Translated from the
original Bengali by various writers
New York: The Macmillan
Company, 1916
PREFACE
THE stories contained in this
volume were translated by several hands. The version of The Victory is
the author's own work. The seven stories which follow it were translated by Mr.
C. F. Andrews, with the author's help. Assistance has also been given by the
Rev. E. J. Thompson, Panna Lal Basu, Prabhat Kumar Mukerji, and the Sister
Nivedita.
CONTENTS
Bengali poet: Written By: W. Andrew Robinson
Alternative Title: Rabīndranāth Ṭhākur
Rabindranath
Tagore, Bengali Rabīndranāth Ṭhākur, (born May 7, 1861, Calcutta [now Kolkata], India—died August 7, 1941, Calcutta), Bengali poet,
short-story writer, song composer, playwright, essayist, and painter
who introduced new prose and verse forms and the use of colloquial language into Bengali literature, thereby freeing it from traditional models
based on classical Sanskrit. He was highly influential in introducing
Indian culture to the West and vice versa, and he is
generally regarded as the outstanding creative artist of early 20th-century India. In 1913, he became the first non-European
to receive the Nobel Prize for
Literature.
The son of the religious
reformer Debendranath Tagore, he early began to write verses, and, after
incomplete studies in England in the late 1870s, he returned to India. There he
published several books of poetry in the 1880s and completed Manasi (1890), a collection that marks the maturing
of his genius. It contains some of his best-known poems, including many in
verse forms new to Bengali, as well as some social and political satire
that was critical of his fellow Bengalis.
In 1891 Tagore went to East
Bengal (now in Bangladesh) to manage his family’s estates at Shilaidah and
Shazadpur for 10 years. There he often stayed in a houseboat on the Padma River (the main channel of the Ganges River), in close contact with village folk, and
his sympathy for them became the keynote of much of his later writing. Most of
his finest short stories, which examine “humble lives and their small
miseries,” date from the 1890s and have a poignancy, laced with gentle irony, that is unique to him (though admirably
captured by the director Satyajit Ray in later film adaptations). Tagore came to
love the Bengali countryside, most of all the Padma River, an often-repeated
image in his verse. During these years he published several poetry collections,
notably Sonar Tari (1894; The Golden Boat), and plays, notably Chitrangada
(1892; Chitra). Tagore’s poems are virtually untranslatable, as are his
more than 2,000 songs, which achieved considerable popularity among all classes
of Bengali society. n 1901 Tagore founded an experimental
school in rural West Bengal at Shantiniketan (“Abode of Peace”), where he sought to blend the best in the Indian and
Western traditions. He settled permanently at the school, which became
Visva-Bharati University in 1921. Years of sadness arising from the deaths of
his wife and two children between 1902 and 1907 are reflected in his later
poetry, which was introduced to the West in Gitanjali (Song
Offerings) (1912). This book, containing
Tagore’s English prose translations of religious poems from several of his
Bengali verse collections, including Gitanjali (1910), was hailed by W.B. Yeats and André Gide and won him the Nobel Prize in 1913. Tagore was awarded a knighthood in
1915, but he repudiated
it in 1919 as a protest against the Amritsar
(Jallianwalla Bagh) Massacre.
SHE was the Princess Ajita.
And the court poet of King Nârâyan had never seen her. On the day he recited a
new poem to the king he would raise his voice just to that pitch which could be
heard by unseen hearers in the screened balcony high above the hall. He sent up
his song towards the star-land out of his reach, where, circled with light, the
planet who ruled his destiny shone unknown and out of ken.
He would espy some shadow
moving behind the veil. A tinkling sound would come to his ear from afar, and
would set him dreaming of the ankles whose tiny golden bells sang at each step.
Ah, the rosy red tender feet that walked the dust of the earth like God's mercy
on the fallen! The poet had placed them on the altar of his heart, where he
wove his songs to the tune of those golden bells. Doubt never arose in his mind
as to whose shadow it was that moved behind the screen, and whose anklets they
were that sang to the time of his beating heart. Manjari, the maid of the
princess, passed by the poet's house on her way to the river, and she never
missed a day to have a few words with him on the sly. When she found the road
deserted, and the shadow of dusk on the land, she would boldly enter his room,
and sit at the corner of his carpet. There was a suspicion of an added care in
the choice of the colour of her veil, in the setting of the flower in her hair.
