Stories from Tagore-1

STORIES FROM TAGORE

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 Cabuliwallah3

The Home-Coming21

Once there was a King35

The Child's Return51

Master Mashai69

Subha101

The Postmaster115

The Castaway129

The Son of Rashmani151

The Babus of Nayanjore203

Notes223

[Pg 1]

THE CABULIWALLAH

[Pg 2]

STORIES FROM TAGORE

[Pg 3]

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

[Pg 4]

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

[Pg 5]

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

[Pg 6]

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,

[Pg 7]

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

[Pg 8]

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.

[Pg 9]

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

[Pg 10]

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

[Pg 11]

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

[Pg 12]

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

[Pg 13]

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."

[Pg 14]

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.

[Pg 15]

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

[Pg 16]

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.

[Pg 17]

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.

[Pg 18]

[Pg 19]

THE HOME-COMING

[Pg 20]

[Pg 21]

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!"

[Pg 22]

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

[Pg 23]

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

[Pg 24]

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,

[Pg 25]

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

[Pg 26]

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

[Pg 27]

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

[Pg 28]

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.

[Pg 29]

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

[Pg 30]

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?"