 Preface of Stories from Tagore This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Shashank Jakhmola Stories from Tagore by Rabindranath Tagore Preface Every experienced teacher must have noticed the difficulty of instructing Indian children out of books that are especially 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 schoolboy 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 storybook avoids some at least of these impediments. The surroundings described in it are those of the students every day 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 Masai and the son of Rashmani, are produced 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 Masai. A short paragraph has been added from the original Bengali at the end of the story called The Postmaster. This was unfortunately emitted 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 list are in no sense exhaustive. The end in view has been to endeavor to create an interest in Indian words and their history which may lead on to further study. End of Preface Story number one of stories from Tagore. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Shashank Jagmola. Stories from Tagore by Rabindranath Tagore. The Kabuliwala 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 not stop her prattle, but I would not. You 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 doorkeeper calls a crow a crow. He doesn't know anything, does he? But I could explain to her the differences of language in this world. She was embarked on the full tide of another subject. What do you think, Father? Bhola says there is an elephant in the clouds, blowing water out of his trunk and that is why it rains. And then, darting off anew, while I sat still, making ready some reply to this last saying, Father, what relation is mother to you? With a grave face, I contrived to say, go and play with Bhola, Mini. I am busy. The window of my room overlooks the road. The child had seated herself at my feet near my table and was playing softly, drumming on her knees. I was hard at work on my seventeenth chapter where Pratap Singh, the hero, had just caught Kanchanlata, the heroine, in his arms and was about to escape with her by the third-story window of the castle, when all of a sudden, Mini left her play and ran to the window, crying, Akabaliwala, Akabaliwala. Sure enough, in the street below was Akabaliwala 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 Akabaliwala turned and looked up at the child. When she saw this, overcome by terror, she fled to her mother's protection and disappeared. She had a blind belief that inside the bag which the big man carried, there were perhaps two or three other children like herself. The peddler, 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 Akabaliwala 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 Akabaliwala at her feet. In all her life, it appeared, my small daughter had never found so patient a listener, say her father. And already the corner of her little sadi 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 bet, I handed it to him. The man accepted the money without demure 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 Akabaliwala 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 bet? The Akabaliwala gave it to me, said Mini, cheerfully. The Akabaliwala gave it to you, cried her mother, much shocked. Oh Mini, how could you take it from him? I, entering at the moment, saved her from impending disaster and proceeded to make my own inquiries. It was not the first or second time I found that the two had met. The Akabaliwala had overcome the child's first terror by a judicious bribery of nuts and almonds, and the two were now great friends. They had many quaint jokes, which afforded them much amusement. Seated in front of him, looking down on his gigantic frame in all her tiny dignity, Mini would ripple her face with laughter and begin, Oh Akabaliwala, Akabaliwala, what have you got in your bag? And he would reply, in the nasal accents of the mountaineer, an elephant. Not much cause for many men, perhaps, but how they both enjoyed the fun. And from me, this child's talk with a grown-up man had always, in its something strangely fascinating. Then the Akabaliwala, not to be behind hand, 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 newfangled, 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 Akabaliwala'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 peddler take my daughter's question? Ah, he would say, shaking his fist at an invisible policeman. I will thrash my father-in-law. Hearing this, and picturing the poor, discomfited relative, Mini would go off into peals of laughter in which her formidable friend would join. There were autumn mornings, the very time of year when kings of old went forth to conquest, and I, nevestering 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 the independent life of faraway vials. Perhaps the scene of travel conjured themselves up before me, and pass and repass in my imagination all the more vividly, because I lead such a vegetable existence that a call to travel would fall upon me like a thunderbolt. In the presence of this Kabbali Wala, 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 turban merchants carrying some of 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, imploding me to beware of that man. Mini's mother is unfortunately a very timid lady. Whenever she hears a noise in the street, or sees people coming towards the house, she always jumps to the conclusion that they are either thieves, or drunkards, or snakes, or tigers, or malaria, or cockroaches, or caterpillars. Even after all these years of experience, she is not able to overcome her terror. So she was full of doubts about the Kabbali Wala 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 around on me seriously and ask me solemn questions. Were children never kidnapped? Was it then not true that there was slavery in Kabbal? 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, Rahman the Kabbali Wala 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 many. It would have seemed to an outsider that there was some conspiracy between the two, for when he could not come in the morning, he would appear in the evening. Even to me, it was a little startling now and then, in the corner of a dark room, suddenly to surprise this tall, loose-garmented, much-bagged man, but when Mini would run in smiling with her, oh Kabbali Wala, Kabbali Wala, and the two friends, so far apart in age, would subside into their old laughter and their 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 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 Rahman being led away bound between two policemen, and behind them, a crowd of curious boys. There were blood stains on the clothes of the Kabbali Wala, and one of the policemen carried a knife. Hearing 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 peddler something for a rampuri shawl, but had falsely denied having bought it, and then, in the course of the quadril, Rahman had struck him. Now, in the heat of his excitement, the prisoner began calling his enemy all sorts of names, when suddenly, in a veranda of my house, appeared my little mini with her usual exclamation, O Kabbali Wala, Kabbali Wala! Rahman's face lighted up as he turned to her. He had no bag under his arm today, 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? Rahman 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, Rahman was sentenced to some year's 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, she spent 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 her 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 her Kolkata lanes. Since early dawn that day, the wedding pipes had been sounding, and at each beat, my own heart throbbed. The veil of the tune, Bheravi, 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 veranda. There was no end of hurry and excitement. I was sitting in my study, looking through the accounts, when someone entered, saluting respectfully, and stood before me. It was Rehman the Kabuli Wala. At first I did not recognize him. He had no bag, nor the long hair, nor the same vigor that he used to have. But he smiled, and I knew him again. When did you come, Rehman? 