People smiled and whispered
at this, and they were not to blame. For Shekhar the poet never took the
trouble to hide the fact that these meetings were a pure joy to him.
The meaning of her name was
the spray of flowers. One must confess that for an ordinary mortal it
was sufficient in its sweetness. But Shekhar made his own addition to this
name, and called her the Spray of Spring Flowers. And ordinary mortals shook
their heads and said, Ah, me!
In the spring songs that
the poet sang the praise of the spray of spring flowers was conspicuously
reiterated; and the king winked and smiled at him when he heard it, and the
poet smiled in answer. The king would put him the question:
"Is it the business of
the bee merely to hum in the court of the spring?"
The poet would answer:
"No, but also to sip the honey of the spray of spring flowers."
And they all laughed in the
king's hall. And it was rumoured that the Princess Ajita also laughed at her
maid's accepting the poet's name for her, and Manjari felt glad in her heart.
Thus truth and falsehood
mingle in life--and to what God builds man adds his own decoration.
Only those were pure truths
which were sung by the poet. The theme was Krishna, the lover god, and Râdhâ,
the beloved, the Eternal Man and the Eternal Woman, the sorrow that comes from
the beginning of time, and the joy without end. The truth of these songs was
tested in his inmost heart by everybody from the beggar to the king himself.
The poet's songs were on the lips of all. At the merest glimmer of the moon and
the faintest whisper of the summer breeze his songs would break forth in the
land from windows and courtyards, from sailing-boats, from shadows of the
wayside trees, in numberless voices.
Thus passed the days
happily. The poet recited, the king listened, the hearers applauded, Manjari
passed and repassed by the poet's room on her way to the river--the shadow
flitted behind the screened balcony, and the tiny golden bells tinkled from
afar.
Just then set forth from
his home in the south a poet on his path of conquest. He came to King Nârâyan,
in the kingdom of Amarapur. He stood before the throne, and uttered a verse in
praise of the king. He had challenged all the court poets on his way, and his
career of victory had been unbroken.
The king received him with
honour, and said:
"Poet, I offer you
welcome."
Pundarik, the poet, proudly
replied: "Sire, I ask for war."
Shekhar, the court poet of
the king did not know how the battle of the muse was to be waged. He had no
sleep at night. The mighty figure of the famous Pundarik, his sharp nose curved
like a scimitar, and his proud head tilted on one side, haunted the poet's
vision in the dark.
With a trembling heart
Shekhar entered the arena in the morning. The theatre was filled with the
crowd.
The poet greeted his rival
with a smile and a bow. Pundarik returned it with a slight toss of his head,
and turned his face towards his circle of adoring followers with a meaning
smile.
Shekhar cast his glance
towards the screened balcony high above, and saluted his lady in his mind,
saying: "If I am the winner at the combat to-day, my lady, thy victorious
name shall be glorified."
The trumpet sounded. The
great crowd stood up, shouting victory to the king. The king, dressed in an
ample robe of white, slowly came into the hall like a floating cloud of autumn,
and sat on his throne.
Pundarik stood up, and the
vast hall became still. With his head raised high and chest expanded, he began
in his thundering voice to recite the praise of King Nârâyan. His words burst upon
the walls of the hall like breakers of the sea, and seemed to rattle against
the ribs of the listening crowd. The skill with which he gave varied meanings
to the name Nârâyan, and wove each letter of it through the web of his verses
in all manner of combinations, took away the breath of his amazed hearers.
For some minutes after he
took his seat his voice continued to vibrate among the numberless pillars of
the king's court and in thousands of speechless hearts. The learned professors
who had come from distant lands raised their right hands, and cried, Bravo!
