Stories from Tagore
Stories from Tagore-5
That whole night, in her waking and in her
dreams, the postmaster's laughing reply haunted her—"What
an idea!"
On getting up in the morning, the postmaster
found his bath ready. He had stuck to his Calcutta
habit of bathing in water drawn and kept in pitchers,
instead of taking a plunge in the river as was the
custom of the village. For some reason or other,
the girl could not ask him about the time of his
departure, so she had fetched the water from the
river long before sunrise, that it should be ready
as early as he might want it. After the bath came a
call for Ratan. She entered noiselessly, and looked
silently into her master's face for orders. The
master said: "You need not be anxious about my
going away, Ratan; I shall tell my successor to look
after you." These words were kindly meant, no
doubt: but inscrutable are the ways of a woman's
heart!
[Pg 123]
Ratan had borne many a scolding from her
master without complaint, but these kind words she
could not bear. She burst out weeping, and said:
"No, no, you need not tell anybody anything at all
about me; I don't want to stay on here."
The postmaster was dumbfounded. He had
never seen Ratan like this before.
The new incumbent duly arrived, and the postmaster,
having given over charge, prepared to depart.
Just before starting he called Ratan and
said: "Here is something for you; I hope it will
keep you for some little time." He brought out
from his pocket the whole of his month's salary, retaining
only a trifle for his travelling expenses.
Then Ratan fell at his feet and cried: "Oh, Dada,
I pray you, don't give me anything, don't in
any way trouble about me," and then she ran away
out of sight.
The postmaster heaved a sigh, took up his carpet
bag, put his umbrella over his shoulder, and, accompanied
by a man carrying his many-coloured tin
trunk, he slowly made for the boat.
When he got in and the boat was under way,
and the rain-swollen river, like a stream of tears
welling up from the earth, swirled and sobbed at her
bows, then he felt a pain at heart; the grief-stricken
face of a village girl seemed to represent for him the
[Pg 124]
great unspoken pervading grief of Mother Earth
herself. At one time he had an impulse to go back,
and bring away along with him that lonesome waif,
forsaken of the world. But the wind had just filled
the sails, the boat had got well into the middle of
the turbulent current, and already the village was left
behind, and its outlying burning-ground came in
sight.
So the traveller, borne on the breast of the swift-flowing
river, consoled himself with philosophical
reflections on the numberless meetings and partings
going on in the world—on death, the great parting,
from which none returns.
But Ratan had no philosophy. She was wandering
about the post office in a flood of tears. It may
be that she had still a lurking hope in some corner
of her heart that her Dada would return, and that
is why she could not tear herself away. Alas for
our foolish human nature! Its fond mistakes are
persistent. The dictates of reason take a long time
to assert their own sway. The surest proofs meanwhile
are disbelieved. False hope is clung to with
all one's might and main, till a day comes when it
has sucked the heart dry and it forcibly breaks
through its bonds and departs. After that comes
the misery of awakening, and then once again the
[Pg 125]
longing to get back into the maze of the same mistakes.
WORDS TO BE STUDIED
indigo. This word has a very interesting history. It
means "Indian." The celebrated dark-blue dye came
from India. This dye was first known to the Greeks
who called it "Indikon," then to the Latins who called
it Indicum, then to the Italians and Spaniards who
called it Indigo. It was introduced into England from
Italy by artists and painters who kept the Italian word
"indigo" without change.
genie. There is a Latin word "genius," meaning originally
a spirit inhabiting a special place. It is from this
word that our English common noun "genius" is
taken, meaning a specially gifted or inspired person,
e.g. "a man of genius." But in the Arabian Nights a
completely different Arabic word is found, viz. "jinn"
with its feminine form "jinni." This was written in
English "genie" and was confused with the word
"genius." The plural of genie when used in this sense
is genii, which is really the plural of the Latin word
genius.
macadamised. This is quite a modern word in English.
It comes from the name of the inventor of this kind of
road-paving, who was Mr. J. L. Macadam. He discovered
that different layers of small stone rolled in,
one after the other, can stand the wear and tear of
traffic. We have similar words from proper names.