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 realized this. For I felt that the day would have been better omned 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 Kabuli Wala, Kabuli Wala. He had imagined, too, that they would laugh and talk together just as a fold. 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 anyone today. 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 home. I think of her and bring fruits to your child, not to make a profit for myself. Seeing this, he put his hand inside his big loose rope 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 street. Tears came to my eyes. I forgot that he was a poor, cabally fruit seller while I was, but no. What was I more than he? He was also a father. That impression of the hand of his little parvati 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. Glad 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 cabally-owner looked a little staggered at the apparition. He could not revive their old friendship. At last he smiled and said, Let Elvan, 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 a fold. She flushed up at the question, and stood before him with a bright-like face turned down. I remember the day when the cabally-wala and my mini had first met, and I felt sad. When she had gone, Rehman 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 pipe sounded, and the mild autumn sun streamed around us. But Rehman 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, Rehman, 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 electricity 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. End of story number one. Story number two of stories from Tagore. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Shashank Jagmola. Stories from Tagore by Rabindranath Tagore. The Homecoming. Bhartik Chakravarti was ringleader among the boys of the village. A new mischief caught 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 ship 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. Everyone seconded the proposal and it was carried unanimously. But, just as the fun was about to begin, Makhan Bhartik'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. Bhartik was furious. Makhan, he cried, If you don't get down this minute, I'll thrash you. Makhan only moved to a more comfortable position. Now, if Bhartik was to keep his regal dignity before the public, it was clear he ought to carry out this threat. But his courage failed him at the crisis. His fertile brain, however, rapidly seized upon a new maneuver which would discomfort his brother and afford his followers an added amusement. He gave the word of command to roll the log and Makhan over together. Makhan heard the order and made it a point of honor 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 Makhan's philosophy, glory, and all. The other boys shouted themselves hoarse with delight, but Bhartik was a little frightened. He knew what was coming, and sure enough, Makhan rose from Mother Earth, blind as fate, and screaming like the furies. He rushed at Bhartik and scratched his face and beat him and kicked him, and then went crying home. The first act of the drama was over. Bhartik wiped his face and sat down on the edge of a sunken barge by the river bank and began to chew a piece of grass. A boat came up to the landing, and a middle-aged man with gray hair and dark mustache stepped on shore. He saw the boys sitting there doing nothing, and asked him where the Chakravartis lived. Bhartik 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 other 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 Bhartik his mother wanted him. Bhartik refused to leave, but the servant was the master on this occasion. He took Bhartik up roughly and carried him, kicking and struggling in impotent rage. When Bhartik came into the house, his mother saw him. She called out angrily, So you have been hitting Makhan again? Bhartik answered indignantly. No, I haven't. Who told you that? His mother shouted, Don't tell lies, you have. Bhartik said silently, I tell you, I haven't. You asked Makhan, but Makhan thought it best to stick to his previous statement. He said, Yes mother, Bhartik did hit me. Bhartik's patience was already exhausted. He could not bear this injustice. He rushed at Makhan and hammered him with blows. Take that, he cried, and that, and that for telling lies. His mother took Makhan's side in a moment and pulled Bhartik away, beating him with her hands. When Bhartik 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. Bhartik 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, Tadah, 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. Bishambar had now come back to Calcutta and had at once made inquiries 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 Bhartik was a perpetual nuisance. He was lazy, disobedient, and wild. But Mahan was as good as gold, as quite as a lamb, and very fond of reading. Bishambar kindly offered to take Bhartik off his sister's hand and educate him with his own children in Calcutta. The widowed mother readily agreed. When his uncle asked Bhartik if he would like to go to Calcutta with him, his joy knew no bounds and 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 Bhartik. 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 Mahan someday 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 Bhartik's extreme eagerness to get away. Bhartik, 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 Mahan in perpetuity his fishing rod, his big kite and his marbles. Indeed at this time of departure his generosity towards Mahan was unbounded. When they reached Calcutta, Bhartik 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 anyone else, and to bring a village lad of 14 into their midst was terribly upsetting. Bishambar 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 14. 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 quavours. 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 14. 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 grieves for recognition and love, and he becomes the devoted slave of anyone who shows him consideration. But none dare openly love him, for that would be regarded as undue indulgence and therefore bad for the boy. So, what with scolding and shouting, he becomes very much like a stray dog that lost his mother. For a boy of 14, his own home is the only paradise. To live in a such 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 anguished to Patek 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 Patek so much that he felt that he could hardly breathe. He wanted to go out in the open country and fill his lungs with fresh air, but there was no open country to go. 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 wonder about the life-long day singing and shouting for joy, the narrow brook where he could go and dive and swim at any time he liked. He thought of his band of boy companions over whom he was despot, and, above all, the memory of the 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, allowing 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 Patek. He gaped and remained silent when the teacher asked him a question and, like an overlaid in 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, engaged at the roofs of the distant houses. And, if by any chance, he aspired children playing on the open terrace of any roof, his heart would ache with longing. One day he summoned up all his courage and asked his uncle, Uncle, when can I go home? His uncle answered, wait till the holidays come. But the holidays would not come till October, and there was a long time still to wait. One day Patek 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 objectively 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, Patek had a bad headache with the fit of shivering. He felt like 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, Patek was nowhere to be seen. All searches in the neighborhood 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, Mishambar asked help from the police. At the end of the day, a police van stopped at the door before the house. It was still raining, and the streets were all flooded. Two constables brought out Patek in their arms and placed