The king threw a glance on
Shekhar's face, and Shekhar in answer raised for a moment his eyes full of pain
towards his master, and then stood up like a stricken deer at bay. His face was
pale, his bashfulness was almost that of a woman, his slight youthful figure,
delicate in its outline, seemed like a tensely strung vina ready to
break out in music at the least touch.
His head was bent, his
voice was low, when he began. The first few verses were almost inaudible. Then
he slowly raised his head, and his clear sweet voice rose into the sky like a
quivering flame of fire. He began with the ancient legend of the kingly line
lost in the haze of the past, and brought it down through its long course of heroism
and matchless generosity to the present age. He fixed his gaze on the king's
face, and all the vast and unexpressed love of the people for the royal house
rose like incense in his song, and enwreathed the throne on all sides. These
were his last words when, trembling, he took his seat: "My master, I may
be beaten in play of words, but not in my love for thee."
Tears filled the eyes of
the hearers, and the stone walls shook with cries of victory.
Mocking this popular
outburst of feeling, with an august shake of his head and a contemptuous sneer,
Pundarik stood up, and flung this question to the assembly: "What is there
superior to words?" In a moment the hall lapsed into silence again.
Then with a marvellous
display of learning, he proved that the Word was in the beginning, that the
Word was God. He piled up quotations from scriptures, and built a high altar
for the Word to be seated above all that there is in heaven and in earth. He
repeated that question in his mighty voice: "What is there superior to
words?"
Proudly he looked around
him. None dared to accept his challenge, and he slowly took his seat like a
lion who had just made a full meal of its victim. The pandits shouted, Bravo!
The king remained silent with wonder, and the poet Shekhar felt himself of no
account by the side of this stupendous learning. The assembly broke up for that
day.
Next day Shekhar began his
song. It was of that day when the pipings of love's flute startled for the
first time the hushed air of the Vrinda forest. The shepherd women did not know
who was the player or whence came the music. Sometimes it seemed to come from
the heart of the south wind, and sometimes from the straying clouds of the
hilltops. It came with a message of tryst from the land of the sunrise, and it
floated from the verge of sunset with its sigh of sorrow. The stars seemed to
be the stops of the instrument that flooded the dreams of the night with
melody. The music seemed to burst all at once from all sides, from fields and
groves, from the shady lanes and lonely roads, from the melting blue of the
sky, from the shimmering green of the grass. They neither knew its meaning nor
could they find words to give utterance to the desire of their hearts. Tears
filled their eyes, and their life seemed to long for a death that would be its
consummation.
Shekhar forgot his
audience, forgot the trial of his strength with a rival. He stood alone amid
his thoughts that rustled and quivered round him like leaves in a summer
breeze, and sang the Song of the Flute. He had in his mind the vision of an
image that had taken its shape from a shadow, and the echo of a faint tinkling
sound of a distant footstep.
He took his seat. His
hearers trembled with the sadness of an indefinable delight, immense and vague,
and they forgot to applaud him. As this feeling died away Pundarik stood up
before the throne and challenged his rival to define who was this Lover and who
was the Beloved. He arrogantly looked around him, he smiled at his followers
and then put the question again: "Who is Krishna, the lover, and who is
Râdhâ, the beloved?"
Then he began to analyse
the roots of those names,--and various interpretations of their meanings. He
brought before the bewildered audience all the intricacies of the different
schools of metaphysics with consummate skill. Each letter of those names he
divided from its fellow, and then pursued them with a relentless logic till
they fell to the dust in confusion, to be caught up again and restored to a
meaning never before imagined by the subtlest of word-mongers.
The pandits were in
ecstasy; they applauded vociferously; and the crowd followed them, deluded into
the certainty that they had witnessed, that day, the last shred of the curtains
of Truth torn to pieces before their eyes by a prodigy of intellect. The
performance of his tremendous feat so delighted them that they forgot to ask
themselves if there was any truth behind it after all.
The king's mind was
overwhelmed with wonder. The atmosphere was completely cleared of all illusion
of music, and the vision of the world around seemed to be changed from its
freshness of tender green to the solidity of a high road levelled and made hard
with crushed stones.