Compare, boycott, burke, lynch, etc.
allude. From the Latin "ludere," to play. Compare
prelude, interlude, delude, collusion, elude, elusive, allusion.
guava. This word came into English from the Spanish.
It is of great interest to trace the names of the fruits in
[Pg 126]
English back to their sources, e.g. currant, comes from
Corinth; mango from the Portuguese manga (from
the Tamil "mankay" fruit-tree); orange from the
Arabic "narang" and Hindustani "narangi"; apricot
from Arabic al-burquq; date from the Greek "daktulos,"
meaning "finger."
alphabet. The two first letters in the Greek language are
called "alpha" and "beta." Then the whole series
of letters was named an alphabeta or alphabet.
consonants. From the Latin "sonare," meaning to sound.
Consonants are letters which "sound with" the vowels.
Compare dissonant, assonance, sonant, sonorous,
sonata.
canal. This is one example of a word taken into English
from the Latin, through the French, having a companion
word in English. The companion word in this
case is channel. Compare cavalry and chivalry, legal
and loyal, guard and ward.
dumbfounded. This word has come into the English language
from common speech. It is a mixture of the
English word dumb, and the Latin "fundere," "to
pour" which we find in confound, profound, confusion.
It is not often that we get such hybrid words in earlier
English, though to-day they are becoming common in
the case of new words such as motorcar, speedometer,
airplane, waterplane, automobile, etc. The old rule
used to be that a compound word in English should
have both its parts from the same language (e.g. both
parts Latin, or Greek, or Saxon, etc.). But this rule
is rapidly breaking down in common practice as new
words rush into the English language to express all the
new discoveries of science. We have English and
Greek roots mixed (such as airplane), and Latin and
Greek roots mixed (such as oleograph).
[Pg 127]
THE CASTAWAY
[Pg 128]
[Pg 129]
VIII
THE CASTAWAY
Towards evening the storm was at its height.
From the terrific downpour of rain, the crash of
thunder, and the repeated flashes of lightning, you
might think that a battle of the gods and demons
was raging in the skies. Black clouds waved like
the Flags of Doom. The Ganges was lashed into a
fury, and the trees of the gardens on either bank
swayed from side to side with sighs and groans.
In a closed room of one of the riverside houses at
Chandernagore, a husband and his wife were seated
on a bed spread on the floor, intently discussing.
An earthen lamp burned beside them.
The husband, Sharat, was saying: "I wish you
would stay on a few days more; you would then be
able to return home quite strong again."
The wife, Kiran, was saying: "I have quite recovered
already. It will not, cannot possibly, do
me any harm to go home now."
Every married person will at once understand that
the conversation was not quite so brief as I have
[Pg 130]
reported it. The matter was not difficult, but the
arguments for and against did not advance it towards
a solution. Like a rudderless boat, the discussion
kept turning round and round the same point; and
at last threatened to be overwhelmed in a flood of
tears.
Sharat said: "The doctor thinks you should stop
here a few days longer."
Kiran replied: "Your doctor knows everything!"
"Well," said Sharat, "you know that just now
all sorts of illnesses are abroad. You would do well
to stop here a month or two more."
"And at this moment I suppose every one in this
place is perfectly well!"
What had happened was this: Kiran was a
universal favourite with her family and neighbours,
so that, when she fell seriously ill, they were all
anxious. The village wiseacres thought it shameless
for her husband to make so much fuss about a mere
wife and even to suggest a change of air, and asked
if Sharat supposed that no woman had ever been ill
before, or whether he had found out that the folk
of the place to which he meant to take her were
immortal. Did he imagine that the writ of Fate
did not run there? But Sharat and his mother
turned a deaf ear to them, thinking that the little
[Pg 131]
life of their darling was of greater importance than
the united wisdom of a village. People are wont
to reason thus when danger threatens their loved
ones. So Sharat went to Chandernagore, and
Kiran recovered, though she was still very weak.
There was a pinched look on her face which filled
the beholder with pity, and made his heart tremble,
as he thought how narrowly she had escaped death.
Kiran was fond of society and amusement; the
loneliness of her riverside villa did not suit her at
all. There was nothing to do, there were no interesting
neighbours, and she hated to be busy all
day with medicine and dieting. There was no fun
in measuring doses and making fomentations. Such
was the subject discussed in their closed room on this
stormy evening.
