango from the Portuguese manga (from the Tamil
"mankay" fruit-tree); orange from the Arabic "narang" and Hindustani
"narangi"; apricot from Arabic al-burquq; date from the Greek "daktulos,"
 meaning "finger."
alphabet. The two first letters in the Greek language are called "alpha" and
"beta." Then the whole series of letters was named an alphabeta or alphabet.
consonants. From the Latin "sonare," meaning to sound. Consonants are letters
which "sound with" the vowels. Compare dissonant, assonance, sonant,
sonorous, sonata.
canal. This is one example of a word taken into English from the Latin, through
the French, having a companion word in English. The companion word in
this case is channel. Compare cavalry and chivalry, legal and loyal, guard
and ward.
dumbfounded. This word has come into the English language from common
speech. It is a mixture of the English word dumb, and the Latin "fundere,"
"to pour" which we find in confound, profound, confusion. It is not often
that we get such hybrid words in earlier English, though to-day they are
becoming common in the case of new words such as motorcar,
speedometer, airplane, waterplane, automobile, etc. The old rule used to be
that a compound word in English should have both its parts from the same
language (e.g. both parts Latin, or Greek, or Saxon, etc.). But this rule is
rapidly breaking down in common practice as new words rush into the
English language to express all the new discoveries of science. We have
English and Greek roots mixed (such as airplane), and Latin and Greek
roots mixed (such as oleograph).

THE CASTAWAY
 VIII

THE CASTAWAY
TOWARDS evening the storm was at its height. From the terrific downpour of rain,
the crash of thunder, and the repeated flashes of lightning, you might think that a
battle of the gods and demons was raging in the skies. Black clouds waved like
the Flags of Doom. The Ganges was lashed into a fury, and the trees of the
gardens on either bank swayed from side to side with sighs and groans.
In a closed room of one of the riverside houses at Chandernagore, a husband and
his wife were seated on a bed spread on the floor, intently discussing. An earthen
lamp burned beside them.
The husband, Sharat, was saying: "I wish you would stay on a few days more;
you would then be able to return home quite strong again."
The wife, Kiran, was saying: "I have quite recovered already. It will not, cannot
possibly, do me any harm to go home now."
Every married person will at once understand that the conversation was not quite
so brief as I have reported it. The matter was not difficult, but the arguments for
and against did not advance it towards a solution. Like a rudderless boat, the
discussion kept turning round and round the same point; and at last threatened to
be overwhelmed in a flood of tears.
Sharat said: "The doctor thinks you should stop here a few days longer."
Kiran replied: "Your doctor knows everything!"
"Well," said Sharat, "you know that just now all sorts of illnesses are abroad.
You would do well to stop here a month or two more."
"And at this moment I suppose every one in this place is perfectly well!"
What had happened was this: Kiran was a universal favourite with her family
and neighbours, so that, when she fell seriously ill, they were all anxious. The
village wiseacres thought it shameless for her husband to make so much fuss
about a mere wife and even to suggest a change of air, and asked if Sharat
supposed that no woman had ever been ill before, or whether he had found out
that the folk of the place to which he meant to take her were immortal. Did he
imagine that the writ of Fate did not run there? But Sharat and his mother turned
a deaf ear to them, thinking that the little life of their darling was of greater
importance than the united wisdom of a village. People are wont to reason thus
when danger threatens their loved ones. So Sharat went to Chandernagore, and
Kiran recovered, though she was still very weak. There was a pinched look on
her face which filled the beholder with pity, and made his heart tremble, as he
thought how narrowly she had escaped death.
Kiran was fond of society and amusement; the loneliness of her riverside villa
did not suit her at all. There was nothing to do, there were no interesting
neighbours, and she hated to be busy all day with medicine and dieting. There
was no fun in measuring doses and making fomentations. Such was the subject
discussed in their closed room on this stormy evening.
So long as Kiran deigned to argue, there was a chance of a fair fight. When she
ceased to reply, and with a toss of her head disconsolately looked the other way,
the poor man was disarmed. He was on the point of surrendering unconditionally
when a servant shouted a message through the shut door.
Sharat got up and on opening the door learnt that a boat had been upset in the
storm, and that one of the occupants, a young Brahmin boy, had succeeded in
swimming ashore at their garden.
Kiran was at once her own sweet self and set to work to get out some dry clothes
for the boy. She then warmed a cup of milk and invited him to her room.
The boy had long curly hair, big expressive eyes, and no sign yet of hair on the
face. Kiran, after getting him to drink some milk asked him all about himself.
He told her that his name was Nilkanta, and that he belonged to a theatrical
troupe. They were coming to play in a neighbouring villa when the boat had
suddenly foundered in the storm. He had no idea what had become of his
companions. He was a good swimmer and had just managed to reach the shore.
The boy stayed with them. His narrow escape from a terrible death made Kiran
take a warm interest in him. Sharat thought the boy's appearance at this moment
rather a good thing, as his wife would now have something to amuse her, and
might be persuaded to stay on for some time longer. Her mother-in-law, too, was
pleased at the prospect of profiting their Brahmin guest by her kindness. And
Nilkanta himself was delighted at his double escape from his master and from
the other world, as well as at finding a home in this wealthy family.
But in a short while Sharat and his mother changed their opinion, and longed for
his departure. The boy found a secret pleasure in smoking Sharat's hookahs; he
would calmly go off in pouring rain with Sharat's best silk umbrella for a stroll
through the village, and make friends with all whom he met. Moreover, he had
got hold of a mongrel village dog which he petted so recklessly that it came
indoors with muddy paws, and left tokens of its visit on Sharat's spotless bed.
Then he gathered about him a devoted band of boys of all sorts and sizes, and
the result was that not a solitary mango in the neighbourhood had a chance of
ripening that season.
There is no doubt that Kiran had a hand in spoiling the boy. Sharat often warned
her about it, but she would not listen to him. She made a dandy of him with
Sharat's cast-off clothes, and gave him new ones also. And because she felt
drawn towards him, and had a curiosity to know more about him, she was
constantly calling him to her own room. After her bath and midday meal Kiran
would be seated on the bedstead with her betel-leaf box by her side; and while
her maid combed and dried her hair, Nilkanta would stand in front and recite
pieces out of his repertory with appropriate gesture and song, his elf-locks
waving wildly. Thus the long afternoon hours passed merrily away. Kiran would
often try to persuade Sharat to sit with her as one of the audience, but Sharat,
who had taken a cordial dislike to the boy, refused; nor could Nilkanta do his
part half so well when Sharat was there. His mother would sometimes be lured
by the hope of hearing sacred names in the recitation; but love of her mid-day
sleep speedily overcame devotion, and she lay lapped in dreams.
The boy often got his ears boxed and pulled by Sharat, but as this was nothing to
what he had been used to as a member of the troupe, he did not mind it in the
least. In his short experience of the world he had come to the conclusion that, as
the earth consisted of land and water, so human life was made up of eatings and
beatings, and that the beatings largely predominated.
It was hard to tell Nilkanta's age. If it was about fourteen or fifteen, then his face
was too old for his years; if seventeen or eighteen, then it was too young. He was
either a man too early or a boy too late. The fact was that, joining the theatrical
band when very young, he had played the parts of Radhika, Damayanti, and Sita,
and a thoughtful Providence so arranged things that he grew to the exact stature
that his manager required, and then growth ceased.
Since every one saw how small Nilkanta was, and he himself felt small, he did
not receive due respect for his years. Causes, natural and artificial, combined to
make him sometimes seem immature for seventeen years, and at other times a
mere lad of fourteen but far too knowing even for seventeen. And as no sign of
hair appeared on his face, the confusion became greater. Either because he
smoked or because he used language beyond his years, his lips puckered into
lines that showed him to be old and hard; but innocence and youth shone in his
large eyes. I fancy that his heart remained young, but the hot glare of publicity
had been a forcing-house that ripened untimely his outward aspect.
In the quiet shelter of Sharat's house and garden at Chandernagore, Nature had
leisure to work her way unimpeded. Nilkanta had lingered in a kind of unnatural
youth, but now he silently and swiftly overpassed that stage. His seventeen or
eighteen years came to adequate revelation. No one observed the change, and its
first sign was this, that when Kiran treated him like a boy, he felt ashamed.
When the gay Kiran one day proposed that he should play the part of lady's
companion, the idea of woman's dress hurt him, though he could not say why. So
now, when she called for him to act over again his old characters, he
disappeared.
It never occurred to Nilkanta that he was even now not much more than a lad-of-
all-work in a strolling company. He even made up his mind to pick up a little
education from Sharat's factor. But, because he was the pet of his master's wife,
the factor could not endure the sight of him. Also, his restless training made it
impossible for him to keep his mind long engaged; sooner or later, the alphabet
did a misty dance before his eyes. He would sit long enough with an open book
on his lap, leaning against a champak bush beside the Ganges. The waves sighed
below, boats floated past, birds flitted and twittered restlessly above. What
thoughts passed through his mind as he looked down on that book he alone
knew, if indeed he did know. He never advanced from one word to another, but
the glorious thought, that he was actually reading a book, filled his soul with
exultation. Whenever a boat went by, he lifted his book, and pretended to be
reading hard, shouting at the top of his voice. But his energy dropped as soon as
the audience was gone.
Formerly he sang his songs automatically, but now their tunes stirred in his
mind. Their words were of little import and full of trifling alliteration. Even the
feeble meaning they had was beyond his comprehension; yet when he sang —
 Twice-born bird, ah! wherefore stirred
To wrong our royal lady?
Goose, ah, say why wilt thou slay
Her in forest shady?

then he felt as if transported to another world and to fear other folk. This familiar
earth and his own poor life became music, and he was transformed. That tale of
the goose and the king's daughter flung upon the mirror of his mind a picture of
surpassing beauty. It is impossible to say what he imagined himself to be, but the
destitute little slave of the theatrical troupe faded from his memory.
When with evening the child of want lies down, dirty and hungry, in his squalid
home, and hears of prince and princess and fabled gold, then in the dark hovel
with its dim flickering candle, his mind springs free from its bonds of poverty
and misery and walks in fresh beauty and glowing raiment, strong beyond all
fear of hindrance, through that fairy realm where all is possible.
Even so, this drudge of wandering players fashioned himself and his world anew,
as he moved in spirit amid his songs. The lapping water, rustling leaves, and
calling birds; the goddess who had given shelter to him, the helpless, the God-
forsaken; her gracious, lovely face, her exquisite arms with their shining bangles,
her rosy feet as soft as flower-petals; all these by some magic became one with
the music of his song. When the singing ended, the mirage faded, and the
Nilkanta of the stage appeared again, with his wild elf-locks. Fresh from the
complaints of his neighbour, the owner of the despoiled mango-orchard, Sharat
would come and box his ears and cuff him. The boy Nilkanta, the misleader of
adoring youths, went forth once more, to make ever new mischief by land and
water and in the branches that are above the earth.
Shortly after the advent of Nilkanta, Sharat's younger brother, Satish, came to
spend his college vacation with them. Kiran was hugely pleased at finding a
fresh occupation. She and Satish were of the same age, and the time passed
pleasantly in games and quarrels and reconciliations and laughter and even tears.
Suddenly she would clasp him over the eyes from behind with vermilion-stained
hands, or she would write "monkey" on his back, or else she would bolt the door
on him from the outside amidst peals of laughter. Satish in his turn did not take
things lying down; he would steal her keys and rings; he would put pepper
among her betel, he would tie her to the bed when she was not looking.
Meanwhile, heaven only knows what possessed poor Nilkanta. He was suddenly
filled with a bitterness which he must avenge on somebody or something. He
thrashed his devoted boy-followers for no fault, and sent them away crying. He
would kick his pet mongrel till it made the skies resound with its whinings.
When he went out for a walk, he would litter his path with twigs and leaves
beaten from the roadside shrubs with his cane.
Kiran liked to see people enjoying good fare. Nilkanta had an immense capacity
for eating, and never refused a good thing however often it was offered. So
Kiran liked to send for him to have his meals in her presence, and ply him with
delicacies, happy in the bliss of seeing this Brahmin boy eat to satiety. After
Satish's arrival she had much less spare time on her hands, and was seldom
present when Nilkanta's meals were served. Before, her absence made no
difference to the boy's appetite, and he would not rise till he had drained his cup
of milk and rinsed it thoroughly with water.
But now, if Kiran was not present to ask him to try this and that, he was
miserable, and nothing tasted right. He would get up, without eating much, and
say to the serving-maid in a choking voice: "I am not hungry." He thought in
imagination that the news of his repeated refusal, "I am not hungry," would reach
Kiran; he pictured her concern, and hoped that she would send for him, and press
him to eat. But nothing of the sort happened. Kiran never knew and never sent
for him; and the maid finished whatever he left. He would then put out the lamp
in his room, and throw himself on his bed in the darkness, burying his head in
the pillow in a paroxysm of sobs. What was his grievance? Against whom? And
from whom did he expect redress? At last, when no one else came, Mother Sleep
soothed with her soft caresses the wounded heart of the motherless lad.
Nilkanta came to the unshakable conviction that Satish was poisoning Kiran's
mind against him. If Kiran was absent-minded, and had not her usual smile, he
would jump to the conclusion that some trick of Satish had made her angry with
him. He took to praying to the gods, with all the fervour of his hate, to make him
at the next rebirth Satish, and Satish him. He had an idea that a Brahmin's wrath
could never be in vain; and the more he tried to consume Satish with the fire of
his curses, the more did his own heart burn within him. And upstairs he would
hear Satish laughing and joking with his sister-in-law.
Nilkanta never dared openly to show his enmity to Satish. But he would contrive
a hundred petty ways of causing him annoyance. When Satish went for a swim
in the river, and left his soap on the steps of the bathing-place, on coming back
for it he would find that it had disappeared. Once he found his favourite striped
tunic floating past him on the water, and thought it had been blown away by the
wind.
One day Kiran, desiring to entertain Satish, sent for Nilkanta to recite as usual,
but he stood there in gloomy silence. Quite surprised, Kiran asked him what was
the matter. But he remained silent. And when again pressed by her to repeat
some particular favourite piece of hers, he answered: "I don't remember," and
walked away.
At last the time came for their return home. Everybody was busy packing up.
Satish was going with them. But to Nilkanta nobody said a word. The question
whether he was to go or not seemed to have occurred to nobody.
The subject, as a matter of fact, had been raised by Kiran, who had proposed to
take him along with them. But her husband and his mother and brother had all
objected so strenuously that she let the matter drop. A couple of days before they
were to start, she sent for the boy, and with kind words advised him to go back to
his own home.
So many days had he felt neglected that this touch of kindness was too much for
him; he burst into tears. Kiran's eyes were also brimming over. She was filled
with remorse at the thought that she had created a tie of affection, which could
not be permanent.
But Satish was much annoyed at the blubbering of this overgrown boy. "Why
does the fool stand there howling instead of speaking?" said he. When Kiran
scolded him for an unfeeling creature, he replied: "My dear sister, you do not
understand. You are too good and trustful. This fellow turns up from the Lord
knows where, and is treated like a king. Naturally the tiger has no wish to
become a mouse again. And he has evidently discovered that there is nothing
like a tear or two to soften your heart."
Nilkanta hurriedly left the spot. He felt he would like to be a knife to cut Satish
to pieces; a needle to pierce him through and through; a fire to burn him to
ashes. But Satish was not even scared. It was only his own heart that bled and
bled.
Satish had brought with him from Calcutta a grand inkstand. The inkpot was set
in a mother-of-pearl boat drawn by a German-silver goose supporting a
penholder. It was a great favourite of his, and he cleaned it carefully every day
with an old silk handkerchief. Kiran would laugh, and tapping the silver bird's
beak would say —