To the people assembled
their own poet appeared a mere boy in comparison with this giant, who walked
with such ease, knocking down difficulties at each step in the world of words
and thoughts. It became evident to them for the first time that the poems
Shekhar wrote were absurdly simple, and it must be a mere accident that they
did not write them themselves. They were neither new, nor difficult, nor
instructive, nor necessary.
The king tried to goad his
poet with keen glances, silently inciting him to make a final effort. But
Shekhar took no notice, and remained fixed to his seat.
The king in anger came down
from his throne--took off his pearl chain and put it on Pundarik's head.
Everybody in the hall cheered. From the upper balcony came a slight sound of
the movements of rustling robes and waist-chains hung with golden bells.
Shekhar rose from his seat and left the hall.
It was a dark night of
waning moon. The poet Shekhar took down his MSS. from his shelves and heaped
them on the floor. Some of them contained his earliest writings, which he had
almost forgotten. He turned over the pages, reading passages here and there.
They all seemed to him poor and trivial--mere words and childish rhymes!
One by one he tore his
books to fragments, and threw them into a vessel containing fire, and said:
"To thee, to thee, O my beauty, my fire! Thou hast been burning in my
heart all these futile years. If my life were a piece of gold it would come out
of its trial brighter, but it is a trodden turf of grass, and nothing remains
of it but this handful of ashes."
The night wore on. Shekhar
opened wide his windows. He spread upon his bed the white flowers that he
loved, the jasmines, tuberoses and chrysanthemums, and brought into his bedroom
all the lamps he had in his house and lighted them. Then mixing with honey the
juice of some poisonous root he drank it and lay down on his bed.
Golden anklets tinkled in
the passage outside the door, and a subtle perfume came into the room with the
breeze. The poet, with his eyes shut, said:
"My lady, have you
taken pity upon your servant at last and come to see him?"
The answer came in a sweet
voice: "My poet, I have come."
Shekhar opened his
eyes--and saw before his bed the figure of a woman.
His sight was dim and
blurred. And it seemed to him that the image made of a shadow that he had ever
kept throned in the secret shrine of his heart had come into the outer world in
his last moment to gaze upon his face.
The woman said:
"I am the Princess
Ajita."
The poet with a great
effort sat up on his bed.
The princess whispered into
his ear: "The king has not done you justice. It was you who won at the
combat, my poet, and I have come to crown you with the crown of victory."
She took the garland of
flowers from her own neck, and put it on his hair, and the poet fell down upon
his bed stricken by death.
I
IT was a night of full moon
early in the month of Phalgun. The youthful spring was everywhere
sending forth its breeze laden with the fragrance of mango-blossoms. The
melodious notes of an untiring papiya, [One of the sweetest songsters
in Bengal. Anglo-Indian writers have nicknamed it the "brain-fever
bird," which is a sheer libel.] concealed within the thick foliage of
an old lichi tree by the side of a tank, penetrated a sleepless bedroom
of the Mukerji family. There Hemanta now restlessly twisted a lock of his
wife's hair round his finger, now beat her churi against her wristlet
until it tinkled, now pulled at the chaplet of flowers about her head, and left
it hanging over her face. His mood was that of an evening breeze which played
about a favourite flowering shrub, gently shaking her now this side, now that,
in the hope of rousing her to animation.
But Kusum sat motionless,
looking out of the open window, with eyes immersed in the moonlit depth of
never-ending space beyond. Her husband's caresses were lost on her.
At last Hemanta clasped
both the hands of his wife, and, shaking them gently, said: "Kusum, where
are you? A patient search through a big telescope would reveal you only as a
small speck--you seem to have receded so far away. O, do come closer to me,
dear. See how beautiful the night is."
Kusum turned her eyes from
the void of space towards her husband, and said slowly: "I know a mantra,
[A set of magic words.] which could in one moment shatter this spring
night and the moon into pieces."
"If you do,"
laughed Hemanta, "pray don't utter it. If any mantra of yours could
bring three or four Saturdays during the week, and prolong the nights till P.