So long as Kiran deigned to argue, there was a
chance of a fair fight. When she ceased to reply,
and with a toss of her head disconsolately looked
the other way, the poor man was disarmed. He
was on the point of surrendering unconditionally
when a servant shouted a message through the shut
door.
Sharat got up and on opening the door learnt that
a boat had been upset in the storm, and that one of
the occupants, a young Brahmin boy, had succeeded
in swimming ashore at their garden.
[Pg 132]
Kiran was at once her own sweet self and set
to work to get out some dry clothes for the boy.
She then warmed a cup of milk and invited him to
her room.
The boy had long curly hair, big expressive eyes,
and no sign yet of hair on the face. Kiran, after
getting him to drink some milk asked him all about
himself.
He told her that his name was Nilkanta, and that
he belonged to a theatrical troupe. They were
coming to play in a neighbouring villa when the boat
had suddenly foundered in the storm. He had no
idea what had become of his companions. He was
a good swimmer and had just managed to reach the
shore.
The boy stayed with them. His narrow escape
from a terrible death made Kiran take a warm interest
in him. Sharat thought the boy's appearance
at this moment rather a good thing, as his wife
would now have something to amuse her, and might
be persuaded to stay on for some time longer. Her
mother-in-law, too, was pleased at the prospect of
profiting their Brahmin guest by her kindness. And
Nilkanta himself was delighted at his double escape
from his master and from the other world, as well
as at finding a home in this wealthy family.
But in a short while Sharat and his mother
[Pg 133]
changed their opinion, and longed for his departure.
The boy found a secret pleasure in smoking Sharat's
hookahs; he would calmly go off in pouring rain
with Sharat's best silk umbrella for a stroll through
the village, and make friends with all whom he met.
Moreover, he had got hold of a mongrel village
dog which he petted so recklessly that it came indoors
with muddy paws, and left tokens of its visit on
Sharat's spotless bed. Then he gathered about him
a devoted band of boys of all sorts and sizes, and
the result was that not a solitary mango in the
neighbourhood had a chance of ripening that season.
There is no doubt that Kiran had a hand in spoiling
the boy. Sharat often warned her about it, but
she would not listen to him. She made a dandy
of him with Sharat's cast-off clothes, and gave him
new ones also. And because she felt drawn towards
him, and had a curiosity to know more about him,
she was constantly calling him to her own room.
After her bath and midday meal Kiran would be
seated on the bedstead with her betel-leaf box by
her side; and while her maid combed and dried her
hair, Nilkanta would stand in front and recite pieces
out of his repertory with appropriate gesture and
song, his elf-locks waving wildly. Thus the long
afternoon hours passed merrily away. Kiran would
often try to persuade Sharat to sit with her as one
[Pg 134]
of the audience, but Sharat, who had taken a cordial
dislike to the boy, refused; nor could Nilkanta do
his part half so well when Sharat was there. His
mother would sometimes be lured by the hope of
hearing sacred names in the recitation; but love of
her mid-day sleep speedily overcame devotion, and
she lay lapped in dreams.
The boy often got his ears boxed and pulled by
Sharat, but as this was nothing to what he had been
used to as a member of the troupe, he did not mind
it in the least. In his short experience of the world
he had come to the conclusion that, as the earth
consisted of land and water, so human life was made
up of eatings and beatings, and that the beatings
largely predominated.
It was hard to tell Nilkanta's age. If it was
about fourteen or fifteen, then his face was too old
for his years; if seventeen or eighteen, then it was
too young. He was either a man too early or a boy
too late. The fact was that, joining the theatrical
band when very young, he had played the parts of
Radhika, Damayanti, and Sita, and a thoughtful
Providence so arranged things that he grew to the
exact stature that his manager required, and then
growth ceased.
Since every one saw how small Nilkanta was, and
[Pg 135]
he himself felt small, he did not receive due respect
for his years. Causes, natural and artificial, combined
to make him sometimes seem immature for
seventeen years, and at other times a mere lad of
fourteen but far too knowing even for seventeen.