Twice-born bird, ah! wherefore stirred

To wrong our royal lady?

and the usual war of words would break out between her and her brother-in-law.
The day before they were to start, the inkstand was missing and could nowhere
be found. Kiran smiled, and said: "Brother-in-law, your goose has flown off to
look for your Damayanti."
But Satish was in a great rage. He was certain that Nilkanta had stolen it—for
several people said they had seen him prowling about the room the night before.
He had the accused brought before him. Kiran also was there. "You have stolen
my inkstand, you thief!" he blurted out. "Bring it back at once." Nilkanta had
always taken punishment from Sharat, deserved or undeserved, with perfect
equanimity. But, when he was called a thief in Kiran's presence, his eyes blazed
with a fierce anger, his breast swelled, and his throat choked. If Satish had said
another word, he would have flown at him like a wild cat and used his nails like
claws.
Kiran was greatly distressed at the scene, and taking the boy into another room
said in her sweet, kind way: "Nilu, if you really have taken that inkstand give it
to me quietly, and I shall see that no one says another word to you about it." Big
tears coursed down the boy's cheeks, till at last he hid his face in his hands, and
wept bitterly. Kiran came back from the room and said: "I am sure Nilkanta has
not taken the inkstand." Sharat and Satish were equally positive that no other
than Nilkanta could have done it.
But Kiran said determinedly: "Never."
Sharat wanted to cross-examine the boy, but his wife refused to allow it.
Then Satish suggested that his room and box should be searched. And Kiran
said: "If you dare do such a thing I will never forgive you. You shall not spy on
the poor innocent boy." And as she spoke, her wonderful eyes filled with tears.
That settled the matter and effectually prevented any further molestation of
Nilkanta.
Kiran's heart overflowed with pity at this attempted outrage on a homeless lad.
She got two new suits of clothes and a pair of shoes, and with these and a
banknote in her hand she quietly went into Nilkanta's room in the evening. She
intended to put these parting presents into his box as a surprise. The box itself
had been her gift.
From her bunch of keys she selected one that fitted and noiselessly opened the
box. It was so jumbled up with odds and ends that the new clothes would not go
in. So she thought she had better take everything out and pack the box for him.
At first knives, tops, kite-flying reels, bamboo twigs, polished shells for peeling
green mangoes, bottoms of broken tumblers and such like things dear to a boy's
heart were discovered. Then there came a layer of linen, clean and otherwise.
And from under the linen there emerged the missing inkstand, goose and all.
Kiran, with flushed face, sat down helplessly with the inkstand in her hand,
puzzled and wondering.
In the meantime, Nilkanta had come into the room from behind without Kiran
knowing it. He had seen the whole thing and thought that Kiran had come like a
thief to catch him in his thieving,—and that his deed was out. How could he ever
hope to convince her that he was not a thief, and that only revenge had prompted
him to take the inkstand, which he meant to throw into the river at the first
chance? In a weak moment he had put it in the box instead. "He was not a thief,"
his heart cried out, "not a thief!" Then what was he? What could he say? That he
had stolen, and yet he was not a thief? He could never explain to Kiran how
grievously wrong she was. And then, how could he bear the thought that she had
tried to spy on him?
At last Kiran with a deep sigh replaced the inkstand in the box, and, as if she
were the thief herself, covered it up with the linen and the trinkets as they were
before; and at the top she placed the presents, together with the banknote which
she had brought for him.
The next day the boy was nowhere to be found. The villagers had not seen him;
the police could discover no trace of him. Said Sharat: "Now, as a matter of
curiosity, let us have a look at his box." But Kiran was obstinate in her refusal to
allow that to be done.
She had the box brought up to her own room; and taking out the inkstand alone,
she threw it into the river.
The whole family went home. In a day the garden became desolate. And only
that starving mongrel of Nilkanta's remained prowling along the river-bank,
whining and whining as if its heart would break.

WORDS TO BE STUDIED

favourite. A certain number of words such as honour, colour, favour, ardour,

fervour have come into English through the French from the Latin. There is
a constant tendency to-day in modern English to leave out the letter "u" and
spell color, favor, etc. But this movement has not yet gained much ground
in England.
wiseacres. This form originally comes from the Dutch. The ending "acres" is a
corruption of the Dutch "seggen" which is the same as the English to say.
The word is equivalent to "wise-sayers."
deign. This is a word which comes through the French from the Latin "dignus,"
meaning worthy. Compare indignant, dignitary, condign, indignity.
troupe. An example of two words, with slightly different meanings, coming
from one and the same French word. The French word is "troupe," meaning
a company. This form is used in English for a company of players or actors.
But the form "troop" is used chiefly of soldiers.
automatically. This is a modern English word from the Greek "autos," meaning
self. Compare autobiography, autonomy, autocracy. Modern English is
drawing largely from the Greek language for its new words.
alliteration. The Latin word for letter is "littera." From this we get many English
words, e.g. letter, literate, literal, literature, illiterate, obliterate,
transliterate, etc.
mirage. From the Latin "mirari," to wonder. Compare mirror, miracle, admire.
This is one of the words in English which keeps the old French accent on
the last syllable—miráge. The tendency in English is always to throw the
accent back as far as possible. Many words have changed their
pronunciation in the course of time. Obdurate, in Milton's time, was
pronounced obdúrate, but to-day it is pronounced óbdurate. Trafalgar was
pronounced Trafalgár last century. Now we pronounce it Trafálgar.
THE SON OF RASHMANI
 IX

THE SON OF RASHMANI

I

KALIPADA's mother was Rashmani, but she had to do the duty of the father as
well, because when both of the parents are "mother" then it is bad for the child.
Bhavani, her husband, was wholly incapable of keeping his children under
discipline. To know why he was bent on spoiling his son, you must hear
something of the former history of the family.
Bhavani was born in the famous house of Saniari. His father, Abhaya Charan,
had a son, Shyama Charan, by his first wife. When he married again after her
death he had himself passed the marriageable age, and his new father-in-law
took advantage of the weakness of his position to have a special portion of his
estate settled on his daughter. In this way he was satisfied that proper provision
had been made, if his daughter should become a widow early in life. She would
be independent of the charity of Shyama Charan.
The first part of his anticipation came true. For very soon after the birth of a son,
whom she called Bhavani, Abhaya Charan died. It gave the father-in-law great
peace and consolation, as he looked forward to his own death, to know that his
daughter was properly looked after.
Shyama Charan was quite grown up. In fact his own eldest boy was a year older
than Bhavani. He brought up the latter with his own son. In doing this he never
took a farthing from the property allotted to his step-mother, and every year he
got a receipt from her after submitting detailed accounts. His honesty in this
affair surprised the neighbourhood. In fact they thought that such honesty was
another name for foolishness. They did not like the idea of a division being made
in the undivided ancestral property. If Shyama Charan in some underhand
manner had been able to annul the dowry, his neighbours would have admired
his sagacity; and there were good advisers ready to hand who could have
rendered him material aid in the attainment of such an object. But Shyama
Charan, in spite of the risk of crippling his patrimony, strictly set aside the
dowry which came to the share of his step-mother; and the widow, Vraja
Sundari, being naturally affectionate and trustful, had every confidence in
Shyama Charan whom she trusted as her own son. More than once she had
chided him for being so particular about her portion of the property. She would
tell him that, as she was not going to take her property with her when she died,
and as it would in any case revert to the family, it was not necessary to be so
very strict about rendering accounts. But he never listened to her.
Shyama Charan was a severe disciplinarian by habit and his children were
perfectly aware of the fact. But Bhavani had every possible freedom, and this
gave rise to the impression that he was more partial to his step-brother than to
his own sons. But Bhavani's education was sadly neglected and he completely
relied on Shyama Charan for the management of his share of the property. He
merely had to sign documents occasionally without ever spending a thought on
their contents. On the other hand, Tarapada, the eldest son of Shyama Charan,
was quite an expert in the management of the estate, having to act as an assistant
to his father.
After the death of Shyama Charan, Tarapada said to Bhavani, "Uncle, we must
not live together as we have done for so long, because some trifling
misunderstanding may come at any moment and cause utter disruption."
Bhavani never imagined, even in his dream, that a day might come when he
would have to manage his own affairs. The world in which he had been born and
bred ever appeared to him complete and entire in itself. It was an
incomprehensible calamity to him that there could be a dividing line somewhere
and that this world of his could be split into two. When he found that Tarapada
was immovable and indifferent to the grief and dishonour that such a step would
bring to the family, he began to rack his brain to find out how the property could
be divided with the least possible strain.
Tarapada showed surprise at his uncle's anxiety and said that there was no need
to trouble about this, because the division had already been made in the life-time
of his grandfather. Bhavani said in amazement, "But I know nothing of this!"
Tarapada said in answer, "Then you must be the only one in the whole
neighbourhood who does not. For, lest there should be ruinous litigation after he
had gone, my grandfather had already given a portion of the property to your
mother." Bhavani thought this not unlikely and asked, "What about the house?"
Tarapada said, "If you wish, you can keep this house to yourself and we shall be
contented with the other house in the district town."
As Bhavani had never been to this town-house, he had neither knowledge of it,
nor affection for it. He was astounded at the magnanimity of Tarapada for so
easily relinquishing his right to the house in the village where they had been
brought up. But when Bhavani told everything to his mother, she struck her
forehead with her hand and said: "This is preposterous! What I got from my
husband was my own dowry and its income is very small. I do not see why you
should be deprived of your share in your father's property."
Bhavani said, "Tarapada is quite positive that his grandfather never gave us any
thing except this land."
Vraja Sundari was astonished and informed her son that her husband had made
two copies of his will, one of which was still lying in her own box. The box was
opened and it was found that there was only the deed of gift for the property
belonging to the mother and nothing else. The copy of the will had been taken
out.
The help of advisers was sought. The man who came to their rescue was Bagala,
the son of their family guru. It was the profession of the father to look after the
spiritual needs of the village; the material side was left to the son. The two of
them had divided between themselves the other world and this. Whatever might
be the result for others, they themselves had nothing to suffer from this division.
Bagala said that, even if the will was missing, the shares in the ancestral property
must be equal, as between the brothers.
Just at this time, a copy of a will made its appearance supporting the claims of
the other side. In this document there was no mention of Bhavani and the whole
property was given to the grandsons at the time when no son was born to
Bhavani. With Bagala as his captain Bhavani set out on his voyage across the
perilous sea of litigation. When his vessel at last reached harbour his funds were
nearly exhausted and the ancestral property was in the hands of the other party.
The land which was given to his mother had dwindled to such an extent, that it
could barely give them shelter, or keep up the family dignity. Then Tarapada
went away to the district town and they never met again.