M. the next day, say it by all means."
Saying this, he tried to
draw his wife a little closer to him. Kusum, freeing herself from the embrace,
said: "Do you know, to-night I feel a longing to tell you what I promised
to reveal only on my death-bed. To-night I feel that I could endure whatever
punishment you might inflict on me."
Hemanta was on the point of
making a jest about punishments by reciting a verse from Jayadeva, when the
sound of an angry pair of slippers was heard approaching rapidly. They were the
familiar footsteps of his father, Harihar Mukerji, and Hemanta, not knowing
what it meant, was in a flutter of excitement.
Standing outside the door
Harihar roared out: "Hemanta, turn your wife out of the house
immediately."
Hemanta looked at his wife,
and detected no trace of surprise in her features. She merely buried her face
within the palms of her hands, and, with all the strength and intensity of her
soul, wished that she could then and there melt into nothingness. It was the
same papiya whose song floated into the room with the south breeze, and
no one heard it. Endless are the beauties of the earth--but alas, how easily
everything is twisted out of shape.
II
Returning from without,
Hemanta asked his wife: "Is it true?"
"It is," replied
Kusum.
"Why didn't you tell
me long ago?"
"I did try many a
time, and I always failed. I am a wretched woman."
"Then tell me
everything now."
Kusum gravely told her
story in a firm unshaken voice. She waded barefooted through fire, as it were,
with slow unflinching steps, and nobody knew how much she was scorched. Having
heard her to the end, Hemanta rose and walked out.
Kusum thought that her
husband had gone, never to return to her again. It did not strike her as
strange. She took it as naturally as any other incident of everyday life--so
dry and apathetic had her mind become during the last few moments. Only the
world and love seemed to her as a void and make-believe from beginning to end.
Even the memory of the protestations of love, which her husband had made to her
in days past, brought to her lips a dry, hard, joyless smile, like a sharp
cruel knife which had cut through her heart. She was thinking, perhaps, that
the love which seemed to fill so much of one's life, which brought in its train
such fondness and depth of feeling, which made even the briefest separation so
exquisitely painful and a moment's union so intensely sweet, which seemed
boundless in its extent and eternal in its duration, the cessation of which
could not be imagined even in births to come--that this was that love! So
feeble was its support! No sooner does the priesthood touch it than your
"eternal" love crumbles into a handful of dust! Only a short while
ago Hemanta had whispered to her: "What a beautiful night!" The same
night was not yet at an end, the same papiya was still warbling, the
same south breeze still blew into the room, making the bed-curtain shiver; the
same moonlight lay on the bed next the open window, sleeping like a beautiful
heroine exhausted with gaiety. All this was unreal! Love was more falsely
dissembling than she herself!
III
The next morning Hemanta,
fagged after a sleepless night, and looking like one distracted, called at the
house of Peari Sankar Ghosal. "What news, my son?" Peari Sankar
greeted him.
Hemanta, flaring up like a
big fire, said in a trembling voice: "You have defiled our caste. You have
brought destruction upon us. And you will have to pay for it." He could
say no more; he felt choked.
"And you have
preserved my caste, prevented my ostracism from the community, and patted me on
the back affectionately!" said Peari Sankar with a slight sarcastic smile.
Hemanta wished that his
Brahmin-fury could reduce Peari Sankar to ashes in a moment, but his rage burnt
only himself. Peari Sankar sat before him unscathed, and in the best of health.
"Did I ever do you any
harm?" demanded Hemanta in a broken voice.
"Let me ask you one
question," said Peari Sankar. "My daughter--my only child--what harm
had she done your father? You were very young then, and probably never heard.
Listen, then. Now, don't you excite yourself. There is much humour in what I am
going to relate.
"You were quite small
when my son-in-law Nabakanta ran away to England after stealing my daughter's
jewels. You might truly remember the commotion in the village when he returned
as a barrister five years later. Or, perhaps, you were unaware of it, as you
were at school in Calcutta at the time. Your father, arrogating to himself the
headship of the community, declared that if I sent my daughter to her husband's
home, I must renounce her for good, and never again allow her to cross my
threshold. I fell at your father's feet, and implored him, saying: 'Brother,
save me this once. I will make the boy swallow cow-dung, and go through the prayaschittam
ceremony. Do take him back into caste.' But your father remained obdurate. For
my part, I could not disown my only child, and, bidding good-bye to my village
and my kinsmen, I betook myself to Calcutta. There, too, my troubles followed me.
