Stories from Tagore
Stories from Tagore-4
"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
[Pg 92]
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
[Pg 93]
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
[Pg 94]
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.
[Pg 95]
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.
[Pg 96]
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."
[Pg 97]
"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.
[Pg 98]
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.
[Pg 99]
SUBHA
[Pg 100]
[Pg 101]
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
[Pg 102]
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.
[Pg 103]
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
[Pg 104]
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
[Pg 105]
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
[Pg 106]
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
[Pg 107]
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
[Pg 108]
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
[Pg 109]
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
[Pg 110]
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).
[Pg 111]
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
[Pg 112]
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.
[Pg 113]
THE POSTMASTER
[Pg 114]
[Pg 115]
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
[Pg 116]
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.
[Pg 117]
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
[Pg 118]
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,
[Pg 119]
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
[Pg 120]
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
[Pg 121]
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
[Pg 122]
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.