II

Shyama Charan's treachery pierced the heart of the widow like an assassin's
knife. To the end of her life, almost every day she would heave a sigh and say
that God would never suffer such an injustice to be done. She was quite firm in
her faith when she said to Bhavani, "I do not know your law or your law courts,
but I am certain that my husband's true will and testament will someday be
recovered. You will find it again."
Because Bhavani was helpless in worldly matters such assurances as these gave
him great consolation. He settled down in his inactivity, certain in his own mind
that his pious mother's prophecy could never remain unfulfilled. After his
mother's death his faith became all the stronger, since the memory of her piety
acquired greater radiance through death's mystery. He felt quite unconcerned
about the stress of their poverty which became more and more formidable as the
years went by. The necessities of life and the maintenance of family traditions,—
these seemed to him like play acting on a temporary stage, not real things. When
his former expensive clothing was outworn and he had to buy cheap materials in
the shop, this amused him almost like a joke. He smiled and said to himself,
—"These people do not know that this is only a passing phase of my fortune.
Their surprise will be all the greater, when some day I shall celebrate the Puja
Festival with unwonted magnificence."
This certainty of future prodigality was so clear to his mind's eye that present
penury escaped his attention. His servant, Noto, was the principal companion
with whom he had discussions about these things. They used to have animated
conversations, in which sometimes his opinion differed from his master's, as to
the propriety of bringing down a theatrical troupe from Calcutta for these future
occasions. Noto used to get reprimands from Bhavani for his natural miserliness
in these items of future expenditure.
While Bhavani's one anxiety was about the absence of an heir, who could inherit
his vast possible wealth, a son was born to him. The horoscope plainly indicated
that the lost property would come back to this boy.
From the time of the birth of his son, Bhavani's attitude was changed. It became
cruelly difficult for him now to bear his poverty with his old amused equanimity,
because he felt that he had a duty towards this new representative of the
illustrious house of Saniari, who had such a glorious future before him. That the
traditional extravagance could not be maintained on the occasion of the birth of
his child gave him the keenest sorrow. He felt as if he were cheating his own
son. So he compensated his boy with an inordinate amount of spoiling.
Bhavani's wife, Rashmani, had a different temperament from her husband. She
never felt any anxiety about the family traditions of the Chowdhuris of Saniari.
Bhavani was quite aware of the fact and indulgently smiled to himself, as though
nothing better could be expected from a woman who came from a Vaishnava
family of very humble lineage. Rashmani frankly acknowledged that she could
not share the family sentiments: what concerned her most was the welfare of her
own child.
There was hardly an acquaintance in the neighbourhood with whom Bhavani did
not discuss the question of the lost will; but he never spoke a word about it to his
wife. Once or twice he had tried, but her perfect unconcern had made him drop
the subject. She neither paid attention to the past greatness of the family, nor to
its future glories,—she kept her mind busy with the actual necessities of the
present, and those necessities were not small in number or quality.
When the Goddess of Fortune deserts a house, she usually leaves some of her
burdens behind, and this ancient family was still encumbered with its host of
dependents, though its own shelter was nearly crumbling to dust. These parasites
take it to be an insult if they are asked to do any service. They get head-aches at
the least touch of the kitchen smoke. They are visited with sudden rheumatism
the moment they are asked to run errands. Therefore all the responsibilities of
maintaining the family were laid upon Rashmani herself. Women lose their
delicacy of refinement, when they are compelled night and day to haggle with
their destiny over things which are pitifully small, and for this they are blamed
by those for whom they toil.
Besides her household affairs Rashmani had to keep all the accounts of the little
landed property which remained and also to make arrangements for collecting
rents. Never before was the estate managed with such strictness. Bhavani had
been quite incapable of collecting his dues: Rashmani never made any remission
of the least fraction of rent. The tenants, and even her own agents, reviled her
behind her back for the meanness of the family from which she came. Even her
husband occasionally used to enter his protest against the harsh economy which
went against the grain of the world-famed house of Saniari.
Rashmani quite ungrudgingly took the blame of all this upon herself and openly
confessed the poverty of her parents. Tying the end of her sari tightly round her
waist she went on with her household duties in her own vigorous fashion and
made herself thoroughly disagreeable both to the inmates of the house and to her
neighbours. But nobody ever had the courage to interfere. Only one thing she
carefully avoided. She never asked her husband to help her in any work and she
was nervously afraid of his taking up any responsibilities. Indeed she was always
furiously engaged in keeping her husband idle; and because he had received the
best possible training in this direction she was wholly successful in her mission.
Rashmani had attained middle age before her son came. Up to this time all the
pent-up tenderness of the mother in her and all the love of the wife had their
centre of devotion in this simple-hearted good-for-nothing husband. Bhavani
was a child grown up by mistake beyond its natural age. This was the reason
why, after the death of her husband's mother, she had to assume the position of
mother and mistress in one.
In order to protect her husband from invasions of Bagala, the son of the guru,
and other calamities, Rashmani adopted such a stern demeanour, that the
companions of her husband used to be terribly afraid of her. She never had the
opportunity, which a woman usually has, of keeping her fierceness hidden and of
softening the keen edge of her words,—maintaining a dignified reserve towards
men such as is proper for a woman.
Bhavani meekly accepted his wife's authority with regard to himself, but it
became extremely hard for him to obey her when it related to Kalipada, his son.
The reason was, that Rashmani never regarded Bhavani's son from the point of
view of Bhavani himself. In her heart she pitied her husband and said, "Poor
man, it was no fault of his, but his misfortune, to be born into a rich family."
That is why she never could expect her husband to be deprived of any comfort to
which he had been accustomed. Whatever might be the condition of the
household finance, she tried hard to keep him in his habitual ease and luxury.
Under her regime all expense was strictly limited except in the case of Bhavani.
She would never allow him to notice if some inevitable gap occurred in the
preparation of his meals or his apparel. She would blame some imaginary dog
for spoiling dishes that were never made and would blame herself for her
carelessness. She would attack Noto for letting some fictitious article of dress be
stolen or lost. This had the usual effect of rousing Bhavani's sympathy on behalf
of his favourite servant and he would take up his defence. Indeed it had often
happened that Bhavani had confessed with bare-faced shamelessness that he had
used the dress which had never been bought, and for whose loss Noto was
blamed; but what happened afterwards, he had not the power to invent and was
obliged to rely upon the fertile imagination of his wife who was also the accuser!
Thus Rashmani treated her husband, but she never put her son in the same
category. For he was her own child and why should he be allowed to give
himself airs? Kalipada had to be content for his breakfast with a few handfuls of
puffed rice and some treacle. During the cold weather he had to wrap his body as
well as his head with a thick rough cotton chaddar. She would call his teacher
before her and warn him never to spare her boy, if he was the least neglectful
with his lessons. This treatment of his own son was the hardest blow that
Bhavani Charan suffered since the days of his destitution. But as he had always
acknowledged defeat at the hands of the powerful, he had not the spirit to stand
up against his wife in her method of dealing with the boy.
The dress which Rashmani provided for her son, during the Puja festivities, was
made of such poor material that in former days the very servants of the house
would have rebelled if it had been offered to them. But Rashmani more than
once tried her best to explain to her husband that Kalipada, being the most recent
addition to the Chowdhuri family, had never known their former splendour and
so was quite glad to get what was given to him. But this pathetic innocence of
the boy about his own destiny hurt Bhavani more than anything else, and he
could not forgive himself for deceiving the child. When Kalipada would dance
for joy and rush to him to show him some present from his mother, which was
ridiculously trivial, Bhavani's heart would suffer torture.
Bagala, the guru's son, was now in an affluent condition owing to his agency in
the law suit which had brought about the ruin of Bhavani. With the money which
he had in hand he used to buy cheap tinsel wares from Calcutta before the Puja
holidays. Invisible ink,—absurd combinations of stick, fishing-rod and umbrella,
—letter-paper with pictures in the corner,—silk fabrics bought at auctions, and
other things of this kind, attractive to the simple villagers,—these were his stock
in trade. All the forward young men of the village vied with one another in rising
above their rusticity by purchasing these sweepings of the Calcutta market
which, they were told, were absolutely necessary for the city gentry.
Once Bagala had bought a wonderful toy,—a doll in the form of a foreign
woman,—which, when wound up, would rise from her chair and begin to fan
herself with sudden alacrity. Kalipada was fascinated by it. He had a very good
reason to avoid asking his mother about the toy; so he went straight to his father
and begged him to purchase it for him. Bhavani answered "yes" at once, but
when he heard the price his face fell. Rashmani kept all the money and he went
to her as a timid beggar. He began with all sorts of irrelevant remarks and then
took a desperate plunge into the subject with startling incoherence.
Rashmani briefly remarked: "Are you mad?" Bhavani Charan sat silent
revolving in his mind what to say next.
"Look here," he exclaimed, "I don't think I need milk pudding daily with my
dinner."
"Who told you?" said Rashmani sharply.
"The doctor says it's very bad for biliousness."
"The doctor's a fool!"
"But I'm sure that rice agrees with me better than your luchis. They are too
indigestible."
"I've never seen the least sign of indigestion in you. You have been accustomed
to them all your life!"
Bhavani Charan was ready enough to make sacrifices, but there his passage was
barred. Butter might rise in price, but the number of his luchis never diminished.
Milk was quite enough for him at his midday meal, but curds also had to be
supplied because that was the family tradition. Rashmani could not have borne
seeing him sit down to his meal, if curds were not supplied. Therefore all his
attempts to make a breach in his daily provisions, through which the fanning
foreign woman might enter, were an utter failure.
Then Bhavani paid a visit to Bagala for no reason whatever, and after a great
deal of round about talk asked concerning the foreign doll. Of course his
straightened circumstances had long been known to Bagala, yet it was a perfect
misery to Bhavani to have to hesitate to buy this doll for his son owing to want
of ready money. Swallowing his pride, he brought out from under his arm an
expensive old Kashmir shawl, and said in a husky voice: "My circumstances are
bad just at present and I haven't got much cash. So I have determined to
mortgage this shawl and buy that doll for Kalipada."
If the object offered had been less expensive than this Kashmir shawl, Bagala
would at once have closed the bargain. But knowing that it would not be possible
for him to take possession of this shawl in face of the village opinion, and still
more in face of Rashmani's watchfulness, he refused to accept it; and Bhavani
had to go back home disappointed with the Kashmir shawl hidden under his arm.
Kalipada asked every day for that foreign fanning toy, and Bhavani smiled every
day and said,—"Wait, a bit, my boy, till the seventh day of the moon comes
round." But every new day it became more and more difficult to keep up that
smile.
On the fourth day of the moon Bhavani made a sudden inroad upon his wife and
said:
"I've noticed that there's something wrong with Kalipada,—something the matter
with his health."
"Nonsense," said Rashmani, "he's in the best of health."
"Haven't you noticed him sitting silent for hours together?"
"I should be very greatly relieved if he could sit still for as many minutes."
When all his arrows had missed their mark, and no impression had been made,
Bhavani Charan heaved a deep sigh and passing his fingers through his hair went
away and sat down on the verandah and began to smoke with fearful assiduity.
On the fifth day, at his morning meal, Bhavani passed by the curds and the milk
pudding without touching them. In the evening he simply took one single piece
of sandesh. The luchis were left unheeded. He complained of want of appetite.
This time a considerable breach was made in the fortifications.
On the sixth day, Rashmani took Kalipada into the room and sweetly calling him
by his pet name said, "Betu, you are old enough to know that it is the halfway
house to stealing to desire that which you can't have."
Kalipada whimpered and said, "What do I know about it? Father promised to
give me that doll."
Rashmani sat down to explain to him how much lay behind his father's promise,
—how much pain, how much affection, how much loss and privation. Rashmani
had never in her life before talked thus to Kalipada, because it was her habit to
give short and sharp commands. It filled the boy with amazement when he found
his mother coaxing him and explaining things at such a length, and mere child
though he was, he could fathom something of the deep suffering of his mother's
heart. Yet at the same time it will be easily understood, that it was hard for this
boy to turn his mind away altogether from that captivating foreign fanning
woman. He pulled a long face and began to scratch the ground.
This made Rashmani's heart at once hard, and she said in her severe tone: "Yes,
you may weep and cry, or become angry, but you shall never get that which is
not for you to have." And she hastened away without another word.
Kalipada went out. Bhavani Charan was still smoking his hookah. Noticing
Kalipada from a distance he got up and walked in the opposite direction as if he
had some urgent business. Kalipada ran to him and said,—"But that doll?"
Bhavani could not raise a smile that day. He put his arm round Kalipada's neck
and said:
"Baba, wait a little. I have some pressing business to get through. Let me finish it
first, and then we will talk about it." Saying this, he went out of his house.
Kalipada saw him brush a tear from his eyes. He stood at the door and watched
his father, and it was quite evident, even to this boy, that he was going nowhere
in particular, and that he was dragging the weight of a despair which could not
be relieved.
Kalipada at once went back to his mother and said:
"Mother, I don't want that foreign doll."
That morning Bhavani Charan returned late. When he sat down to his meal, after
his bath, it was quite evident, by the look on his face, that the curds and the milk
pudding would fare no better with him than on the day before, and that the best
part of the fish would go to the cat.
Just at this critical juncture Rashmani brought in a card-board box, bound round
with twine, and set it before her husband. Her intention had been to reveal the
mystery of this packet to her husband when he went to take his nap after his
meal. But in order to remove the undeserved neglect of the curds and the milk
and the fish, she had to disclose its contents before the time. So the foreign doll
came out of the box and without more ado began to fan itself vigorously.
After this, the cat had to go away disappointed. Bhavani remarked to his wife
that the cooking was the best he had ever tasted. The fish soup was
incomparable: the curds had set themselves with an exactness that was rarely
attained, and the milk pudding was superb.
On the seventh day of the moon, Kalipada got the toy for which he had been
pining. During the whole of that day he allowed the foreigner to go on fanning
herself and thereby made his boy companions jealous. In any other case this
performance would have seemed to him monotonously tiresome, but knowing
that on the following day he would have to give the toy back, his constancy to it
on that single occasion remained unabated. At the rental of two rupees per diem
Rashmani had hired it from Bagala.
On the eighth day of the moon, Kalipada heaved a deep sigh and returned the
toy, along with the box and twine, to Bagala with his own hands. From that day
forward Kalipada began to share the confidences of his mother, and it became so
absurdly easy for Bhavani to give expensive presents every year, that it surprised
even himself.
When, with the help of his mother, Kalipada came to know that nothing in this
world could be gained without paying for it with the inevitable price of
suffering, he rapidly grew up in his mind and became a valued assistant to his
mother in her daily tasks. It come to be a natural rule of life with him that no one
should add to the burden of the world, but that each should try to lighten it.
When Kalipada won a scholarship at the Vernacular examination, Bhavani
proposed that he should give up his studies and take in hand the supervision of
the estate. Kalipada went to his mother and said,—"I shall never be a man, if I
do not complete my education."
The mother said,—"You are right, Baba, you must go to Calcutta."
Kalipada explained to her that it would not be necessary to spend a single pice
on him; his scholarship would be sufficient, and he would try to get some work
to supplement it.
But it was necessary to convince Bhavani of the wisdom of the course.
Rashmani did not wish to employ the argument that there was very little of the
estate remaining to require supervision; for she knew how it would hurt him. She
said that Kalipada must become a man whom everyone could respect. But all the
members of the Chowdhuri family had attained their respectability without ever
going a step outside the limits of Saniari. The outer world was as unknown to
them as the world beyond the grave. Bhavani, therefore, could not conceive how
anybody could think of a boy like Kalipada going to Calcutta. But the cleverest
man in the village, Bagala, fortunately agreed with Rashmani.
"It is perfectly clear," he said, "that, one day, Kalipada will become a lawyer; and
then he will set matters right concerning the property of which the family has
been deprived."
This was a great consolation to Bhavani Charan and he brought out the file of
records about the theft of the will and tried to explain the whole thing to
Kalipada by dint of daily discussion. But his son was lacking in proper
enthusiasm and merely echoed his father's sentiment about this solemn wrong.
The day before Kalipada's departure for Calcutta Rashmani hung round his neck
an amulet containing some mantras to protect him from evils. She gave him at
the same time a fifty-rupee currency note, advising him to keep it for any special
emergency. This note, which was the symbol of his mother's numberless daily
acts of self-denial, was the truest amulet of all for Kalipada. He determined to
keep it by him and never to spend it, whatever might happen.