And as no sign of hair appeared on his face, the confusion
became greater. Either because he smoked
or because he used language beyond his years, his
lips puckered into lines that showed him to be old
and hard; but innocence and youth shone in his large
eyes. I fancy that his heart remained young, but
the hot glare of publicity had been a forcing-house
that ripened untimely his outward aspect.
In the quiet shelter of Sharat's house and garden
at Chandernagore, Nature had leisure to work her
way unimpeded. Nilkanta had lingered in a kind
of unnatural youth, but now he silently and swiftly
overpassed that stage. His seventeen or eighteen
years came to adequate revelation. No one observed
the change, and its first sign was this, that
when Kiran treated him like a boy, he felt ashamed.
When the gay Kiran one day proposed that he
should play the part of lady's companion, the idea
of woman's dress hurt him, though he could not
say why. So now, when she called for him to act
over again his old characters, he disappeared.
[Pg 136]
It never occurred to Nilkanta that he was even
now not much more than a lad-of-all-work in a strolling
company. He even made up his mind to pick
up a little education from Sharat's factor. But, because
he was the pet of his master's wife, the factor
could not endure the sight of him. Also, his restless
training made it impossible for him to keep his
mind long engaged; sooner or later, the alphabet
did a misty dance before his eyes. He would sit
long enough with an open book on his lap, leaning
against a champak bush beside the Ganges. The
waves sighed below, boats floated past, birds flitted
and twittered restlessly above. What thoughts
passed through his mind as he looked down on that
book he alone knew, if indeed he did know. He
never advanced from one word to another, but the
glorious thought, that he was actually reading a
book, filled his soul with exultation. Whenever a
boat went by, he lifted his book, and pretended to
be reading hard, shouting at the top of his voice.
But his energy dropped as soon as the audience was
gone.
Formerly he sang his songs automatically, but now
their tunes stirred in his mind. Their words were
of little import and full of trifling alliteration.
Even the feeble meaning they had was beyond his
comprehension; yet when he sang
[Pg 137]—
Twice-born bird, ah! wherefore stirred
To wrong our royal lady?
Goose, ah, say why wilt thou slay
Her in forest shady?
then he felt as if transported to another world and
to fear other folk. This familiar earth and his own
poor life became music, and he was transformed.
That tale of the goose and the king's daughter
flung upon the mirror of his mind a picture of surpassing
beauty. It is impossible to say what he
imagined himself to be, but the destitute little slave
of the theatrical troupe faded from his memory.
When with evening the child of want lies down,
dirty and hungry, in his squalid home, and hears
of prince and princess and fabled gold, then in the
dark hovel with its dim flickering candle, his mind
springs free from its bonds of poverty and misery
and walks in fresh beauty and glowing raiment,
strong beyond all fear of hindrance, through that
fairy realm where all is possible.
Even so, this drudge of wandering players
fashioned himself and his world anew, as he moved
in spirit amid his songs. The lapping water,
rustling leaves, and calling birds; the goddess who
had given shelter to him, the helpless, the God-forsaken;
her gracious, lovely face, her exquisite arms
with their shining bangles, her rosy feet as soft as
[Pg 138]
flower-petals; all these by some magic became one
with the music of his song. When the singing
ended, the mirage faded, and the Nilkanta of the
stage appeared again, with his wild elf-locks.
Fresh from the complaints of his neighbour, the
owner of the despoiled mango-orchard, Sharat
would come and box his ears and cuff him. The
boy Nilkanta, the misleader of adoring youths, went
forth once more, to make ever new mischief by land
and water and in the branches that are above the
earth.
Shortly after the advent of Nilkanta, Sharat's
younger brother, Satish, came to spend his college
vacation with them. Kiran was hugely pleased at
finding a fresh occupation. She and Satish were
of the same age, and the time passed pleasantly in
games and quarrels and reconciliations and laughter
and even tears. Suddenly she would clasp him over
the eyes from behind with vermilion-stained hands,
or she would write "monkey" on his back, or else
she would bolt the door on him from the outside
amidst peals of laughter. Satish in his turn did not
take things lying down; he would steal her keys
and rings; he would put pepper among her betel,
he would tie her to the bed when she was not looking.