him before Mishambar. He was wet through from head to foot, muddy all over. His face and eyes flushed red with fever, and his limbs trembling. Mishambar 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? Patek 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 derrilious. Mishambar brought in a doctor. Patek opened his eyes, flushed with fever, and looked up to the ceiling and said, Uncle, have the holidays come yet? Mishambar wiped the tears from his own eyes and took Patek's lean and burning hands in his own and sat by him through the night. The boy began again to mutter. At last his voice became excited. Mother, he cried, don't beat me like that. Mother, I'm telling the truth. Next day Patek became conscious for a short time. He turned his eyes above the room as if expecting someone to come. At last, with an air of disappointment, his head sank back on the pillow. He turned his face to the wall with a deep sigh. Mishambar knew his thoughts and bending down his head whispered, Patek, I have sent for your mother. The day went by. The doctor said in a troubled voice that the boy's condition was very critical. Patek began to cry out, Buy the muck, three fathoms, buy the muck, four fathoms, buy the muck. He had heard the sailor on the river streamer calling out the mark on the plumb line. Now he was himself plumping an unfathomable sea. Later in the day, Patek's mother burst into the room like a whirlwind and began to talk from side to side and moan and cry in a loud voice. Bishambar tried to calm her agitation but she flung herself on the bed and cried, Patek, my darling, my darling. Patek stopped his restless movements for a moment. His hand seized beating up and down. He said, Huh? The mother cried again, Patek, my darling, my darling. Patek very slowly turned his head and without seeing anybody said, Mother, the holidays have come. End of story number two. Story number three of stories from Tagore. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Shashank Jagmola. Stories from Tagore but Abindranath Tagore. Once there was a king. Once upon a time there was a king. When we were children, there was no need to know who the king in the fairy story was. It didn't matter whether he was called Shiladitya or Shaliban, whether he lived at Kashi or Kanaj. The thing that made a seven-year-old boy's hard go, thump, thump, with delight, was this one sovereign truth, this reality of all realities. Once there was a king. But the readers of this modern age are far more exact and exacting. When they hear such an opening to a story, they are at once critical and suspicious. They apply the searchlight of science to its legendary haze and ask, Which king? The storytellers have become more precise in their turn. They are no longer content with the old indefinite, there was a king, but assume instead a look of profound learning and begin once there was a king named Ajat Satru. The modern reader's curiosity, however, is not so easily satisfied. He blinks at the author through his scientific spectacles and asks, Which Ajat Satru? When we were young, we understood all sweet things and we could detect the sweets of a fairy story by an unerring science of our own. We never cared for such useless things as knowledge. We only cared for truth and our unsophisticated little hearts knew well where the crystal palace of truth lay and how to reach it. But today we are expected to write pages of facts while the truth is simply this. There was a king. I remember vividly that evening in Calcutta when the fairy story began. The rain and the storm had been incessant. The whole of the city was flooded. The water was knee deep in our lane. I had a straining hope, which was almost a certainty that my tutor would be prevented from coming that evening. I sat on the stool in the far corner of the veranda looking down the lane with the heart beating faster and faster. Every minute I kept my eye on the rain and when it began to diminish I prayed with all my might. Please, God, send some more rain till half past seven is over. For I was quite ready to believe that there was no other need for rain except to protect one helpless boy one evening in one corner of Calcutta from the deadly clutches of his tutor. If not in answer to my prayer at any rate according to some grosser law of nature the rain did not give up. But alas, nor did my teacher. Exactly to the minute in the bend of the lane I saw his approaching umbrella. The great bubble of hope burst in my breast and my heart collapsed. Truly, if there is a punishment to fit the crime after death then my tutor will be born again as me and I shall be born as my tutor. As soon as I saw his umbrella I ran as hard as I could to my mother's room. My mother and grandmother were sitting opposite one another playing cards by the light of a lamp. I ran into the room and flung myself on the bed beside my mother and said, Mother, the tutor has come and I have such a bad headache. Couldn't I have no lessons today? I hope no child of immature age will be allowed to read this story and I sincerely trust it will not be used in textbooks or primers for junior classes. For what I did was dreadfully bad and I received no punishment whatever. On the contrary, my wickedness was crowned with success. My mother said to me, All right, and turning to the servant added, tell the tutor that he can go back home. It was perfectly plain that she didn't think my illness very serious as she went on with her game as before and took no further notice. And I also, burying my head in the pillow, laughed to my heart's content. We perfectly understood one another, my mother and I. But everyone must know how hard it is for a boy of seven years old to keep up the illusion of illness for a long time. After about a minute, I got hold of grandmother and said, Granny, do tell me a story. I had to ask this many times. Granny and mother went on playing cards and took no notice. At last, mother said to me, Child, don't bother. Wait till we've finished our game. But I persisted. Granny, do tell me a story. I told mother she could finish her game tomorrow, but she must let Granny tell me a story there and then. At last, mother threw down the cards and said, You had better do what he wants. I can't manage him. Perhaps she had it in her mind that she would have no tiresome tutor on the morrow while I should be obliged to be back at those stupid lessons. As soon as ever mother had given way, I rushed at Granny. I got hold of her hand and, dancing with delight, dragged her inside my mosquito curtain onto the bed. I clutched hold of the bolster with both hands in my excitement and jumped up and down with joy and when I had got a little quieter said, Now, Granny, let's have the story. Granny went on and the king had a queen. That was good to begin with. He had only one. It is usual for kings and fairy stories to be extravagant in queens. And whenever we hear that there was two queens, our hearts begin to sink. One is sure to be unhappy, but in Granny's story, that danger was passed. He had only one queen. We next hear that the king had not got any son. At the age of seven, I didn't think there was any need to bother if a man had no son. He might only have been in the way. Nor are we greatly excited when we hear that the king has gotten away into the forest to practice austerities in order to get a son. There was only one thing that would have made me go into the forest and that was to get away from my tutor. But the king left behind with his queen a small girl who grew up into a beautiful princess. Twelve years pass away, and the king goes on practicing austerities and never thinks all this while of his beautiful daughter. The princess has reached the full bloom of her youth. The age of marriage has passed, but the king does not return. And the queen pines away with grief and cries, Is my golden daughter destined to die unmarried? Me, what a fate is mine! Then the queen sent men to the king to entreat him earnestly to come back for a single night and take one meal in the palace. And the king consented. The queen cooked with her own hand and with the greatest care, 64 dishes. She made a seat for him of sandalwood and arranged the food in place of golden cups of silver. The princess stood