III

From this time onward the old interminable discussions about the theft of the
will became less frequent on the part of Bhavani. His one topic of conversation
was the marvellous adventure of Kalipada in search of his education. Kalipada
was actually engaged in his studies in the city of Calcutta! Kalipada knew
Calcutta as well as the palm of his hand! Kalipada had been the first to hear the
great news that another bridge was going to be built over the Ganges near
Hughli! The day on which the father received his son's letter, he would go to
every house in the village to read it to his neighbours and he would hardly find
time even to take his spectacles from his nose. On arriving at a fresh house he
would remove them from their case with the utmost deliberation; then he would
wipe them carefully with the end of his dhoti; then, word by word, he would
slowly read the letter through to one neighbour after another, with something
like the following comment:—
"Brother, just listen! What is the world coming to? Even the dogs and the jackals
are to cross the holy Ganges without washing the dust from their feet! Who
could imagine such a sacrilege?"
No doubt it was very deplorable; but all the same it gave Bhavani Charan a
peculiar pleasure to communicate at first hand such important news from his
own son's letter, and this more than compensated for the spiritual disaster which
must surely overtake the numberless creatures of this present age. To everyone
he met he solemnly nodded his head and prophesied that the days were soon
coming when Mother Ganges would disappear altogether; all the while
cherishing the hope that the news of such a momentous event would come to
him by letter from his own son in the proper time.
Kalipada, with very great difficulty, scraped together just enough money to pay
his expenses till he passed his Matriculation and again won a scholarship.
Bhavani at once made up his mind to invite all the village to a feast, for he
imagined that his son's good ship of fortune had now reached its haven and there
would be no more occasion for economy. But he received no encouragement
from Rashmani.
Kalipada was fortunate enough to secure a place of study in a students' lodging
house near his college. The proprietor allowed him to occupy a small room on
the ground floor which was absolutely useless for other lodgers. In exchange for
this and his board, he had to coach the son of the owner of the house. The one
great advantage was that there would be no chance of any fellow lodger ever
sharing his quarters. So, although ventilation was lacking, his studies were
uninterrupted.
Those of the students who paid their rent and lived in the upper story had no
concern with Kalipada; but soon it became painfully evident that those who are
up above have the power to hurl missiles at those below with all the more deadly
force because of their distance. The leader of those above was Sailen.
Sailen was the scion of a rich family. It was unnecessary for him to live in a
students' mess, but he successfully convinced his guardians that this would be
best for his studies. The real reason was that Sailen was naturally fond of
company, and the students' lodging house was an ideal place where he could
have all the pleasure of companionship without any of its responsibilities. It was
the firm conviction of Sailen that he was a good fellow and a man of feeling.
The advantage of harbouring such a conviction was that it needed no proof in
practice. Vanity is not like a horse or an elephant requiring expensive fodder.
Nevertheless, as Sailen had plenty of money he did not allow his vanity merely
to graze at large; he took special pride in keeping it stall-fed. It must be said to
his credit that he had a genuine desire to help people in their need, but the desire
in him was of such a character, that if a man in difficulty refused to come to him
for help, he would turn round on him and do his best to add to his trouble. His
mess mates had their tickets for the theatre bought for them by Sailen, and it cost
them nothing to have occasional feasts. They could borrow money from him
without meaning to pay it back. When a newly married youth was in doubt about
the choice of some gift for his wife, he could fully rely on Sailen's good taste in
the matter. On these occasions the love-lorn youth would take Sailen to the shop
and pretend to select the cheapest and least suitable presents: then Sailen, with a
contemptuous laugh would intervene and select the right thing. At the mention
of the price the young husband would pull a long face, but Sailen would always
be ready to abide by his own superior choice and to pay the cost.
In this manner Sailen became the acknowledged patron of the students upstairs.
It made him intolerant of the insolence of any one who refused to accept his
help. Indeed, to help others in this way had become his hobby.
Kalipada, in his tattered jersey, used to sit on a dirty mat in his damp room
below and recite his lessons, swinging himself from side to side to the rhythm of
the sentence. It was a sheer necessity for him to get that scholarship next year.
Kalipada's mother had made him promise, before he left home for Calcutta that
he would avoid the company of rich young men. Therefore he bore the burden of
his indigence alone, strictly keeping himself from those who had been more
favoured by fortune. But to Sailen, it seemed a sheer impertinence that a student
as poor as Kalipada should yet have the pride to keep away from his patronage.
Besides this, in his food and dress and everything, Kalipada's poverty was so
blatantly exposed, it hurt Sailen's sense of decency. Every time he looked down
into Kalipada's room, he was offended by the sight of the cheap clothing, the
dingy mosquito net and the tattered bedding. Whenever he passed on his way to
his own room in the upper story the sight of these things was unavoidable. To
crown it all there was that absurd amulet which Kalipada always had hanging
round his neck, and those daily rites of devotion which were so ridiculously out
of fashion!
One day Sailen and his followers condescended to invite Kalipada to a feast,
thinking that his gratitude would know no bounds. But Kalipada sent an answer
saying that his habits were different and it would not be wholesome for him to
accept the invitation. Sailen was unaccustomed to such a refusal, and it roused
up in him all the ferocity of his insulted benevolence. For some days after this,
the noise on the upper story became so loudly insistent that it was impossible for
Kalipada to go on with his studies. He was compelled to spend the greater part of
his days studying in the Park, and to get up very early and sit down to his work
long before it was light.
Owing to his half-starved condition, his mental overwork, and badly-ventilated
room, Kalipada began to suffer from continual attacks of headache. There were
times when he was obliged to lie down on his bed for three or four days together.
But he made no mention of his illness in his letters to his father. Bhavani himself
was certain that, just as vegetation grew rank in his village surroundings, so
comforts of all kinds sprang up of themselves from the soil of Calcutta. Kalipada
never for a moment disabused his mind of that misconception. He did not fail to
write to his father, even when suffering from one of these paroxysms of pain.
The deliberate rowdiness of the students in the upper story added at such times
to his distress.
Kalipada tried to make himself as scarce and small as possible, in order to avoid
notice; but this did not bring him relief. One day, he found that a cheap shoe of
his own had been taken away and replaced by an expensive foreign one. It was
impossible for him to go to college with such an incongruous pair. He made no
complaint, however, but bought some old second-hand shoes from the cobbler.
One day, a student from the upper story came into his room and asked him:
"Have you, by any mistake, brought away my silver cigarette case with you?"
Kalipada got annoyed and answered:
"I have never been inside your room in my life."
The student stooped down. "Hullo!" he said, "here it is!" And the valuable
cigarette case was picked up from the corner of the room.
Kalipada determined to leave this lodging house as soon as ever he had passed
his Intermediate Examination, provided only he could get a scholarship to enable
him to do so.
Every year the students of the house used to have their annual Saraswati Puja.
Though the greater part of the expenses fell to the share of Sailen, every one else
contributed according to his means. The year before, they had contemptuously
left out Kalipada from the list of contributors; but this year, merely to tease him,
they came with their subscription book. Kalipada instantly paid five rupees to
the fund, though he had no intention of participating in the feast. His penury had
long brought on him the contempt of his fellow lodgers, but this unexpected gift
of five rupees became to them insufferable. The Saraswati Puja was performed
with great éclat and the five rupees could easily have been spared. It had been
hard indeed for Kalipada to part with it. While he took the food given him in his
landlord's house he had no control over the time at which it was served. Besides
this, since the servants brought him the food, he did not like to criticise the
dishes. He preferred to provide himself with some extra things; and after the
forced extravagance of his five-rupee subscription he had to forgo all this and
suffered in consequence. His paroxysms of headache became more frequent, and
though he passed his examination, he failed to obtain the scholarship that he
desired.
The loss of the scholarship drove Kalipada to do extra work as a private tutor
and to stick to the same unhealthy room in the lodging house. The students
overhead had hoped that they would be relieved of his presence. But punctually
to the day the room was unlocked on the lower floor. Kalipada entered, clad in
the same old dirty check Parsee coat. A coolie from Sealdah Station took down
from his head a steel trunk and other miscellaneous packages and laid them on
the floor of the room; and a long wrangle ensued as to the proper amount of pice
that were due.
In the depths of those packages there were mango chutnies and other condiments
which his mother had specially prepared. Kalipada was aware that, in his
absence, the upper-story students, in search of a jest, did not scruple to come into
his room by stealth.
He was especially anxious to keep these home gifts from their cruel scrutiny. As
tokens of home affection they were supremely precious to him; but to the town
students, they denoted merely the boorishness of poverty-stricken villagers. The
vessels were crude and earthen, fastened up by an earthen lid fixed on with paste
of flour. They were neither glass nor porcelain, and therefore sure to be regarded
with insolent disdain by rich town-bred people.
Formerly Kalipada used to keep these stores hidden under his bed, covering
them up with old newspapers. But this time he took the precaution of always
locking up his door, even if he went out for a few minutes. This still further
roused the spleen of Sailen and his party. It seemed to them preposterous that the
room which was poor enough to draw tears from the eyes of the most hardened
burglar should be as carefully guarded as if it were a second Bank of Bengal.
"Does he actually believe," they said among themselves, "that the temptation
will be irresistible for us to steal that Parsee coat?"
Sailen had never visited this dark and mildewed room from which the plaster
was dropping. The glimpses that he had taken, while going up-stairs,—
especially when, in the evening, Kalipada, the upper part of his body bare, would
sit poring over his books with a smoky lamp beside him,—were enough to give
him a sense of suffocation. Sailen asked his boon companions to explore the
room below and find out the treasure which Kalipada had hidden. Everybody felt
intensely amused at the proposal.
The lock on Kalipada's door was a cheap one, which had the magnanimity to
lend itself to any key. One evening when Kalipada had gone out to his private
tuition, two or three of the students with an exuberant sense of humour took a
lantern and unlocked the room and entered. It did not need a moment to discover
the pots of chutney under the bed, but these hardly seemed valuable enough to
demand such watchful care on the part of Kalipada. A further search disclosed a
key on a ring under the pillow. They opened the steel trunk with the key and
found a few soiled clothes, books and writing material. They were about to shut
the box in disgust when they saw, at the very bottom, a packet covered by a dirty
handkerchief. On uncovering three or four wrappers they found a currency note
of fifty rupees. This made them burst out into peals of laughter. They felt certain
that Kalipada was harbouring suspicion against the whole world in his mind
because of this fifty rupees!
The meanness of this suspicious precaution deepened the intensity of their
contempt for Kalipada. Just then, they heard a foot-step outside. They hastily
shut the box, locked the door, and ran upstairs with the note in their possession.
Sailen was vastly amused. Though fifty rupees was a mere trifle, he could never
have believed that Kalipada had so much money in his trunk. They all decided to
watch the result of this loss upon that queer creature downstairs.
When Kalipada came home that night after his tuition was over, he was too tired
to notice any disorder in his room. One of his worst attacks of nervous headache
was coming on and he went straight to bed.
The next day, when he brought out his trunk from under the bed and took out his
clothes, he found it open. He was naturally careful, but it was not unlikely, he
thought, that he had forgotten to lock it on the day before. But when he lifted the
lid he found all the contents topsy-turvy, and his heart gave a great thud when he
discovered that the note, given to him by his mother, was missing. He searched
the box over and over again in the vain hope of finding it, and when his loss was
made certain, he flung himself upon his bed and lay like one dead.
Just then, he heard footsteps following one another on the stairs, and every now
and then an outburst of laughter from the upper room. It struck him, all of a
sudden, that this was not a theft: Sailen and his party must have taken the note to
amuse themselves and make laughter out of it. It would have given him less pain
if a thief had stolen it. It seemed to him that these young men had laid their
impious hands upon his mother herself.
This was the first time that Kalipada had ascended those stairs. He ran to the
upper floor,—the old jersey on his shoulders,—his face flushed with anger and
the pain of his illness. As it was Sunday, Sailen and his company were seated in
the verandah, laughing and talking. Without any warning, Kalipada burst upon
them and shouted:
"Give me back my note!"
If he had begged it of them, they would have relented; but the sight of his anger
made them furious. They started up from their chairs and exclaimed:
"What do you mean, sir? What do you mean? What note?"
Kalipada shouted: "The note you have taken from my box!"
"How dare you?" they shouted back. "Do you take us to be thieves?"
If Kalipada had held any weapon in his hand at that moment he certainly would
have killed some one among them. But when he was about to spring, they fell on
him, and four or five of them dragged him down to his room and thrust him
inside.
Sailen said to his companions: "Here, take this hundred-rupee note, and throw it
to that dog!"
They all loudly exclaimed: "No! Let him climb down first and give us a written
apology. Then we shall consider it!"
Sailen's party all went to bed at the proper time and slept the sleep of the
innocent. In the morning they had almost forgotten Kalipada. But some of them,
while passing his room, heard the sound of talking and they thought that possibly
he was busy consulting some lawyer. The door was shut from the inside. They
tried to overhear, but what they heard had nothing legal about it. It was quite
incoherent.
They informed Sailen. He came down and stood with his ear close to the door.
The only thing that could be distinctly heard was the word 'Father.' This
frightened Sailen. He thought that possibly Kalipada had gone mad on account
of the grief of losing that fifty-rupee note. Sailen shouted "Kalipada Babu!" two
or three times, but got no answer. Only that muttering sound continued. Sailen
called,—"Kalipada Babu,—please open the door. Your note has been found."
But still the door was not opened and that muttering sound went on.
Sailen had never anticipated such a result as this. He did not express a word of
repentance to his followers, but he felt the sting of it all the same. Some advised
him to break open the door: others thought that the police should be called in,—
for Kalipada might be in a dangerous state of lunacy. Sailen at once sent for a
doctor who lived close at hand. When they burst open the door they found the
bedding hanging from the bed and Kalipada lying on the floor unconscious. He
was tossing about and throwing up his arms and muttering, with his eyes red and
open and his face all flushed. The doctor examined him and asked if there were
any relative near at hand; for the case was serious.
Sailen answered that he knew nothing, but would make inquiries. The doctor
then advised the removal of the patient at once to an upstairs room and proper
nursing arrangements day and night. Sailen took him up to his own room and
dismissed his followers. He got some ice and put it on Kalipada's head and
began to fan him with his own hand.
Kalipada, fearing that mocking references would be made, had concealed the
names and address of his parents from these people with special care. So Sailen
had no alternative but to open his box. He found two bundles of letters tied up
with ribbon. One of them contained his mother's letters, the other contained his
father's. His mother's letters were fewer in number than his father's. Sailen
closed the door and began to read the letters. He was startled when he saw the
address,—Saniari, the house of the Chowdhuries,—and then the name of the
father, Bhavani. He folded up the letters and sat still, gazing at Kalipada's face.
Some of his friends had casually mentioned, that there was a resemblance
between Kalipada and himself. But he was offended at the remark and did not
believe it. To-day he discovered the truth. He knew that his own grandfather,
Shyama Charan, had a step-brother named Bhavani; but the later history to the
family had remained a secret to him. He did not even know that Bhavani had a
son named Kalipada; and he never suspected that Bhavani had come to such an
abject state of poverty as this. He now felt not only relieved, but proud of his
own relative, Kalipada, that he had refused to enter himself on the list of
protégés.
 IV