When I had made every arrangement for my nephew's marriage, your father stirred
up the girl's people, and they broke the match off. Then I took a solemn vow
that, if there was a drop of Brahmin blood flowing in my veins, I would avenge
myself. You understand the business to some extent now, don't you? But wait a
little longer. You will enjoy it, when I tell you the whole story; it is
interesting.
"When you were
attending college, one Bipradas Chatterji used to live next door to your
lodgings. The poor fellow is dead now. In his house lived a child-widow called
Kusum, the destitute orphan of a Kayestha gentleman. The girl was very pretty,
and the old Brahmin desired to shield her from the hungry gaze of college
students. But for a young girl to throw dust in the eyes of her old guardian
was not at all a difficult task. She often went to the top of the roof, to hang
her washing out to dry, and, I believe, you found your own roof best suited for
your studies. Whether you two spoke to each other, when on your respective
roofs, I cannot tell, but the girl's behaviour excited suspicion in the old
man's mind. She made frequent mistakes in her household duties, and, like
Parbati, [The wife of Shiva the Destroyer.] engaged in her devotions,
began gradually to renounce food and sleep. Some evenings she would burst into
tears in the presence of the old gentleman, without any apparent reason.
"At last he discovered
that you two saw each other from the roofs pretty frequently, and that you even
went the length of absenting yourself from college to sit on the roof at
mid-day with a book in your hand, so fond had you grown suddenly of solitary
study. Bipradas came to me for advice, and told me everything. 'Uncle,' said I
to him, 'for a long while you have cherished a desire to go on a pilgrimage to
Benares. You had better do it now, and leave the girl in my charge. I will take
care of her.'
"So he went. I lodged
the girl in the house of Sripati Chatterji, passing him off as her father. What
happened next is known to you. I feel a great relief to-day, having told you
everything from the beginning. It sounds like a romance, doesn't it? I think of
turning it into a book, and getting it printed. But I am not a writing-man
myself. They say my nephew has some aptitude that way--I will get him to write
it for me. But the best thing would be, if you would collaborate with him,
because the conclusion of the story is not known to me so well."
Without paying much
attention to the concluding remarks of Peari Sankar, Hemanta asked: "Did
not Kusum object to this marriage?"
"Well," said
Peari Sankar, "it is very difficult to guess. You know, my boy, how
women's minds are constituted. When they say 'no,' they mean 'yes.' During the
first few days after her removal to the new home, she went almost crazy at not
seeing you. You, too, seemed to have discovered her new address somehow, as you
used to lose your way after starting for college, and loiter about in front of
Sripati's house. Your eyes did not appear to be exactly in search of the Presidency
College, as they were directed towards the barred windows of a private house,
through which nothing but insects and the hearts of moon-struck young men could
obtain access. I felt very sorry for you both. I could see that your studies
were being seriously interrupted, and that the plight of the girl was pitiable
also.
"One day I called
Kusum to me, and said: 'Listen to me, my daughter. I am an old man, and you
need feel no delicacy in my presence. I know whom you desire at heart. The
young man's condition is hopeless too. I wish I could bring about your union.'
At this Kusum suddenly melted into tears, and ran away. On several evenings
after that, I visited Sripati's house, and, calling Kusum to me, discussed with
her matters relating to you, and so I succeeded in gradually overcoming her
shyness. At last, when I said that I would try to bring about a marriage, she
asked me: 'How can it be?' 'Never mind,' I said, 'I would pass you off as a
Brahmin maiden.' After a good deal of argument, she begged me to find out
whether you would approve of it. 'What nonsense,' replied I, 'the boy is
well-nigh mad as it were, what's the use of disclosing all these complications
to him? Let the ceremony be over smoothly and then--all's well that ends well.