Meanwhile, heaven only knows what possessed
[Pg 139]
poor Nilkanta. He was suddenly filled with a
bitterness which he must avenge on somebody or
something. He thrashed his devoted boy-followers
for no fault, and sent them away crying. He would
kick his pet mongrel till it made the skies resound
with its whinings. When he went out for a walk,
he would litter his path with twigs and leaves beaten
from the roadside shrubs with his cane.
Kiran liked to see people enjoying good fare.
Nilkanta had an immense capacity for eating, and
never refused a good thing however often it was
offered. So Kiran liked to send for him to have
his meals in her presence, and ply him with delicacies,
happy in the bliss of seeing this Brahmin boy eat to
satiety. After Satish's arrival she had much less
spare time on her hands, and was seldom present
when Nilkanta's meals were served. Before, her
absence made no difference to the boy's appetite,
and he would not rise till he had drained his cup
of milk and rinsed it thoroughly with water.
But now, if Kiran was not present to ask him
to try this and that, he was miserable, and nothing
tasted right. He would get up, without eating
much, and say to the serving-maid in a choking voice:
"I am not hungry." He thought in imagination
that the news of his repeated refusal, "I am not
hungry," would reach Kiran; he pictured her concern,
[Pg 140]
and hoped that she would send for him, and
press him to eat. But nothing of the sort happened.
Kiran never knew and never sent for him; and the
maid finished whatever he left. He would then put
out the lamp in his room, and throw himself on his
bed in the darkness, burying his head in the pillow
in a paroxysm of sobs. What was his grievance?
Against whom? And from whom did he expect
redress? At last, when no one else came, Mother
Sleep soothed with her soft caresses the wounded
heart of the motherless lad.
Nilkanta came to the unshakable conviction that
Satish was poisoning Kiran's mind against him.
If Kiran was absent-minded, and had not her usual
smile, he would jump to the conclusion that some
trick of Satish had made her angry with him. He
took to praying to the gods, with all the fervour of
his hate, to make him at the next rebirth Satish, and
Satish him. He had an idea that a Brahmin's wrath
could never be in vain; and the more he tried to
consume Satish with the fire of his curses, the more
did his own heart burn within him. And upstairs
he would hear Satish laughing and joking with his
sister-in-law.
Nilkanta never dared openly to show his enmity
to Satish. But he would contrive a hundred petty
ways of causing him annoyance. When Satish went
[Pg 141]
for a swim in the river, and left his soap on the
steps of the bathing-place, on coming back for it he
would find that it had disappeared. Once he found
his favourite striped tunic floating past him on the
water, and thought it had been blown away by the
wind.
One day Kiran, desiring to entertain Satish, sent
for Nilkanta to recite as usual, but he stood there
in gloomy silence. Quite surprised, Kiran asked
him what was the matter. But he remained silent.
And when again pressed by her to repeat some particular
favourite piece of hers, he answered: "I
don't remember," and walked away.
At last the time came for their return home.
Everybody was busy packing up. Satish was going
with them. But to Nilkanta nobody said a word.
The question whether he was to go or not seemed
to have occurred to nobody.
The subject, as a matter of fact, had been raised
by Kiran, who had proposed to take him along with
them. But her husband and his mother and
brother had all objected so strenuously that she let
the matter drop. A couple of days before they were
to start, she sent for the boy, and with kind words
advised him to go back to his own home.
So many days had he felt neglected that this touch
of kindness was too much for him; he burst into
[Pg 142]
tears. Kiran's eyes were also brimming over. She
was filled with remorse at the thought that she had
created a tie of affection, which could not be permanent.
But Satish was much annoyed at the blubbering
of this overgrown boy. "Why does the fool stand
there howling instead of speaking?" said he.
When Kiran scolded him for an unfeeling creature,
he replied: "My dear sister, you do not understand.
You are too good and trustful. This fellow
turns up from the Lord knows where, and is treated
like a king. Naturally the tiger has no wish to become
a mouse again. And he has evidently discovered
that there is nothing like a tear or two
to soften your heart."
Nilkanta hurriedly left the spot. He felt he
would like to be a knife to cut Satish to pieces; a
needle to pierce him through and through; a fire to
burn him to ashes. But Satish was not even scared.