Knowing that his party had insulted Kalipada almost every day, Sailen felt
reluctant to keep him in the lodging house with them. So he rented another
suitable house and kept him there. Bhavani came down in haste to Calcutta the
moment he received a letter from Sailen informing him of his son's illness.
Rashmani parted with all her savings giving instructions to her husband to spare
no expense upon her son. It was not considered proper for the daughters of the
great Chowdhuri family to leave their home and go to Calcutta unless absolutely
obliged, and therefore she had to remain behind offering prayers to all the
tutelary gods. When Bhavani Charan arrived he found Kalipada still unconscious
and delirious. It nearly broke Bhavani's heart when he heard himself called
'Master Mashai.' Kalipada often called him in his delirium and he tried to make
himself recognized by his son, but in vain.
The doctor came again and said the fever was getting less. He thought the case
was taking a more favourable turn. For Bhavani, it was an impossibility to
imagine that his son would not recover. He must live: it was his destiny to live.
Bhavani was much struck with the behaviour of Sailen. It was difficult to believe
that he was not of their own kith and kin. He supposed all this kindness to be due
to the town training which Sailen had received. Bhavani spoke to Sailen
disparagingly of the country habits which village people like himself got into.
Gradually the fever went down and Kalipada recovered consciousness. He was
astonished beyond measure when he saw his father sitting in the room beside
him. His first anxiety was lest he should discover the miserable state in which he
had been living. But what would be harder still to bear was, if his father with his
rustic manners became the butt of the people upstairs. He looked round him, but
could not recognize his own room and wondered if he had been dreaming. But
he found himself too weak to think.
He supposed that it had been his father who had removed him to this better
lodging, but he had no power to calculate how he could possibly bear the
expense. The only thing that concerned him at that moment was that he felt he
must live, and for that he had a claim upon the world.
Once when his father was absent Sailen came in with a plate of grapes in his
hand. Kalipada could not understand this at all and wondered if there was some
practical joke behind it. He at once became excited and wondered how he could
save his father from annoyance. Sailen set the plate down on the table and
touched Kalipada's feet humbly and said: "My offence has been great: pray
forgive me."
Kalipada started and sat up on his bed. He could see that Sailen's repentance was
sincere and he was greatly moved.
When Kalipada had first come to the students' lodging house he had felt strongly
drawn towards this handsome youth. He never missed a chance of looking at his
face when Sailen passed by his room on his way upstairs. He would have given
all the world to be friends with him, but the barrier was too great to overcome.
Now to-day when Sailen brought him the grapes and asked his forgiveness, he
silently looked at his face and silently accepted the grapes which spoke of his
repentance.
It amused Kalipada greatly when he noticed the intimacy that had sprung up
between his father and Sailen. Sailen used to call Bhavani Charan "grandfather"
and exercised to the full the grandchild's privilege of joking with him. The
principal object of the jokes was the absent "grandmother." Sailen made the
confession that he had taken the opportunity of Kalipada's illness to steal all the
delicious chutnies which his "grandmother" had made with her own hand. The
news of his act of "thieving" gave Kalipada very great joy. He found it easy to
deprive himself, if he could find any one who could appreciate the good things
made by his mother. Thus this time of his convalescence became the happiest
period in the whole of Kalipada's life.
There was only one flaw in this unalloyed happiness. Kalipada had a fierce pride
in his poverty which prevented him ever speaking about his family's better days.
Therefore when his father used to talk of his former prosperity Kalipada winced.
Bhavani could not keep to himself the one great event of his life,—the theft of
that will which he was absolutely certain that he would some day recover.
Kalipada had always regarded this as a kind of mania of his father's, and in
collusion with his mother he had often humoured his father concerning this
amiable weakness. But he shrank in shame when his father talked about this to
Sailen. He noticed particularly that Sailen did not relish such conversation and
that he often tried to prove, with a certain amount of feeling, its absurdity. But
Bhavani, who was ready to give in to others in matters much more serious, in
this matter was adamant. Kalipada tried to pacify him by saying that there was
no great need to worry about it, because those who were enjoying its benefit
were almost the same as his own children, since they were his nephews.
Such talk Sailen could not bear for long and he used to leave the room. This
pained Kalipada, because he thought that Sailen might get quite a wrong
conception of his father and imagine him to be a grasping worldly old man.
Sailen would have revealed his own relationship to Kalipada and his father long
before, but this discussion about the theft of the will prevented him. It was hard
for him to believe that his grandfather or father had stolen the will; on the other
hand he could not but think that some cruel injustice had been done in depriving
Bhavani of his share of the ancestral property. Therefore he gave up arguing
when the subject was brought forward and took some occasion to leave as soon
as possible.
Though Kalipada still had headaches in the evening, with a slight rise in
temperature, he did not take it at all seriously. He became anxious to resume his
studies because he felt it would be a calamity to him if he again missed his
scholarship. He secretly began to read once more, without taking any notice of
the strict orders of the doctor. Kalipada asked his father to return home, assuring
him that he was in the best of health. Bhavani had been all his life fed and
nourished and cooked for by his wife; he was pining to get back. He did not
therefore wait to be pressed.
On the morning of his intended departure, when he went to say good-bye to
Kalipada, he found him very ill indeed, his face red with fever and his whole
body burning. He had been committing to memory page after page of his text
book of Logic half through the night, and for the remainder he could not sleep at
all. The doctor took Sailen aside. "This relapse," he said, "is fatal." Sailen came
to Bhavani and said, "The patient requires a mother's nursing: she must be
brought to Calcutta."
It was evening when Rashmani came, and she only saw her son alive for a few
hours. Not knowing how her husband could survive such a terrible shock she
altogether suppressed her own sorrow. Her son was merged in her husband
again, and she took up this burden of the dead and the living on her own aching
heart. She said to her God,—"It is too much for me to bear." But she did bear it.

It was midnight. With the very weariness of her sorrow Rashmani had fallen
asleep soon after reaching her own home in the village. But Bhavani had no
sleep that night. Tossing on his bed for hours he heaved a deep sigh saying,
—"Merciful God!" Then he got up from his bed and went out. He entered the
room where Kalipada had been wont to do his lessons in his childhood. The
lamp shook as he held it in his hand. On the wooden settle there was still the
torn, ink-stained quilt, made long ago by Rashmani herself. On the wall were
figures of Euclid and Algebra drawn in charcoal. The remains of a Royal Reader
No. III and a few exercise books were lying about; and the one odd slipper of his
infancy, which had evaded notice so long, was keeping its place in the dusty
obscurity of the corner of the room. To-day it had become so important that
nothing in the world, however great, could keep it hidden any longer. Bhavani
put the lamp in the niche on the wall and silently sat on the settle; his eyes were
dry, but he felt choked as if with want of breath.
Bhavani opened the shutters on the eastern side and stood still, grasping the iron
bars, gazing into the darkness. Through the drizzling rain he could see the
outline of the clump of trees at the end of the outer wall. At this spot Kalipada
had made his own garden. The passion flowers which he had planted with his
own hand had grown densely thick. While he gazed at this Bhavani felt his heart
come up into his throat with choking pain. There was nobody now to wait for
and expect daily. The summer vacation had come, but no one would come back
home to fill the vacant room and use its old familiar furniture.
"O Baba mine!" he cried, "O Baba! O Baba mine!"
He sat down. The rain came faster. A sound of footsteps was heard among the
grass and withered leaves. Bhavani's heart stood still. He hoped it was ... that
which was beyond all hope. He thought it was Kalipada himself come to see his
own garden,—and in this downpour of rain how wet he would be! Anxiety about
this made him restless. Then somebody stood for a moment in front of the iron
window bars. The cloak round his head made it impossible for Bhavani to see
his face clearly, but his height was the same as that of Kalipada.
"Darling!" cried Bhavani, "You have come!" and he rushed to open the door.
But when he came outside to the spot where the figure had stood, there was no
one to be seen. He walked up and down in the garden through the drenching
rain, but no one was there. He stood still for a moment raising his voice and
calling,—"Kalipada," but no answer came. The servant, Noto, who was sleeping
in the cowshed, heard his cry and came out and coaxed him back to his room.
Next day, in the morning, Noto, while sweeping the room found a bundle just
underneath the grated window. He brought it to Bhavani who opened it and
found it was an old document. He put on his spectacles and after reading a few
lines came rushing in to Rashmani and gave the paper into her hand.
Rashmani asked, "What is it?"
Bhavani replied, "It is the will!"
"Who gave it you?"
"He himself came last night to give it to me."
"What are you going to do with it?"
Bhavani said: "I have no need of it now." And he tore the will to pieces.
When the news reached the village Bagala proudly nodded his head and said:
"Didn't I prophesy that the will would be recovered through Kalipada?"
But the grocer Ramcharan replied: "Last night when the ten o'clock train reached
the Station a handsome looking young man came to my shop and asked the way
to the Chowdhuri's house and I thought he had some kind of bundle in his hand."
"Absurd," said Bagala.