Especially, as there is not the slightest risk of its ever leaking out, why go
out of the way to make a fellow miserable for life?'
"I do not know whether
the plan had Kusum's assent or not. At times she wept, and at other times she
remained silent. If I said, 'Let us drop it then,' she would become very
restless. When things were in this state, I sent Sripati to you with the
proposal of marriage; you consented without a moment's hesitation. Everything
was settled.
"Shortly before the
day fixed, Kusum became so obstinate that I had the greatest difficulty in
bringing her round again. 'Do let it drop, uncle,' she said to me constantly.
'What do you mean, you silly child,' I rebuked her, 'how can we back out now,
when everything has been settled?'
"'Spread a rumour that
I am dead,' she implored. 'Send me away somewhere.'
"'What would happen to
the young man then?' said I. 'He is now in the seventh heaven of delight,
expecting that his long cherished desire would be fulfilled to-morrow; and
to-day you want me to send him the news of your death. The result would be that
to-morrow I should have to bear the news of his death to you, and the same
evening your death would be reported to me. Do you imagine, child, that I am
capable of committing a girl-murder and a Brahmin-murder at my age?'
"Eventually the happy
marriage was celebrated at the auspicious moment, and I felt relieved of a
burdensome duty which I owed to myself. What happened afterwards you know
best."
"Couldn't you stop
after having done us an irreparable injury?" burst out Hemanta after a
short silence. "Why have you told the secret now?"
With the utmost composure,
Peari Sankar replied: "When I saw that all arrangements had been made for
the wedding of your sister, I said to myself: 'Well, I have fouled the caste of
one Brahmin, but that was only from a sense of duty. Here, another Brahmin's
caste is imperilled, and this time it is my plain duty to prevent it.' So I
wrote to them saying that I was in a position to prove that you had taken the
daughter of a sudra to wife."
Controlling himself with a
gigantic effort, Hemanta said: "What will become of this girl whom I shall
abandon now? Would you give her food and shelter?
"I have done what was
mine to do," replied Peari Sankar calmly. "It is no part of my duty
to look after the discarded wives of other people. Anybody there? Get a glass
of cocoanut milk for Hemanta Babu with ice in it. And some pan too."
Hemanta rose, and took his departure without waiting for this luxurious
hospitality.
IV
It was the fifth night of
the waning of the moon--and the night was dark. No birds were singing. The lichi
tree by the tank looked like a smudge of ink on a background a shade less deep.
The south wind was blindly roaming about in the darkness like a sleep-walker.
The stars in the sky with vigilant unblinking eyes were trying to penetrate the
darkness, in their effort to fathom some profound mystery.
No light shone in the
bedroom. Hemanta was sitting on the side of the bed next the open window,
gazing at the darkness in front of him. Kusum lay on the floor, clasping her
husband's feet with both her arms, and her face resting on them. Time stood
like an ocean hushed into stillness. On the background of eternal night, Fate
seemed to have painted this one single picture for all time--annihilation on
every side, the judge in the centre of it, and the guilty one at his feet.
The sound of slippers was
heard again. Approaching the door, Harihar Mukerji said: "You have had
enough time,--I can't allow you more. Turn the
girl out of the house."
Kusum, as she heard this,
embraced her husband's feet with all the ardour of a lifetime, covered them
with kisses, and touching her forehead to them reverentially, withdrew herself.
Hemanta rose, and walking
to the door, said:
"Father, I won't
forsake my wife."
"What!" roared
out Harihar, "would you lose your caste, sir? "
"I don't care for
caste," was Hemanta's calm reply.
"Then you too I
renounce."
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?"
"My dear little sister
in the law!" I murmured involuntarily to myself, but with a grave face
contrived to answer: "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 Protrap 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. "Oh, 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 witticism! 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
thunderbolt. 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 turbaned merchants, carrying
some of their queer old firearms, and some of 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, or an English sailor. Even after all these years
of experience, she is not able to overcome her terror. So she xvas 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 enquired 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 to-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 to-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, 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
and said: "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 Pârbati
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.
With affection,
Ruben
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