It was only his own heart that bled and bled.
Satish had brought with him from Calcutta a
grand inkstand. The inkpot was set in a mother-of-pearl
boat drawn by a German-silver goose supporting
a penholder. It was a great favourite of
his, and he cleaned it carefully every day with an old
silk handkerchief. Kiran would laugh, and tapping
the silver bird's beak would say
[Pg 143]—
Twice-born bird, ah! wherefore stirred
To wrong our royal lady?
and the usual war of words would break out between
her and her brother-in-law.
The day before they were to start, the inkstand
was missing and could nowhere be found. Kiran
smiled, and said: "Brother-in-law, your goose
has flown off to look for your Damayanti."
But Satish was in a great rage. He was certain
that Nilkanta had stolen it—for several people said
they had seen him prowling about the room the night
before. He had the accused brought before him.
Kiran also was there. "You have stolen my inkstand,
you thief!" he blurted out. "Bring it back
at once." Nilkanta had always taken punishment
from Sharat, deserved or undeserved, with perfect
equanimity. But, when he was called a thief in
Kiran's presence, his eyes blazed with a fierce anger,
his breast swelled, and his throat choked. If Satish
had said another word, he would have flown at him
like a wild cat and used his nails like claws.
Kiran was greatly distressed at the scene, and
taking the boy into another room said in her sweet,
kind way: "Nilu, if you really have taken that
inkstand give it to me quietly, and I shall see that
no one says another word to you about it." Big
tears coursed down the boy's cheeks, till at last he
[Pg 144]
hid his face in his hands, and wept bitterly. Kiran
came back from the room and said: "I am sure
Nilkanta has not taken the inkstand." Sharat and
Satish were equally positive that no other than Nilkanta
could have done it.
But Kiran said determinedly: "Never."
Sharat wanted to cross-examine the boy, but his
wife refused to allow it.
Then Satish suggested that his room and box
should be searched. And Kiran said: "If you
dare do such a thing I will never forgive you. You
shall not spy on the poor innocent boy." And as
she spoke, her wonderful eyes filled with tears.
That settled the matter and effectually prevented
any further molestation of Nilkanta.
Kiran's heart overflowed with pity at this attempted
outrage on a homeless lad. She got two
new suits of clothes and a pair of shoes, and with
these and a banknote in her hand she quietly went
into Nilkanta's room in the evening. She intended
to put these parting presents into his box as a surprise.
The box itself had been her gift.
From her bunch of keys she selected one that
fitted and noiselessly opened the box. It was so
jumbled up with odds and ends that the new clothes
would not go in. So she thought she had better
take everything out and pack the box for him. At
[Pg 145]
first knives, tops, kite-flying reels, bamboo twigs,
polished shells for peeling green mangoes, bottoms
of broken tumblers and such like things dear to a
boy's heart were discovered. Then there came a
layer of linen, clean and otherwise. And from
under the linen there emerged the missing inkstand,
goose and all.
Kiran, with flushed face, sat down helplessly with
the inkstand in her hand, puzzled and wondering.
In the meantime, Nilkanta had come into the
room from behind without Kiran knowing it. He
had seen the whole thing and thought that Kiran
had come like a thief to catch him in his thieving,—and
that his deed was out. How could he ever hope
to convince her that he was not a thief, and that only
revenge had prompted him to take the inkstand,
which he meant to throw into the river at the first
chance? In a weak moment he had put it in the
box instead. "He was not a thief," his heart cried
out, "not a thief!" Then what was he? What
could he say? That he had stolen, and yet he was
not a thief? He could never explain to Kiran how
grievously wrong she was. And then, how could he
bear the thought that she had tried to spy on him?
At last Kiran with a deep sigh replaced the inkstand
in the box, and, as if she were the thief herself,
covered it up with the linen and the trinkets
[Pg 146]
as they were before; and at the top she placed the
presents, together with the banknote which she had
brought for him.
The next day the boy was nowhere to be found.
The villagers had not seen him; the police could discover
no trace of him. Said Sharat: "Now, as a
matter of curiosity, let us have a look at his box."