WORDS TO BE STUDIED

detailed. From the French "tailler," to cut. Compare tailor, entail, retail.
patrimony. From the Latin "pater," a father. Compare paternal, patriarch,
patriot. The ending -mony is from the Latin -monium. Compare testimony,
matrimony, sanctimony.
revert. From the Latin "vertere," to turn. Compare convert, subvert, divert,
invert, advert, version, conversion, adverse.
amazement. This word is of doubtful origin. We have the simpler form "maze"
but do not know how it has come into English.
preposterous. The Latin word "pre" means "before," and the Latin word
"posterus" behind. The literal meaning, therefore, is "before-behind" and so
"absurd," "outrageous."
treachery. This comes from the Old French "treacher," to trick. It is to be
distinguished from the word "traitor," which comes from the Latin
 "traditor," one who gives up another. Compare intricate, trickery, trick,
intrigue.
parasites. From the Greek word "sitos," food,—one who feeds on another.
property. From the Latin "proprius," meaning "one's own." Compare proper,
appropriate, improper.
haggle. This is an Old Norwegian word which has come into English, meaning
literally to chop.
good-for-nothing. Such "phrase" words as these are not very common in
English. They are more common in French. Compare the English ne'er-do-
well, lazybones, out-of-the-way, and the French coup-d'état, nom-de-plume,
fin-de-siécle. On the other hand, adjectives made up of two words are quite
common in English. Compare simple-hearted, middle-aged.
régime. This word still retains its French form and accent and pronunciation.
Little by little such French words become pronounced and spelt in an
English form and take a permanent place in the language. For instance, the
French word "morale" with accent on the last syllable is now becoming a
common English word. In time it will probably be accented on the first
syllable like ordinary English words and will drop its final "e."
gap. This is another Old Norwegian word meaning a wide opening. Compare
gape. These Norwegian words came into English somewhat plentifully at
the time of the Danish Conquest.
sympathy. From the Greek "syn" with, and "pathos" suffering. It should be
noted that the word "compassion" from the Latin "cum" with, and "passio"
suffering, has the same root meaning, viz. "suffering with another."
law-suit. The English word "suit" comes from the Latin "sequi," to follow,
which in French becomes "suivre." We have two English forms, one form
directly from the Latin, the other from the French. From the Latin
prosecute, persecute, consecutive, execute. From the French pursue, ensue,
sue.
A "suit" in a game of cards means the cards that follow one another in
a sequence.
A "suit" of clothes means the trousers, coat, waistcoat, following the
same pattern. Compare also the French word suite which has now been
 taken into English, e.g. a suite of rooms, a suite of furniture (pronounced
like "sweet").
incoherence. From the Latin "haerere," to stick. Compare adhere, cohere,
inherent, coherence.
foreign. From the Old French "forain," out of doors. The letter "g" has become
wrongly inserted in this word as also in "sovereign."
bargain. From the late Latin "barca," a boat, because trade was carried on by
boats along the rivers. Compare barque, barge, bark.
husky. From the noun husk,—as dry as a husk.
shawl. From the Persian word "shāl." A considerable number of words are
coming into use in English now from the East. One of the most curious
recent ones is Blighty which is a corruption of wilayati, bilaiti. For words
introduced into English compare karma, sanyasi, fakir, brahmin, ghat,
puggaree, pyjama, pucca, curry, chutney, chintz, cummerbund, khaki,
rupee, durrie, turban, sepoy.
doll. This is a shortened form of the English girl's name Dorothy, Dolly, Doll.
Compare poll-parrot from Polly or Poll.
soup. This word still retains its French form, without the final "e" (French
soupe), but the English words sup, supper have dropped their French
spelling altogether.
ticket. From the Old French "estiquette," meaning something fixed like a bill on
the wall. (Compare the English word to "stick" which comes from the same
root.)
We have here a case of a French word branching off into two quite
distinct English words,—"etiquette" and "ticket," each having its own
meaning.
jersey. One of the islands in the English Channel called Jersey first made this
special form of woollen vest. Many English words are thus taken from the
names of places. Compare currant (Corinth), argosy (Ragusa), calico
(Calicut), bronze (Brundusium), gipsy (Egyptian), cashmere (Kashmir).
impertinence. Originally this word means that which is not "pertinent," and so
something "out-of-place." Later on it got the present meaning of something
 insolent.
mosquito. From the Spanish. The word is the diminutive of the Latin "musca," a
fly.
scruple. From the Latin "scrupulus," a small sharp stone. This word meant first
in English a very small weight of twenty grains; then it came to mean a
slight weight on the mind or conscience. In the Trial Scene of Shakespeare's
Merchant of Venice we have the original sense used,—"the twentieth part of
one poor scruple."
exuberant. From the Latin "uber," udder. Thus it comes to mean "flowing from
the udder" and so "overflowing."
handkerchief. "Kerchief" came from two French words "couvre," to cover, and
"chef," the head. It meant a head cloth. Then a smaller cloth was used in the
hand and this was called a hand-kerchief.
lunacy. From the Latin "luna," the moon. In former times Europeans used to
think that madness was due to some influence of the moon. Compare the
word moonstruck.
algebra. This is one of the many words from Arabic beginning with "al," the.
Compare alkali, albatross, alcohol, alembic, alchemy, alcove.
Euclid. This word was originally the name of a great Greek mathematical writer.
His writings were called "Books of Euclid." Now the subject is usually
called Geometry.
absurd. From the Latin "surdus," deaf. Deaf people generally appear stupid to
those who can hear. So this word has come to mean foolish or ridiculous.
topsy-turvy. This probably is a shortened form of topside-turvy,—"turvy" being
a colloquial corruption for "turned" or "turned over."

THE BABUS OF NAYANJORE

 X

THE BABUS OF NAYANJORE

I

ONCE upon a time the Babus at Nayanjore were famous landholders. They were
noted for their princely extravagance. They would tear off the rough border of
their Dacca muslin, because it rubbed against their delicate skin. They could
spend many thousands of rupees over the wedding of a kitten. And on a certain
grand occasion it is alleged that in order to turn night into day they lighted
numberless lamps and showered silver threads from the sky to imitate sunlight.
Those were the days before the flood. The flood came. The line of succession
among these old-world Babus, with their lordly habits, could not continue for
long. Like a lamp with too many wicks burning, the oil flared away quickly, and
the light went out.
Kailas Babu, our neighbour, is the last relic of this extinct magnificence. Before
he grew up, his family had very nearly reached its lowest ebb. When his father
died, there was one dazzling outburst of funeral extravagance, and then
insolvency. The property was sold to liquidate the debt. What little ready money
was left over was altogether insufficient to keep up the past ancestral splendours.
Kailas Babu left Nayanjore and came to Calcutta. His son did not remain long in
this world of faded glory. He died, leaving behind him an only daughter.
In Calcutta we are Kailas Babu's neighbours. Curiously enough our own family
history is just the opposite of his. My father got his money by his own exertions,
and prided himself on never spending a penny more than was needed. His
clothes were those of a working man, and his hands also. He never had any
inclination to earn the title of Babu by extravagant display; and I myself, his
only son, owe him gratitude for that. He gave me the very best education, and I
was able to make my way in the world. I am not ashamed of the fact that I am a
self-made man. Crisp bank-notes in my safe are dearer to me than a long
pedigree in an empty family chest.
I believe this was why I disliked seeing Kailas Babu drawing his heavy cheques
on the public credit from the bankrupt bank of his ancient Babu reputation. I
used to fancy that he looked down on me, because my father had earned money
with his own hands.
I ought to have noticed that no one showed any vexation towards Kailas Babu
except myself. Indeed it would have been difficult to find an old man who did
less harm than he. He was always ready with his kindly little acts of courtesy in
times of sorrow and joy. He would join in all the ceremonies and religious
observances of his neighbours. His familiar smile would greet young and old
alike. His politeness in asking details about domestic affairs was untiring. The
friends who met him in the street were perforce ready to be button-holed, while a
long string of questions of this kind followed one another from his lips:
"My dear friend, I am delighted to see you. Are you quite well? How is Shashi?
And Dada—is he all right? Do you know, I've only just heard that Madhu's son
has got fever. How is he? Have you heard? And Hari Charan Babu—I have not
seen him for a long time—I hope he is not ill. What's the matter with Rakkhal?
And er—er, how are the ladies of your family?"
Kailas Babu was spotlessly neat in his dress on all occasions, though his supply
of clothes was sorely limited. Every day he used to air his shirts and vests and
coats and trousers carefully, and put them out in the sun, along with his bed-
quilt, his pillowcase, and the small carpet on which he always sat. After airing
them he would shake them, and brush them, and put them carefully away. His
little bits of furniture made his small room decent, and hinted that there was
more in reserve if needed. Very often, for want of a servant, he would shut up his
house for a while. Then he would iron out his shirts and linen with his own
hands, and do other little menial tasks. After this he would open his door and
receive his friends again.
Though Kailas Babu, as I have said, had lost all his landed property, he had still
some family heirlooms left. There was a silver cruet for sprinkling scented water,
a filigree box for otto-of-roses, a small gold salver, a costly ancient shawl, and
the old-fashioned ceremonial dress and ancestral turban. These he had rescued
with the greatest difficulty from the money-lenders' clutches. On every suitable
occasion he would bring them out in state, and thus try to save the world-famed
dignity of the Babus of Nayanjore. At heart the most modest of men, in his daily
speech he regarded it as a sacred duty, owed to his rank, to give free play to his
family pride. His friends would encourage this trait in his character with kindly
good-humour, and it gave them great amusement.
The neighbourhood soon learnt to call him their Thakur Dada. They would flock
to his house and sit with him for hours together. To prevent his incurring any
expense, one or other of his friends would bring him tobacco and say: "Thakur
Dada, this morning some tobacco was sent to me from Gaya. Do take it and see
how you like it."
Thakur Dada would take it and say it was excellent. He would then go on to tell
of a certain exquisite tobacco which they once smoked in the old days of
Nayanjore at the cost of a guinea an ounce.
"I wonder," he used to say, "if any one would like to try it now. I have some left,
and can get it at once."
Every one knew that, if they asked for it, then somehow or other the key of the
cupboard would be missing; or else Ganesh, his old family servant, had put it
away somewhere.
"You never can be sure," he would add, "where things go to when servants are
about. Now, this Ganesh of mine,—I can't tell you what a fool he is, but I haven't
the heart to dismiss him."
Ganesh, for the credit of the family, was quite ready to bear all the blame without
a word.
One of the company usually said at this point: "Never mind, Thakur Dada.
Please don't trouble to look for it. This tobacco we're smoking will do quite well.
The other would be too strong."
Then Thakur Dada would be relieved and settle down again, and the talk would
go on.
When his guests got up to go away, Thakur Dada would accompany them to the
door and say to them on the door-step: "Oh, by the way, when are you all coming
to dine with me?"
One or other of us would answer: "Not just yet, Thakur Dada, not just yet. We'll
fix a day later."
"Quite right," he would answer. "Quite right. We had much better wait till the
rains come. It's too hot now. And a grand rich dinner such as I should want to
give you would upset us in weather like this."
But when the rains did come, every one was very careful not to remind him of
his promise. If the subject was brought up, some friend would suggest gently
that it was very inconvenient to get about when the rains were so severe, and
therefore it would be much better to wait till they were over. Thus the game went
on.
Thakur Dada's poor lodging was much too small for his position, and we used to
condole with him about it. His friends would assure him they quite understood
his difficulties: it was next to impossible to get a decent house in Calcutta.
Indeed, they had all been looking out for years for a house to suit him. But, I
need hardly add, no friend had been foolish enough to find one. Thakur Dada
used to say, with a sigh of resignation: "Well, well, I suppose I shall have to put
up with this house after all." Then he would add with a genial smile: "But, you
know, I could never bear to be away from my friends. I must be near you. That
really compensates for everything."
Somehow I felt all this very deeply indeed. I suppose the real reason was, that
when a man is young, stupidity appears to him the worst of crimes. Kailas Babu
was not really stupid. In ordinary business matters every one was ready to
consult him. But with regard to Nayanjore his utterances were certainly void of
common sense. Because, out of amused affection for him, no one contradicted
his impossible statements, he refused to keep them in bounds. When people
recounted in his hearing the glorious history of Nayanjore with absurd
exaggerations, he would accept all they said with the utmost gravity, and never
doubted, even in his dreams, that any one could disbelieve it.

II

When I sit down and try to analyse the thoughts and feelings that I had towards
Kailas Babu, I see that there was a still deeper reason for my dislike. I will now
explain.
Though I am the son of a rich man, and might have wasted time at college, my
industry was such that I took my M.A. degree in Calcutta University when quite
young. My moral character was flawless. In addition, my outward appearance
was so handsome, that if I were to call myself beautiful, it might be thought a
mark of self-estimation, but could not be considered an untruth.
There could be no question that among the young men of Bengal I was regarded
by parents generally as a very eligible match. I was myself quite clear on the
point and had determined to obtain my full value in the marriage market. When I
pictured my choice, I had before my mind's eye a wealthy father's only daughter,
extremely beautiful and highly educated. Proposals came pouring in to me from
far and near; large sums in cash were offered. I weighed these offers with rigid
impartiality in the delicate scales of my own estimation. But there was no one fit
to be my partner. I became convinced, with the poet Bhabavuti, that,

In this world's endless time and boundless space

One may be born at last to match my sovereign grace.