behind with the peacock tail fan in her hand. The king, after twelve years absence, came into the house and the princess waved the fan, lighting up all the room with her beauty. The king looked in his daughter's face and forgot to take his food. At last he asked his queen, Pray, who is this girl whose beauty shines as the gold image of the goddess? Whose daughter is she? The queen beat her forehead and cried, Ah, how evil is my fate! Do you not know your own daughter? The king was struck with amazement. He said at last, My tiny daughter has grown to be a woman. What else? The queen said with a sigh. Do you not know that twelve years have passed by? But why did you not give her in marriage? asked the king. You were away, the queen said, and how could I find her a suitable husband? The king became vehement with excitement. The first man I see tomorrow, he said, But I come out of the palace, shall marry her. The princess went on waving her fan of peacock feathers and the king finished his meal. The next morning, as the king came out of his palace, he saw the son of a brahmin gathering sticks in the forest outside the palace gates. His age was about seven or eight. The king said, I will marry my daughter to him. Who can interfere with the king's command? At once the boy was called and the marriage garlands were exchanged between him and the princess. At this point, I came up close to my wise granny and asked her eagerly, When then? In the bottom of my heart, there was a devout wish to substitute myself for that fortunate wood-gatherer of seven years old. The night was resonant with the pattern of rain. The earthen lamp by my bedside was burning low. My grandmother's voice droned on as she told the story. And all these things served to create in a corner of my credulous heart the belief that I had been gathering sticks in the dawn of some indefinite time in the kingdom of some unknown king, and in a moment garlands had been exchanged between me and the princess, beautiful as the goddess of grace. She had a gold band on her hair and gold earrings in her ears. She had a necklace and bracelets of gold and a gold waist chain round her waist and a pair of golden anklets twinkled above her feet. If my grandmother were an author, how many explanations she would have to offer for this little story? First of all, everyone would ask why the king remained 12 years in the forest. Secondly, why should the king's daughter remain unmarried all that while? This would be regarded as absurd. Even if she could have got so far without a quarrel, still there would have been a great human cry about the marriage itself. First, it never happened. Secondly, how could there be a marriage between a princess of the warrior caste and a boy of the priestly Brahmin caste? Her readers would have imagined at once that the writer was preaching against her social customs in an underhand way, and they would write letters to the papers. So I pray with all my heart that my grandmother may be born to a grandmother again and not through some cursed fate take birth as her luckless grandson. With a throb of joy and delight, I asked Granny, what then? The Granny went on. Then the princess took her little husband away in great distress and built a large palace with seven wings and began to cherish her husband with great care. I jumped up and down in my bed and clutched at the bolster more tightly than ever and said, what then? Granny continued. The little boy went to school and learned many lessons from his teacher and as he grew up his class fellows began to ask him, who is that beautiful lady living with you in the palace with the seven wings? The Brahmin's son was eager to know who she was. He could only remember how one day he had been gathering sticks and a great disturbance arose. But all that was so long ago that he had no clear recollection. Four or five years passed in this way. His companions asked him, who is that beautiful lady in the palace with the seven wings? And the Brahmin's son would come back from school and sadly tell the princess, my school companions always ask me who is that beautiful lady in the palace with the seven wings and I can give them no reply. Tell me, how tell me, who you are? The princess said, let it pass today I will tell you some other day and every day the Brahmin's son would ask who are you? And the princess would reply, let it pass today I will tell you some other day. In this manner, four or five more years passed away. At last the Brahmin's son became very impatient and said, if you do not tell me today who you are, oh beautiful lady, I will leave this palace with the seven wings. Then the princess said, I will certainly tell you tomorrow. Next day the Brahmin's son as soon as he came home from school said, now tell me who you are. The princess said, tonight I will tell you after supper when you are in bed. The Brahmin's son said, very well. And he began to count the hours and expectation of the night. And the princess, on her side, spreading white flowers over the golden bed and lighted a gold lamp with fragrant oil and adorned her hair, and dressed herself in a beautiful robe of blue and began to count the hours and expectation of the night. That evening when her husband, the Brahmin's son, had finished his meal to excited almost to eat and had gone to the golden bed in the bed chamber strewn with flowers, he said to himself, tonight I shall surely know who this beautiful lady is in the palace with the seven wings. The princess took for her food that which was left over by her husband and slowly entered the bed chamber. She had to answer that night the question, who was the beautiful lady that lived in the palace with the seven wings? And as she went up to the bed to tell him, she found a serpent had crept out of the flowers and bitten the Brahmin's son. Her boy husband was lying on the bed of flowers with face pale in death. My heart suddenly ceased to throb and I asked with choking voice, what then? Granny said, then? But what is the use of going on any further with the story? It would only lead on to what was more and more impossible. The boy of seven did not know that, if there were some, what then, after death? No grandmother of a grandmother could tell us all about it. But the child's faith never admits defeat and it would snatch at the mental of death itself to turn him back. It would be outrageous for him to think that such a story of one teacher this evening could so suddenly come to a stop. Therefore the girl, had to call back her story from the Evershire Chamber of the Great End. But she does it so simply. It is merely by floating the dead body on a banana stem on the river and having some incantations read by a magician. But in that rainy night and in the dim light of a lamp, death loses all its horror in the mind of the boy and seems nothing more than a deep slumber of a single night. When the story ends, the tired eyelids are weighed down with sleep. Thus it is that we send the little body of the child floating on the back of sleep over the still water of time and then in the morning read a few verses of incantation to restore him to the world of life and light. End of story number three. Story number four are stories from Tagore. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are recorded All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Shashank Jagmurla Stories from Tagore by Rabindranath Tagore The Child's Return Chapter 1 Rai Charan was 12 years old when he came as a servant to his master's house. He belonged to the same caste as his master and was given his master's little son to nurse. As time went on, the boy left Rai Charan's arms to go to school. From school he went on to college and after college he entered the judicial service. Always until he married, Rai Charan was his sole attendant. But when a mistress came into the house, Rai Charan found two masters instead of one. All his former influence passed to the new mistress. This was compensated by a fresh arrival. Anakul had a son born to him and Rai Charan by his unsparing attentions soon got a complete hold over the child. He used to toss him up in his arms, call to him in absurd baby languages, put his face close to the babies and draw it away again with a laugh. Presently the child was able to crawl and cross the doorway. When Rai Charan went to catch him, he would scream with mischievous laughter and make for safety. Rai Charan was amazed at the profound skill and exact judgment the baby showed when pursued. He would say to his mistress with a look of awe and mystery, your son will be a judge someday. New wonders came in their turn. When the baby began to total, that was to Rai Charan an epoch in human history. When he called his father Baba and his mother Mama in Rai Charan Chacha, then Rai Charan's ecstasy knew no bounds. He went out to tell the news to all the world. After a while, Rai Charan was asked to show his ingenuity in other ways. He had, for instance, to play the part of a horse, holding the reins between his teeth and prancing with his feet. He had also to wrestle with his little charge, and if he could not by wrestler's trick fall on his back defeated, at the end a great art cry was certain. About this time Anakul was transferred to a district on the banks of the Padma, on his way through Calcutta. He bought his son a little go-card. He bought him also a yellow satin waistcoat, a gold lace cap, and some gold bracelets and aclets. Rai Charan was wwn to take these out and put them on his little charge with ceremonial pride whenever they went for a walk. Then came the rainy season, and day after day, the rain poured down in torrents. The hungry river, like an enormous serpent, swallowed down terraces, villages, cornfields, and covered with its flood that all grasses and wild caesurinas on the sandbanks. From time to time, there was a deep thud as the river banks crumbled. The unceasing roar of the main current could be heard from far away. Masses of foam, caddied swiftly past, proved to the eye the swiftness of the stream. One afternoon the rain cleared. It was cloudy, but cool and bright. Rai Charan's little depot did not want to stay in on such a fine afternoon. His lordship climbed into the go-card. Rai Charan, between the shafts, dragged him slowly along till he reached the rice fields on the banks of the river. There was no one in the fields and no boat on the stream. Across the water, on the farther side, the clouds were rifted in the west. The silent ceremonial of the setting sun was revealed in all its glowing splendour. In the midst of that stillness, the child, all of a sudden, pointed with his finger in front of him and cried, Chacha, pitiful! Close by on a mud flat stirred a large cardamba tree in full flower. My lord, the baby, looked at it with greedy eyes and Rai Charan knew his meaning. Only a short time before he had made out of these very flower balls a small go-card, and the child had been so entirely happy, dragging it about with the string that for the whole day Rai Charan was not asked to put on the reins at all. He was promoted from a horse into a groom. But Rai Charan had no wish that evening to go splashing knee-deep through the mud to reach the flowers. So he quickly pointed his finger in the opposite direction, calling out, Look, baby, look! Look at the bird! And with all sorts of curious noises, he pushed the go-card rapidly away from the tree. But a child destined to be a judge cannot be put off so easily. And besides, there was at the time nothing to attract his eyes. And you cannot keep up forever the pretense of an imaginary bird. As he said this, he made his legs bare to the knee and waded through the oozing mud towards the tree. The moment Rai Charan had gone, his little masters thought went off at racing speed to the forbidden water. The baby saw the river rushing by, splashing and gurgling as it went. It seemed as though the disobedient wavelets themselves were running away from some greater Rai Charan with the laughter of a thousand children. At the sight of their mischief, the heart of the human child grew excited and restless. He got down stealthily from the go-card and toddled off towards the river. On his way, he picked up a small stick and leaned over the bank of the stream, pretending to fish. The mischievous fairies of the river with their mysterious voices seemed inviting him into their playhouse. Rai Charan had plucked a handful of flowers from the tree and was carrying them back in the end of his cloth with his face wreathed in smiles. But when he reached the go-card, there was no one there. He looked on all sides and there was no one there. He looked back at the card and there was no one there. In that first terrible moment, his blood froze within him. Before his eyes, the whole universe swam round like a dark mist. From the depth of his broken heart, he gave one piercing cry, Master, Little Master! But no voice answered, Cha Cha! No child laughed mischievously back. No scream of baby delight welcomed his return. Only the river ran on with its splashing, gurgling noise as before. As though it knew nothing at all and had no time to attend to such a tiny human event as the death of a child. As the evening passed by Rai Charan's mistress became very anxious, she sent men out on all sides to search. They went with lanterns in their hands and reached at last the banks of the Padma. There they found Rai Charan rushing up and down the fields like a stormy wind, shouting the cry of despair. Master, Little Master! When they got Rai Charan home at last, he felt prostrate at the feet of his mistress. They shook him and questioned him and asked him repeatedly where he had left the child. But all he could say was that he knew nothing. Though everyone held the opinion that the Padma had swallowed the child, there was a lurking doubt left in the mind. For a band of gypsies had been noticed outside the village that afternoon and some suspicion rested on them. The mother went so far in her wild grief as to think it possible that Rai Charan himself had stolen the child. She called him aside with piteous entreaty and said, Rai Charan, give me back my baby, give me back my child, take from me any money you ask, but give me back my child. Rai Charan only beat his forehead in reply. His mistress ordered him out of the house. Anukul tried to reason his wife out of this wholly unjust suspicion. Why on earth, he said, should he commit such a crime as that? The mother only replied, the baby had gold ornaments on his body. Who knows? It was impossible to reason with her after that. Chapter 2 Rai Charan went back to his own village. Up to this time he had had no son and there was no hope that any child would now be born to him. But it came about before the end of a year that his wife gave birth to a son and died. An overwhelming resentment at first grew up in Rai Charan's heart at the sight of this new baby. At the back of his mind was resentful suspicion that it had come as a usurper in place of the little master. He also thought it would be a grave offense to be happy with the son of his own after what had happened to his master's little child. Indeed, if it had not been for a widowed sister who mothered the new baby it would not have lived long. But a change gradually came over Rai Charan's mind. A wonderful thing happened. This new baby in turn began to crawl about and crossed the doorway with mischief in its face. It also showed an amusing cleverness in making its escape to safety. Its voice, its sounds of laughter and tears, its gestures were those of the little master. On some days when Rai Charan listened to its crying his heart suddenly began thumping wildly against his ribs and it seemed to him that his former little master was crying somewhere in the unknown land of death because he had lost his chacha. Pelna, for that was the name Rai Charan's sister gave to the new baby soon began to talk. It learned to say Papa and Mama with the baby accent. When Rai Charan heard those familiar sounds the mystery suddenly became clear. The little master could not cast off the spell of his chacha and therefore he had been reborn in his own house. The three arguments in favour of this were to Rai Charan altogether beyond dispute. The new baby was born soon after his little master's death. His wife could never have accumulated such merit as to give birth to a son in middle age. The new baby walked with a turtle and called out Baba and Mama. There was no sign lacking which mocked