But Kiran was obstinate in her refusal to allow that
to be done.
She had the box brought up to her own room;
and taking out the inkstand alone, she threw it into
the river.
The whole family went home. In a day the
garden became desolate. And only that starving
mongrel of Nilkanta's remained prowling along the
river-bank, whining and whining as if its heart would
break.
WORDS TO BE STUDIED
favourite. A certain number of words such as honour,
colour, favour, ardour, fervour have come into English
through the French from the Latin. There is a constant
tendency to-day in modern English to leave out
the letter "u" and spell color, favor, etc. But this
movement has not yet gained much ground in England.
wiseacres. This form originally comes from the Dutch.
The ending "acres" is a corruption of the Dutch "seggen"
which is the same as the English to say. The
word is equivalent to "wise-sayers."
deign. This is a word which comes through the French
[Pg 147]
from the Latin "dignus," meaning worthy. Compare
indignant, dignitary, condign, indignity.
troupe. An example of two words, with slightly different
meanings, coming from one and the same French word.
The French word is "troupe," meaning a company.
This form is used in English for a company of players
or actors. But the form "troop" is used chiefly of
soldiers.
automatically. This is a modern English word from the
Greek "autos," meaning self. Compare autobiography,
autonomy, autocracy. Modern English is drawing
largely from the Greek language for its new words.
alliteration. The Latin word for letter is "littera."
From this we get many English words, e.g. letter, literate,
literal, literature, illiterate, obliterate, transliterate,
etc.
mirage. From the Latin "mirari," to wonder. Compare
mirror, miracle, admire. This is one of the words in
English which keeps the old French accent on the last
syllable—miráge. The tendency in English is always
to throw the accent back as far as possible. Many
words have changed their pronunciation in the course
of time. Obdurate, in Milton's time, was pronounced
obdúrate, but to-day it is pronounced óbdurate. Trafalgar
was pronounced Trafalgár last century. Now
we pronounce it Trafálgar.
[Pg 148]
[Pg 149]
THE SON OF RASHMANI
[Pg 150]
[Pg 151]
IX
THE SON OF RASHMANI
I
Kalipada's mother was Rashmani, but she had to
do the duty of the father as well, because when both
of the parents are "mother" then it is bad for the
child. Bhavani, her husband, was wholly incapable
of keeping his children under discipline. To know
why he was bent on spoiling his son, you must hear
something of the former history of the family.
Bhavani was born in the famous house of
Saniari. His father, Abhaya Charan, had a son,
Shyama Charan, by his first wife. When he married
again after her death he had himself passed the
marriageable age, and his new father-in-law took
advantage of the weakness of his position to have a
special portion of his estate settled on his daughter.
In this way he was satisfied that proper provision
had been made, if his daughter should become a
widow early in life. She would be independent of
the charity of Shyama Charan.
[Pg 152]
The first part of his anticipation came true. For
very soon after the birth of a son, whom she called
Bhavani, Abhaya Charan died. It gave the father-in-law
great peace and consolation, as he looked forward
to his own death, to know that his daughter
was properly looked after.
Shyama Charan was quite grown up. In fact his
own eldest boy was a year older than Bhavani. He
brought up the latter with his own son. In doing
this he never took a farthing from the property
allotted to his step-mother, and every year he got a
receipt from her after submitting detailed accounts.
His honesty in this affair surprised the neighbourhood.
In fact they thought that such honesty was
another name for foolishness. They did not like
the idea of a division being made in the undivided
ancestral property. If Shyama Charan in some
underhand manner had been able to annul the dowry,
his neighbours would have admired his sagacity; and
there were good advisers ready to hand who could
have rendered him material aid in the attainment of
such an object. But Shyama Charan, in spite of the
risk of crippling his patrimony, strictly set aside the
dowry which came to the share of his step-mother;
and the widow, Vraja Sundari, being naturally
affectionate and trustful, had every confidence in
Shyama Charan whom she trusted as her own son.
[Pg 153]
More than once she had chided him for being so
particular about her portion of the property. She
would tell him that, as she was not going to take her
property with her when she died, and as it would in
any case revert to the family, it was not necessary
to be so very strict about rendering accounts. But
he never listened to her.