But in this puny modern age, and this contracted space of modern Bengal, it was
doubtful if the peerless creature existed as yet.
Meanwhile my praises were sung in many tunes, and in different metres, by
designing parents.
Whether I was pleased with their daughters or not, this worship which they
offered was never unpleasing. I used to regard it as my proper due, because I was
so good. We are told that when the gods withhold their boons from mortals they
still expect their worshippers to pay them fervent honour and are angry if it is
withheld. I had that divine expectance strongly developed in myself.
I have already mentioned that Thakur Dada had an only grand-daughter. I had
seen her many times, but had never mistaken her for beautiful. No thought had
ever entered my mind that she would be a possible partner for myself. All the
same, it seemed quite certain to me that some day or other Kailas Babu would
offer her, with all due worship, as an oblation at my shrine. Indeed—this was the
inner secret of my dislike—I was thoroughly annoyed that he had not done so
already.
I heard that Thakur Dada had told his friends that the Babus of Nayanjore never
craved a boon. Even if the girl remained unmarried, he would not break the
family tradition. It was this arrogance of his that made me angry. My indignation
smouldered for some time. But I remained perfectly silent and bore it with the
utmost patience, because I was so good.
As lightning accompanies thunder, so in my character a flash of humour was
mingled with the mutterings of my wrath. It was, of course, impossible for me to
punish the old man merely to give vent to my rage; and for a long time I did
nothing at all. But suddenly one day such an amusing plan came into my head,
that I could not resist the temptation of carrying it into effect.
I have already said that many of Kailas Babu's friends used to flatter the old
man's vanity to the full. One, who was a retired Government servant, had told
him that whenever he saw the Chota Lât Sahib he always asked for the latest
news about the Babus of Nayanjore, and the Chota Lât had been heard to say
that in all Bengal the only really respectable families were those of the Maharaja
of Cossipore and the Babus of Nayanjore. When this monstrous falsehood was
told to Kailas Babu he was extremely gratified and often repeated the story. And
wherever after that he met this Government servant in company he would ask,
along with other questions:
"Oh! er—by the way, how is the Chota Lât Sahib? Quite well, did you say? Ah,
yes, I am so delighted to hear it! And the dear Mem Sahib, is she quite well too?
Ah, yes! and the little children—are they quite well also? Ah, yes! that's very
good news! Be sure and give them my compliments when you see them."
Kailas Babu would constantly express his intention of going some day and
paying a visit to the Lord Sahib. But it may be taken for granted that many Chota
Lâts and Burra Lâts also would come and go, and much water would pass down
the Hoogly, before the family coach of Nayanjore would be furbished up to pay a
visit to Government House.
One day I took Kailas Babu aside and told him in a whisper: "Thakur Dada, I
was at the Levee yesterday, and the Chota Lât Sahib happened to mention the
Babus of Nayanjore. I told him that Kailas Babu had come to town. Do you
know, he was terribly hurt because you hadn't called. He told me he was going to
put etiquette on one side and pay you a private visit himself this very afternoon."
Anybody else could have seen through this plot of mine in a moment. And, if it
had been directed against another person, Kailas Babu would have understood
the joke. But after all that he had heard from his friend the Government servant,
and after all his own exaggerations, a visit from the Lieutenant-Governor seemed
the most natural thing in the world. He became highly nervous and excited at my
news. Each detail of the coming visit exercised him greatly,—most of all his own
ignorance of English. How on earth was that difficulty to be met? I told him
there was no difficulty at all: it was aristocratic not to know English: and,
besides, the Lieutenant-Governor always brought an interpreter with him, and he
had expressly mentioned that this visit was to be private.
About midday, when most of our neighbours are at work, and the rest are asleep,
a carriage and pair stopped before the lodging of Kailas Babu. Two flunkeys in
livery came up the stairs, and announced in a loud voice, "The Chota Lât Sahib
has arrived!" Kailas Babu was ready, waiting for him, in his old-fashioned
ceremonial robes and ancestral turban, and Ganesh was by his side, dressed in
his master's best suit of clothes for the occasion.
When the Chota Lât Sahib was announced, Kailas Babu ran panting and puffing
and trembling to the door, and led in a friend of mine, in disguise, with repeated
salaams, bowing low at each step and walking backward as best he could. He
had his old family shawl spread over a hard wooden chair and he asked the Lât
Sahib to be seated. He then made a high-flown speech in Urdu, the ancient Court
language of the Sahibs, and presented on the golden salver a string of gold
mohurs, the last relics of his broken fortune. The old family servant Ganesh,
with an expression of awe bordering on terror, stood behind with the scent-
sprinkler, drenching the Lât Sahib, and touched him gingerly from time to time
with the otto-of-roses from the filigree box.
Kailas Babu repeatedly expressed his regret at not being able to receive His
Honour Bahadur with all the ancestral magnificence of his own family estate at
Nayanjore. There he could have welcomed him properly with due ceremonial.
But in Calcutta he was a mere stranger and sojourner,—in fact a fish out of
water.
My friend, with his tall silk hat on, very gravely nodded. I need hardly say that
according to English custom the hat ought to have been removed inside the
room. But my friend did not dare to take it off for fear of detection: and Kailas
Babu and his old servant Ganesh were sublimely unconscious of the breach of
etiquette.
After a ten minutes' interview, which consisted chiefly of nodding the head, my
friend rose to his feet to depart. The two flunkeys in livery, as had been planned
beforehand, carried off in state the string of gold mohurs, the gold salver, the old
ancestral shawl, the silver scent-sprinkler, and the otto-of-roses filigree box; they
placed them ceremoniously in the carriage. Kailas Babu regarded this as the
usual habit of Chota Lât Sahibs.
I was watching all the while from the next room. My sides were aching with
suppressed laughter. When I could hold myself in no longer, I rushed into a
further room, suddenly to discover, in a corner, a young girl sobbing as if her
heart would break. When she saw my uproarious laughter she stood upright in
passion, flashing the lightning of her big dark eyes in mine, and said with a tear-
choked voice: "Tell me! What harm has my grandfather done to you? Why have
you come to deceive him? Why have you come here? Why——"
She could say no more. She covered her face with her hands and broke into sobs.
My laughter vanished in a moment. It had never occurred to me that there was
anything but a supremely funny joke in this act of mine, and here I discovered
that I had given the cruellest pain to this tenderest little heart. All the ugliness of
my cruelty rose up to condemn me. I slunk out of the room in silence, like a
kicked dog.
Hitherto I had only looked upon Kusum, the grand-daughter of Kailas Babu, as a
somewhat worthless commodity in the marriage market, waiting in vain to
attract a husband. But now I found, with a shock of surprise, that in the corner of
that room a human heart was beating.
The whole night through I had very little sleep. My mind was in a tumult. On the
next day, very early in the morning, I took all those stolen goods back to Kailas
Babu's lodgings, wishing to hand them over in secret to the servant Ganesh. I
waited outside the door, and, not finding any one, went upstairs to Kailas Babu's
room. I heard from the passage Kusum asking her grandfather in the most
winning voice: "Dada, dearest, do tell me all that the Chota Lât Sahib said to you
yesterday. Don't leave out a single word. I am dying to hear it all over again."
And Dada needed no encouragement. His face beamed over with pride as he
related all manner of praises which the Lât Sahib had been good enough to utter
concerning the ancient families of Nayanjore. The girl was seated before him,
looking up into his face, and listening with rapt attention. She was determined,
out of love for the old man, to play her part to the full.
My heart was deeply touched, and tears came to my eyes. I stood there in silence
in the passage, while Thakur Dada finished all his embellishments of the Chota
Lât Sahib's wonderful visit. When he left the room at last, I took the stolen goods
and laid them at the feet of the girl and came away without a word.
Later in the day I called again to see Kailas Babu himself. According to our ugly
modern custom, I had been in the habit of making no greeting at all to this old
man when I came into the room. But on this day I made a low bow and touched
his feet. I am convinced the old man thought that the coming of the Chota Lât
Sahib to his house was the cause of my new politeness. He was highly gratified
by it, and an air of benign serenity shone from his eyes. His friends had looked
in, and he had already begun to tell again at full length the story of the
Lieutenant-Governor's visit with still further adornments of a most fantastic
kind. The interview was already becoming an epic, both in quality and in length.
When the other visitors had taken their leave, I made my proposal to the old man
in a humble manner. I told him that, "though I could never for a moment hope to
be worthy of marriage connection with such an illustrious family, yet ... etc. etc."
When I made clear my proposal of marriage, the old man embraced me and
broke out in a tumult of joy: "I am a poor man, and could never have expected
such great good fortune."
That was the first and last time in his life that Kailas Babu confessed to being
poor. It was also the first and last time in his life that he forgot, if only for a
single moment, the ancestral dignity that belongs to the Babus of Nayanjore.

WORDS TO BE STUDIED

landholder. This method of forming compound words from two original

English words should be studied. Compare the following words which have
"land" for one of their parts: landlord, landowner, landlady, landslip,
landfall. When the second word is not very closely attached to the first
word, a hyphen is put between, thus land-grabber, land-shark.
extinct. From the Latin "stinguere," to quench. Compare distinct, instinct,
extinguish, distinguish.
cheque. This word is the same as "check,"—only in this case the original French
form has been kept. The verb to "check" came into English originally from
the game of chess. In Eastern lands when the chess king was in danger the
word "Shah!" was called out, and when the chess king could not move,
"Shah mata!" These were corrupted into "Check!" and "Checkmate!"
bankrupt. This word is a curious mixture of the old French "banque" (compare
bench, banquet) and the Latin "rumpere," to break (compare corrupt,
disrupt). It is thus a hybrid word in modern English.
filigree. From two Latin words, "filum," a thread, and "granum," a grain.
otto-of-roses. A corruption of attar. The word is originally Arabic and Persian.
turban. This word has now taken its place in most of the European languages. It
has come to Europe from the Turkish "tulbend" and the Persian "dulband."
tobacco. This word came originally from Central America. It was brought to
Europe by the Spaniards, who pronounced it "tabaco." It has now travelled
all round the world, and has gained a place in all the Indian vernaculars as
well as in the Further East.
boon. The Old English word "ben" meant a prayer, and this was the original
meaning of "boon." But a new word appeared in English, viz. the adjective
"boon" from the French "bon," meaning "good." (Compare boon
companion). This influenced the earlier word, which thus gained its present
meaning of a "blessing" or "gift."
smoulder. "Smolder" is an Old English word meaning "smoke." Cognate words
in English are smother and small, which come from the same root.
gingerly. The origin of this word is very doubtful. Some connect it with "ging"
or "gang," meaning "to go." Others with "gent-" meaning "gentle" or
"graceful." The word has no relation to "ginger" which is an Eastern word
coming originally from the Sanskrit çraga-vera and the Hindustani
zunjubil.
fantastic. From the Greek "phainō," to manifest. Compare emphasis, emphatic,
fantasy, fancy, phenomenon.

NOTES
 NOTES
I.—THE CABULIWALLAH

"The Cabuliwallah" is one of the most famous of the Poet's "Short Stories." It
has been often translated. The present translation is by the late Sister Nivedita,
and her simple, vivid style should be noticed by the Indian student reader. It is a
good example of modern English, with its short sentences, its careful choice of
words, and its luminous clearness of meaning.
Cabuliwallah.] A man from Cabul or Kabul, the capital of Afghanistan.
embarked.] Like a ship putting out to sea on a new voyage.
Bhola.] Mini's attendant.
Protap Singh.] Rabindranath Tagore pictures himself as engaged in writing a
novel, full of wild adventures. These names are made up to suit the story.
so precarious.] The writer amusingly imagines the hero and heroine actually
swinging by the rope until he can get back to his desk and finish writing
about how they escaped.
Abdurrahman.] The Amir of Kabul.
Frontier policy.] The question about guarding the North-West of India against
invasion.
without demur.] Without making any objection, or asking for more money.
judicious bribery.] He gave her little presents, judging well what she would like
best.
new fangled.] The parents had not talked about such things, as old-fashioned
people would have certainly done.
euphemism.] This means, in Greek, "fair speech." Here it means a pleasant
word used instead of the unpleasant word "jail."
kings went forth.] During the hot weather the kings of ancient India used to stay
 at home: they would begin to fight again at the beginning of the cold
weather.
my heart would go out.] That is to say, he would long to see such places.
fall to weaving.] This is an English idiom, like "set to": it means to begin.
conjure themselves.] Just as the conjurer makes all kinds of things appear
before the eyes.
vegetable existence.] Vegetables are rooted to the ground. So Rabindranath is
rooted to his desk and cannot make long journeys.
As it was indefinite.] Because there was no actual reason for it. Indefinite here
means vague.
forbid the man the house.] This is a brief way of saying forbid the man to enter
the house.
bebagged.] This word is made up for the occasion, and means "laden with
bags." Compare the words bedewed, besmeared.
just where.] The word "just" has become very commonly used in modern
English. It means "exactly," "merely" or "at the very moment." Compare
"He had just gone out." "It was just a joke."
Scarcely on speaking terms.] Rabindranath Tagore is here making a joke; "not
to be on speaking terms" means usually "to be displeased with." Mini had
become so eager to talk with her girl friends that she had almost neglected
her father.
Durga.] The Durga Festival in Bengal is supposed to represent the time when
Parvati, or Durga, left her father's home in the Himalayas, called Kailas,
and went to live with her husband, Siva.
Bhairavi.] One of the musical tunes which denotes separation.
chandeliers.] The glass ornamental hangings on which candles were lighted in
great houses at weddings.
better-omened.] It was not considered a good omen, or good fortune, to meet a
criminal on a wedding day.
dispersed.] Used up.
Parbati.] Another allusion to the Goddess Durga and her home in the
Himalayas.
apparition.] This word comes from the same root as the word to "appear." It
means a sudden or strange sight. It often means a ghost. Mini had so
changed that when she appeared in her wedding dress she startled him, as if
he had seen a ghost.
make friends with her anew.] His own daughter would not know him at first.
Saw before him the barren mountains.] His memory was so strong that it
made him forget the crowded Calcutta street and think of his home in the
mountains.