out the future judge. Then suddenly Rai Charan remembered that terrible accusation of the mother. Ah! He said to himself with amazement the mother's heart was right. She knew I had stolen her child. When once he had come to this conclusion he was filled with remorse for his past neglect. He now gave himself over body and soul to the new baby and became its devoted attendant. He began to bring it up as if it were the son of a rich man. He bought a go-kart, a yellow satin waistcoat and a gold embroidered cap. He melted down the ornaments of his dead wife and made gold bangles and anklets. He refused to let the little child play with any of the neighbourhood and became himself its sole companion day and night. As the baby grew up to boyhood he was so pitted and spoiled and clad in such finery that the village children would call him your lordship endure at him and all the people regarded Rai Charan as unaccountably crazy about the child. At last the time came for the boy to go to school. Rai Charan sold his small piece of land and went to Calcutta. There he got employment with great difficulty as a servant and sent Pelna to school. He spared no pains to give him the best education, the best clothes, the best food. Meanwhile he himself lived on a mere handful of rice and would say in secret ah my little master my dear little master you loved me so much that you came back to my house you shall never suffer from any neglect of mine. Twelve years passed away in this manner. The boy was able to read and write well. He was bright and healthy and good looking. He paid a great deal of attention to his personal appearance and was especially careful in parting his hair. He was inclined to extravagance and finery and spent money freely. He could never quite look on Rai Charan as a father because though fatherly in affection he had the manner of a servant. A further fault was this that Rai Charan kept secret from everyone that he himself was the father of the child. The students of the hostel where Palna was a border were greatly amused by Rai Charan's country manners and I have to confess that behind his father's back Palna joined in their fun but in the bottom of their hearts all the students loved the innocent and tender-hearted old man and Palna was very fond of him also but as I have said before he loved him with a kind of condescension. Rai Charan grew older and older and his employer was continually finding fault with him for his incompetent work. He had been starving himself for the boy's sake so he had grown physically weak and no longer up to his daily task. He would forget things and his mind became dull and stupid but his employer expected a full servant's work out of him and would not broke excuses. The money that Rai Charan had brought with him from the sale of his land was exhausted. The boy was continually grumbling about his clothes and asking for more money. Chapter 3 Rai Charan made up his mind. He gave up the situation where he was working as a servant and left some money with Palna and said I have some business to do at home in my village and shall be back soon. He went off at once to Baraset where Anakul was magistrate. Anakul's wife was still broken down with grief. She had had no other child. One day Anakul was resting after a long and weary day in court. His wife was buying at an exorbitant price a herb from a mendicant quack which was said to ensure the birth of a child. A voice of greeting was heard in the courtyard. Anakul went out to see who was there. It was Rai Charan. Anakul's heart was softened when he saw his old servant. He asked him many questions and offered to take him back into service. Rai Charan smiled faintly and said in reply I want to make obeisance to my mistress. Anakul went with Rai Charan into the house where the mistress did not receive him as warmly as his old master. Rai Charan took no notice of this but folded his hands and said it was not the Padma that stole your baby. It was I. Anakul exclaimed Great God eh? What? Where is he? Rai Charan replied he is with me. I will bring him the day after tomorrow. It was Sunday. There was no Magid straights court sitting. Both husband and wife were looking expectantly along the road waiting from early morning for Rai Charan's appearance. At 10 o'clock he came leading Palna by the hand. Anakul's wife without a question took the boy into her lap and was vile with excitement. Sometimes laughing, sometimes weeping, touching him, kissing his hair and his forehead and gazing into his face with hungry, eager eyes. The boy was very good looking and dressed like a gentleman's son. The heart of Anakul brimmed over with a sudden rush of affection. Nevertheless the Magid straight and him asked Have you any proofs? Rai Charan said How could there be any proof of such a deed? God alone knows that I stole your boy and no one else in the world. When Anakul saw how eagerly his wife was clinging to the boy, he realized the futility of asking for proofs. It would be wiser to believe. And then? Where could an old man like Rai Charan get such a boy from? And why should his faithful servant deceive him for nothing? But he had it severely. Rai Charan, you must not stay here. Where shall I go, master? said Rai Charan in a choking voice, folding his hands. I am old, who will take in an old man as a servant. The mistress said, Let him stay. My child will be pleased. I forgive him. But Anakul's magisterial conscience would not allow him. No, he said. He cannot be forgiven for what he has done. Rai Charan bowed to the ground and clasped Anakul's feet. Master, he cried, Let me stay. It was not I who did it. It was God. Anakul's conscience was more shocked than ever when Rai Charan tried to put the blame on God's shoulders. No, he said. I could not allow it. I cannot trust you any more. You have done an act of treachery. Rai Charan rose to his feet and said, It was not I who did it. Who was it then? asked Anakul. Rai Charan replied, It was my fate. But no educated man could take this for an excuse. Anakul remained obdurate. When Pail Na saw that he was the wealthy magistrate's son and not Rai Charan's, he was angry at first, thinking he had been cheated all this time of his birthright. But seeing Rai Charan in distress, he generously said to his father, Father, forgive him. Even if you don't let him live with us, let him have a small monthly pension. After hearing this, Rai Charan did not utter another word. He looked for the last time on the face of his son. He made a big sense to his old master and mistress. Then he went out and was mingled with the numberless people of the world. At the end of the month, Anakul sent him some money to his village. But the money came back. There was no one there of the name of Rai Charan. End of story number four. Story number five of stories from Tagore. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Shashank Jagmola. Stories from Tagore by Rabindranath Tagore. Master Masha'i. Chapter one. Adhar Babu lives upon the interest of the capital left him by his father. Only the brokers, negotiating loans, come to his drawing room and smoke the silver-chased hookah and the clerks from the attorney's office discuss the terms of some mortgage or the amount of the stamp fees. He is so careful with his money that even the most dogged efforts of the boys from the local football club fail to make any impression on his pocket. At the time the studio opens, a new guest came into his household. After a long period of despair, his wife Nani Bala bore him a son. The child resembled his mother. Large eyes, well-formed nose and fair complexion. Ratikanta, Adhar Lal's protege, gave verdict. He is worthy of this noble house. They named him Venugopal. Never before had Adhar Lal's wife expressed any opinion differing from her husband's on household expenses. There have been a hot discussion now and then about the propriety of some necessary item and up to this time she had merely acknowledged defeat with silent contempt. But now Adhar Lal could no longer maintain his supremacy. He had to give way little by little when things for his son were in question. Chapter number two As Venugopal grew up, his father gradually became accustomed to spending money on him. He obtained an old teacher who had a considerable repute for his learning and also for his success in dragging impossible boys through their examinations. But such a training does not lead to the cultivation of amiability. This man tried his best to win the boys' heart but the little that was left in him of the natural milk of human kindness had turned sour and the child repulsed his advances from the very beginning. The mother, in consequence, objected to him strongly and complained that the very sight of him made her boy ill. So the teacher left. Just then, Adhar Lal made his appearance with a dirty dress and a torn pair of old canvas shoes. Adhar Lal's mother, who was a widow, had kept him with great difficulty at a district school out of the scanty earnings which she made by cooking in strange houses and husking rice. He managed to pass the matriculation and determined to go to college. As a result of his half-starved condition, his pinched face tapered to a point in an unnatural manner. Like Cape Cormoran in the map of India and the only broad portion of it was his forehead which resembled the ranges of the Himalayas. The servant asked Har Alal what he wanted and he answered timidly that he wished to see the master. The servant answered sharply, you can't see him. Har Alal was hesitating at last what to do next when Venugopal who had finished his game in the garden suddenly came to the door. The servant shouted at Har Alal, get away. Quite unaccountably, Venugopal grew excited and cried, no he shan't get away and he dragged the stranger to his father. Adhar Alal had just risen from his midday sleep and was sitting quietly on the upper veranda in his keen chair rocking his legs. Ratikanta was enjoying his hookah seated in a chair next to him. He asked Har Alal how far he had got in his reading. The young man bent his head and answered that he had passed the matriculation. Ratikanta looked stern and expressed surprise that he should be so backward for his age. Har Alal kept silence. It was Ratikanta's special pleasure to torture his patron's dependence whether actual or potential. Suddenly it struck Adhar Alal that he would be able to employ this youth as a tutor for his son on next to nothing. He agreed there and then to take him at a salary of five rupees a month with board and lodging free. Chapter 3 This time the post of tutor remained occupied longer than before. From the very beginning of their acquaintance Har Alal and his pupil became great friends. Never before did Har Alal have such an opportunity of loving any young human creature. His mother had been so poor and dependent that he had never had the privilege of playing with the children where she was employed at work. He had not hitherto suspected the hidden stores of love which lay all the while accumulating in his own heart. Venu also was glad to find a companion in Har Alal. He was the only boy in the house. His two younger sisters were looked down upon as unworthy of being his playmates. So his new tutor became his only companion patiently bearing the undivided weight of the tyranny of his child friend. Chapter 4 Venu was now eleven. Har Alal had passed his intermediate winning a scholarship. He was working hard for his BA degree. After college lectures were over he would take Venu out into the public park and tell him stories about the heroes from Greek history and Victor Hugo's romances. The child used to get quite impatient to run to Har Alal after school hours in spite of his mother's attempt to keep him by her side. This displeased Nani Bala. She thought that it was a deep-lead plot of Har Alal's to captivate her boy in order to prolong his own appointment. One day she talked to him from behind the Purda. It is your duty to teach my son only for an hour or two in the morning and evening. But why are you always with him? The child has nearly forgotten his own parents. You must understand that a man of your position is no fit companion for a boy belonging to this house. Har Alal's voice choked a little as he answered that for the future he would merely be Venu's teacher and would keep away from him at other times. It was Har Alal's usual practice to begin his college study early before dawn. The child would come to him directly after he had washed himself. There was a small pool in the garden and they used to feed the fish in it with puffed rice. Venu was also engaged in building a miniature garden house at the corner of the garden with its lilliputian gates and hedges and gravel paths. When the sun became too hot, they would go back into the house and Venu would have his morning lesson from Har Alal. On the day in question, Venu had risen earlier than usual because he wished to hear the end of the story which Har Alal had begun the evening before. But he found his teacher absent. When asked about him, the door servant said that he had gone out. At lesson time, Venu remained unnaturally quiet. He never even asked Har Alal why he had gone out but went on mechanically with his lessons. When the child was with his mother taking his breakfast, she asked him what had happened to make him so gloomy and why was he not eating his food? Venu gave no answer. After his meal, his mother caressed him and questioned him repeatedly. Venu burst out crying and said, Master Masha'i, his mother asked Venu, what about Master Masha'i? But Venu found it difficult to name the offence which his master had committed. His mother said to Venu, has your master Masha'i been saying anything to you against me? Venu could not understand the question and went away. Chapter 5 There was a theft in Adhar Babu's house. The police were called in to investigate. Even Har Alal's trunks were searched. Ratikanta said with meaning, the man who steals anything does not keep his thefts in his own box. Adhar Lal called his son's tutor and said to him, it will not be convenient for me to keep any of you in my own house. From today you will have to take up your quarters outside, only coming in to teach my son at the proper time. Ratikanta said sagely, drawing at his hookah. That is a good proposal, good for both parties. Har Alal did not utter a word, but he sent a letter saying that it would be no longer possible for him to remain as tutor to Venu. When Venu came back from school, he found his tutor's room empty. Even that broken steel trunk of his was absent. The rope was stretched across the corner, but there were no clothes or towel hanging on it. Only on the table, which formerly was strewn with books and papers, stood a bowl containing some goldfish with a label on which was written the word Venu in Har Alal's handwriting. The boy ran up at once to his father and asked him what had happened. His father told him that Har Alal had resigned his post. Venu went to his room and flung himself down and began to cry. Adha Alal did not know what to do with him. The next day, when Har Alal was sitting on his wooden bedstead in the hostel, debating with himself whether he should attend his college lectures, suddenly he saw Adha Babu's servant coming into his room followed by Venu. Venu at once ran up to him and threw his arms around his neck, asking him to come back to the house. Har Alal could not explain why it was absolutely impossible for him to go back, but the memory of those clinging arms and pathetic request used to choke his breath with emotion long after. Chapter 6 Har Alal found out, after this, that his mind was in an unsettled state and that he had but a small chance of winning the scholarship even if he could pass the examination. At the same time, he knew that without the scholarship he could not continue his studies, so he tried to get employment in some office. Fortunately for him, an English manager of a big merchant firm took a fancy to him at first sight. After only a brief exchange of words, the manager asked him if he had any experience and could he bring any testimonial? Har Alal could only answer, no. Nevertheless, a post was offered him of 20 rupees a month and 15 rupees were allowed him in advance to help him to come properly dressed to the office. The manager made Har Alal work extremely hard. He had to stay on after office hours and sometimes go to his master's house late in the evening. But in this way, he learned his work quicker