II.—THE HOME-COMING

every one seconded the proposal.] All were so eagerly in favour that they
wanted to speak at once in support of it.
regal dignity.] His position as a king of the other boys.
fertile brain.] Full of inventions and plans.
manoeuvre.] A French word meaning a plan of battle.
point of honour.] He would feel himself disgraced if he gave way.
Mother Earth.] Earth is here pictured as a person. There is a well-known story
of a giant who gained fresh power every time his body touched the earth,
which was his Mother.
Furies.] These were supposed to be certain demons, who pursued guilty men
with loud cries.
the servant was master.] Notice the play of words here. The "servant" and
"master" change places.
critical juncture.] At this exact moment when things were so dangerous.
Dada.] The usual Bengal word for "Brother."
no love was lost.] This is a mild way of saying that they disliked one another.
on pins and needles.] Exceedingly restless; like some one standing on sharp
points.
in perpetuity.] The phrase is a mock legal one, meaning "for all time."
by no means pleased.] She was very displeased, because she had already
children of her own. In English a phrase is often put in a negative way to
imply a very strong positive statement. Thus "by no means happy" may
mean "very unhappy."
committing such an indiscretion.] Doing such an unwise thing.
indecent haste.] A mock humorous expression, meaning "very quickly."
craves for recognition.] Wishes to be noticed and loved.
physical love.] Just as a young animal clings to its mother for protection.
animal instinct.] The phrase repeats in another form what was said before, in
the words "a kind of physical love."
pursed her lips.] Drew her lips tight like the mouth of a purse which is
tightened by pulling the string.
as if expecting some one.] He was looking for his mother.
very critical.] Very dangerous. The danger point of the illness might be reached
at any moment and death might come.
By the mark.] When a shallow place comes at sea, or on a great river, one of the
sailors throws a piece of lead, with a string tied to it, into the water, and
then looks at the mark on the string. He calls out that the depth is "three" or
"four" fathoms according to the mark.
plumb-line.] The line with a lead weight.
plumbing.] To plumb is to get to the bottom of a piece of water. Here Phatik is
pictured as himself going deeper and deeper into the sea of death, which
none can fathom.
the holidays.] The Bengali word for "holiday" means also "release." It is as
though he were saying, "My release has come." This cannot be represented
in the English.
 III.—ONCE THERE WAS A KING

In this story Rabindranath Tagore begins with some amusing sentences about the
dull, matter of fact character of modern scientific people, who cannot enjoy a
fairy story without asking "Is it true?" The Poet implies that there are deeper
truths than modern science has yet discovered. The ending of the present story
will show this more clearly.
sovereign truth.] There is a play upon the word "sovereign" which can mean
"kingly" and also "supreme."
exacting.] There is further play here with the words "exact" and "exacting."
"Exact" means precise and "exacting" means making others precise.
legendary haze.] The ancient legends are very obscure, just like an object seen
through a mist.
knowledge.] Mere book knowledge,—knowledge of outside things.
truth.] Inner truth such as comes from the heart of man and cannot be reasoned
or disputed.
half past seven.] The time when his tutor was due.
no other need.] As if God would continue the rain merely to keep his tutor
away!
If not.] Though it might not have been caused by his prayers, still for some
reason the rain did continue.
nor did my teacher.] Supply the words "give up."
punishment to fit the crime.] An amusing reference to the doctrine of karma,
which states that each deed will have its due reward or punishment.
as me.] Strictly speaking it should be "I" not "me" but he is writing not too
strictly.
I hope no child.] The author here amusingly pretends that the child's way of
getting out of his lessons was too shocking for young boys in the junior
school to read about.
I will marry my daughter to him.] The verb to "marry" in English can be used
 in two senses:—
(1) To wed some one: to take in marriage.
(2) To get some one wedded: to give in marriage.
The later sense is used here.
in the dawn of some indefinite time.] In some past existence long ago.
If my grandmother were an author.] Here Rabindranath returns to his mocking
humour. A modern author, he says, would be obliged to explain all sorts of
details in the story.
hue and cry.] This is a phrase used for the noise and bustle that is made when
people are searching for a thief.
Her readers.] Referring back to the Grandmother.
in an underhand way.] Under the disguise of a fairy story.
grandmother again.] That is, in the old conditions when people were not too
exacting about accuracy.
luckless grandson.] A humorous way of referring to himself. The author had the
misfortune to be born in the modern age of science.
Seven wings.] The word "wings" is here used, not for "wings" like those of
birds, but for the sides of a large building, projecting out at an angle from
the main building.
But what is the use....] The author here breaks off the story, as though it were
useless to go on any further in these modern days when every thing has to
be scientifically proved.
Some "what then?"] Some future existence about which explanations might be
asked.
no grandmother of a grandmother.] No one, however old.
never admits defeat.] Refuses to believe in death.
teacherless evening.] Evening on which the teacher did not come.
chamber of the great end.] Death itself is referred to; it is the end of human life
on earth and what is beyond death is shut out from us.
incantation.] Sacred verses or mantras.

IV.—THE RETURN OF THE CHILD

found two masters.] The wife was his master now, as well as her husband.
make for safety.] Get to some place where he could not be caught.
will be a judge some day.] The baby seemed so wise to Raicharan, that he
thought he would certainly grow up to be a judge.
epoch in human history.] It seemed to Raicharan as though some great event
had happened which ought to be recorded.
wrestler's trick.] The writer, in fun, makes Raicharan's skill depend on doing
just what the wrestler tries to avoid, i.e. being thrown on his back.
swallowed down.] Washed them away in a flood.
little despot.] The baby, who was able to make Raicharan do exactly what he
liked.
The silent ceremonial.] The author pictures the sunset as like some splendid
kingly ceremony, where every gorgeous colour can be seen.
"Pitty fow."] "Pretty flower." The baby can only lisp the words.
He was promoted from a horse into a groom.] He was no longer asked by the
baby to be a "horse" in his games, but to look after this toy carriage, as a
groom would.
with all sorts of curious noises.] He began to imitate the sounds of birds.
destined to be a judge.] The baby could see through Raicharan's attempts to
deceive, as a judge would see through false evidence.
wavelets.] The little waves seemed like so many thousand little children running
away in fun or mischief.
there was no one there.] These words are repeated again and again to give the
sense of utter loss and desolation.
overwhelming resentment.] His own baby seemed to have been given to him in
 order to tempt him to forget his little Master. Raicharan was angry to think
that any one could imagine such forgetfulness to be possible.
The little Master could not cast off the spell.] Could not keep away from the
servant who loved him so much. He fancies his little Master has come back
to life again in this new little baby, drawn as it were by some enchantment
of love.
accumulated.] Gathered together: referring to the idea of karma.
personal appearance.] He spent a long time in arranging his clothes and
making himself look handsome.
country manners.] Country people have habits and ways of speaking which
seem absurd to town people.
a kind of condescension.] As if he were superior and Raicharan were beneath
him.
mendicant quack.] A beggar dealing in herbs and medicines and charms.
hungry, eager eyes.] As if she could never gaze long enough upon him.
the magistrate in him.] The magistrate's way of looking at things.
magisterial conscience.] His instincts as a judge, who must condemn the guilty.
 V.—MASTER MASHAI

Ratikanta.] He is represented throughout as a typical hanger-on of the rich

family, selfish and flattering.
Victor Hugo.] The most famous of Victor Hugo's stories is called "Les
Miserables." Its opening scene of San Valjean and the saintly Bishop is very
well known in literature.
deep-laid plot.] Notice how throughout this story the different members of this
wealthy house appear to be unable to take account of unselfish motives.
this is sheer kidnapping.] Adhar Babu believes that Haralal has acquired some
hypnotic influence over Venu and is trying to rob him of his money.
brokers and middlemen.] Those who bought the grain from the peasants and
sold it to the English firm.
any security.] A money payment which would be forfeited if anything went
wrong.
a note of hand.] A paper signed by Venugopal saying that he owed so much
money.
filed a suit.] Brought an action in the law courts against the father to recover the
money lent to the son.
Currency notes.] Notes of twenty, fifty, a hundred rupees,—such as could be
changed for money.
theft the night before.] Adhar Babu had already missed the things that Venu
had taken away.
it's a paying business.] Adhar Babu imagines that Venu and Haralal have
become partners in order to swindle other people.
with your connivance.] With your secret knowledge and approval.
Deliverance was in the infinite sky.] He felt that all the evils, which were
pressing close around him, were broken through and that he had come out
beyond them into the clear light of truth. It was like coming out of some
narrow confined place into the open sky.
 VI.—SUBHA

Subhashini.] Sweetly speaking.

Sukheshini.] With lovely hair.
Suhashini.] Sweetly smiling.
process of translation.] To change the unspoken language of thought into the
spoken language of words is like translating the mother tongue into a
foreign language. Much of the beauty is lost.
that speech of the dark eyes.] Nature was speaking in every part of her own
great being, in the same silent way as those dark eyes of Subha were
speaking.
without any common language.] The cows had the common language of looks
with which to talk to Subha. But Pratap, who could speak, had not learnt
Subha's language of looks.
they become public property.] Everyone can amuse himself by talking with
them in idle moments.
water nymph.] Referring to the legends, common in all countries, of water
fairies or mermaids living at the bottom of a river or beneath the sea and
dwelling in wonderful palaces.
tide from the central places of the sea.] When the moon is full, the tide rises to
its highest point: it seems to start from some central place far out at sea and
to come rolling and surging in.
silent troubled Mother.] Nature, with her full tide and full moon, seems
troubled and longing to break out into speech, just as Subha longed to do.
they have caught your bridegroom.] Pratap employs the word "caught" from
his favourite pursuit of fishing. The bridegroom has been caught just like a
fish.
did her best to kill her natural beauty.] Her hair was much more beautiful
when left in its natural way, instead of being all bound up in a net.
The God ... the great man.] These words refer to the bridegroom himself, who
wields such mighty powers of choice or refusal. They are ironical.
 VII.—THE POSTMASTER

like a fish out of water.] Completely out of place, because he was used to city
life.
macadamised road.] He would have infinitely preferred the streets and shops
and crowded markets of Calcutta.
smoke ... from the village cowsheds.] Such as is used to drive away the
mosquitoes.
Baül.] A religious sect in Bengal whose members sing songs and often go about
begging.
No more of this.] He was afraid he might become too deeply attached to Ratan
if he stayed.
Its fond mistakes are persistent.] We continually try to deceive ourselves that
what we wish to be true is true. When at last we find out the truth, we could
almost wish we had not done so.

VIII.—THE CASTAWAY

Like a rudderless boat.] Notice how the metaphor is kept up to the end of the
sentence.
The writ of Fate.] They said that if she was to die, she was to die, and nothing
could prevent it.
profiting their Brahmin guest.] She would believe this to be an act of merit for
which she would be rewarded.
out of his repertory.] Out of the stock of plays he recited when he belonged to
the theatrical troupe.
hearing sacred names.] This also, she believed, would bring her merit.
forcing house.] Like some glass conservatory used for exotic flowers.
exact stature.] The manager wished him to take the parts of women who are
smaller than men.
came to adequate revelation.] Were now abundantly apparent.
twice-born bird.] Once born in the egg and once after the breaking of the egg.
The goose in the story was the messenger between Nala and Damayanti.
the tiger has no wish to become a mouse.] A reference to a folk story of a saint
who turned a pet mouse into a tiger.
German silver.] A kind of cheap silver containing much alloy in it.
to look for your Damayanti.] To find Satish a wife.

IX.—THE SON OF RASHMANI

do the duty of the father.] By disciplining and punishing the child.

crippling his patrimony.] Injuring the estate.
this is preposterous.] The natural thing would be for the property to be divided
between the two brothers and their descendants, but by this will only one
son was recognized and one set of grandsons.
given to the grandsons.] To Shyama Charan's and Bhavani's sons. According to
this preposterous will Bhavani was left out altogether, and also his son.
Shyama Charan's treachery.] She fully believed that he had stolen the will and
put this false one in its place.
Noto used to get reprimands.] Used to be blamed for wishing to save this waste
of money. Of course the whole thing was imaginary, but it gave Bhavani the
pleased feeling of being generous.
traditional extravagance.] Such as had always been displayed in former days
when the family was prosperous.
Some imaginary dog.] She would say that some dog had run off with the food
which she had prepared.
Bhavani had confessed.] Rashmani, Noto and Bhavani himself were all alike
ready to keep up the illusion that the old magnificence was still there, if
only this or that accident had not deprived them of its display.
invisible ink.] Ink which is invisible when first written with, but when heated
becomes visible.
Baba, wait a little.] In Bengal daughters are often called Ma (mother) and sons
Baba (father).
it became absurdly easy.] Because, after this, both the mother and her son could
join in the pretence together.
lacking in proper enthusiasm.] Did not care much about the subject.
more than compensated.] The pleasure of telling the news was greater than the
pain of knowing that such a sacrilege was going to take place.
with all the more deadly force.] The thrower being up above, the speed would
increase all the more on the downward flight of the missile.
requiring expensive fodder.] Vanity can feed itself on the idea of self
importance.
to graze at large.] Merely to feed on what is before it. He gave it extra food by
paying for a number of flatterers, just as a horse is stall-fed with extra
supplies of food.
turned round on him.] His vanity would be offended and he would be his
enemy instead of his helper.
forced extravagance.] Kalipada had been forced by the sneers of the students to
give far more than he could afford.
draw tears from the eyes.] An amusing way of saying that no burglar would
ever dream of trying to rob such a room.
laid their impious hands.] Had grossly insulted.
let him climb down first.] An English metaphor meaning "let him be humble."
he discovered the truth.] The truth that he was a near relative of Kalipada.
grandchild's privilege.] Especially in Bengal, a grandchild is allowed the
liberty of making jokes with his grandfather.
he found it easy.] He loved his mother so much that when he found anyone
pleased with things which she had made he enjoyed seeing them use these
things rather than himself.
 X.—THE BABUS OF NAYANJORE

the days before the flood.] The word "antediluvian" meaning "before the
flood," is used sometimes in English for things very ancient and out of date.
There is a play upon this here.
dazzling outburst.] Just as, at a firework display, pitch darkness follows the last
firework.
drawing his heavy cheques.] To "draw a cheque" is to take so much from a
credit account in the bank. The words are humorously used here of taking
something from the public belief about the greatness of the Babus of
Nayanjore.
and er-er.] He hesitates a little as he mentions the ladies.
Thakur Dada.] Grandfather.
my moral character was flawless.] Note how the author shows the conceit of
this young man. Compare, lower down, the phrase "because I was so good."
poet Bhabavuti.] The poet means that there must be some one in this vast
universe of time and space who is the match for the hero of his poem.
Chota Lât Sahib.] The story refers to the time when Calcutta was the Capital of
India. The Burra Lât Sahib was the Viceroy, the Chota Lât Sahib was the
Lieutenant-Governor.
walking backward.] As a mark of respect. He was continually bowing and then
stepping back. This kind of ceremonial bowing was commoner in earlier
days than it is now.
tall silk hat.] These were only worn in India at State functions and their use in
this country by Englishmen is becoming more and more rare. But in earlier
days they were not uncommon. They are black in colour and shining.
ugly modern custom.] The author dislikes the passing away of an old beautiful
custom of reverence towards old men.
becoming an epic.] Becoming legendary by its additions. An epic poem often
goes on describing an incident with all kinds of marvellous events added to
it, till it becomes a very long story.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
 Transcriber's note:
The following corrections have been made to the text:

Page 86: mornng replaced with morning.

Page 119: teachnig replaced with teaching.
Page 166: circumstance replaced with circumstances.

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