than others and his fellow clerks became jealous of him and tried to injure him but without effect. He rented a small house in a narrow lane and brought his mother to live with him as soon as the salary was raised to 40 rupees a month. Thus happiness came back to his mother after very years of waiting. Har Alal's mother used to express a desire to see where to go, of whom she had heard so much. She wished to prepare some dishes with her own hand and to ask him to come just once to dine with her son. Har Alal avoided the subject by saying that his house was not big enough to invite him for that purpose. Chapter 7 The news reached Har Alal that Venu's mother had died. He could not wait a moment but went at once to Adhalal's house to see Venu. After that, they began to see each other frequently. But times had changed. Venu, stroking his buddy Mustache, had grown quite a young man of fashion. Friends befitting his present condition were numerous. The old, dilapidated study chair and ink-stained desk had vanished and the room now seemed to be bursting with pride at its new acquisitions. Its looking glasses, oleographs and other furniture. Venu had entered college which showed no haste in crossing the boundary of the intermediate examination. Har Alal remembered his mother's request to invite Venu to dinner. After great hesitation, he did so. Venu Gopal, with his handsome face, at once won the mother's heart. But as soon as ever the meal was over, he became impatient to go and looking at his gold watch, he explained that he had pressing engagements elsewhere. Then he jumped into his carriage which was waiting at the door and drove away. Har Alal, with a sigh, said to himself that he would never invite him again. Chapter 8 One day, when returning from office, Har Alal noticed the presence of a man in the dark room on the ground floor of his house. Possibly he would have passed him by had not the heavy scent of some foreign perfume attracted his attention. Har Alal asked who was there and the answer came, It is I, Master Masai. What is the matter, Venu? said Har Alal. When did you arrive? I came hours ago, said Venu. I did not know that you returned so late. They went upstairs together and Har Alal lighted the lamp and asked Venu whether all was well. Venu replied that his college classes were becoming a fearful bore and his father did not realise how dreadfully hard it was for him to go on in the same class year after year with students much younger than himself. Har Alal asked him what he wished to do. Venu then told him that he wanted to go to England and become a barrister. He gave an instance of a student much less advanced than himself who was getting ready to go. Har Alal asked him if he had received his father's permission. Venu replied that his father would not hear a word of it until he had passed the intermediate and that was an impossibility in present frame of mind. Har Alal suggested that he himself should go and try to talk over his father. No, said Venu. I can never allow that. Har Alal asked Venu to stay for dinner and while they were waiting he gently placed his hand on Venu's shoulder and said Venu you should not quarrel with your father or leave home. Venu jumped up angrily and said that if he was not welcome he could go elsewhere. Har Alal caught him by the hand and implored him not to go away without taking his food. But Venu snatched away his hand and was just leaving the room when Har Alal's mother brought the food in on a tray. On seeing Venu about to leave she pressed him to remain and he did so with bad grace. While he was eating the sound of a carriage stopping at the door was heard. First a servant entered the room with creaking shoes and then Adhar Babu himself. Venu's face became pale. The mother left the room as soon as she saw the strangers enter. Adhar Babu called out to Har Alal in a voice thick with anger. Ratikanta gave me full warning but I could not believe that you had such devilish cunning hidden in you. So you think you're going to live upon Venu? This is a sheer kidnapping and I shall prosecute you in the police court. Venu silently followed his father and went out of the house. Chapter 9 The firm to which Har Alal belonged began to buy up large quantities of rice and dal from the country districts. To pay for this Har Alal had to take the cash every Saturday morning by the early train and disburse it. There were special centres where the brokers and middlemen would come with their receipts and accounts for settlement. Some discussion had taken place in the office about Har Alal being entrusted with this work without any security but the manager undertook all the responsibility and said that a security was not needed. This special work used to go on from the middle of December to the middle of April. Har Alal would get back from it very late at night. One day after his return he was told by his mother that Venu had called and that she had persuaded him to take his dinner at their house. This happened more than once. The mother said that it was because Venu missed his own mother and the tears came into her eyes as she spoke about it. One day Venu waited for Har Alal to return and had a long talk with him. Master Mashai, he said, father has become so cantankerous of late that I cannot live with him any longer. And besides I know that he is getting ready to marry again. Ratikanta is seeking a suitable match and they are always conspiring about it. There used to be a time when my father would get anxious if I were absent from home even for a few hours. Now if I am away for more than a week he takes no notice. Indeed he is greatly relieved. If this marriage takes place I feel that I cannot live in the house any longer. You must show me a way out of this. I want to become independent. Har Alal fell deeply pained but he did not know how to help his former pupil. Venu said that he was determined to go to England and become a barrister. Somehow or other he must get the passage money out of his father. He could borrow it on a note of hand and his father would have to pay when the creditors filed a suit. With this borrowed money he would get away and when he was in England his father was certain to remit his expenses. But who is there? Har Alal asked. Who would advance you the money? You said Venu. I exclaimed Har Alal in amazement. Yes said Venu. I have seen the servant bringing heaps of money here in bags. The servant and the money belong to someone else. Har Alal explained why the money came to his house at night like birds to their nest to be scattered next morning. But can the manager advance the sum? Venu asked. He may do so said Har Alal if your father stands security. The discussion ended at this point. One Friday night a carriage and pairs stopped before Har Alal's lodging house. When Venu was announced Har Alal was counting money in his bedroom seated on the floor. Venu entered the room dressed in a strange manner. He had discarded his Bengali dress and was wearing a parsi coat and trousers and had a cap on his head. Rings were prominent on almost all the fingers of both hands and a thick gold chain was hanging round his neck. There was a gold watch in his pocket and diamond studs could be seen peeping from his shirt sleeves. Har Alal had once asked him what was the matter and why was he wearing that dress. My father's marriage, said Venu, comes off tomorrow. He tried hard to keep it from me but I found it out. I asked him to allow me to go to our garden house at Barakpur for a few days and he was only too glad to get rid of me so easily. I am going there and I wish to God I had never to come back. Har Alal looked pointedly at the rings on his finger. Venu explained that they had belonged to his mother. Har Alal then asked him if he had already had his dinner. He answered, Yes, haven't you had yours? No, said Har Alal. I cannot leave this room until I have all the money safely locked up in the siren chest. Go and take your dinner, said Venu. While I keep guard here, your mother will be waiting for you. For a moment, Har Alal hesitated and then he went out and had his dinner. In a short time he came back with his mother and the three of them sat among the bags of money talking together. When it was about midnight, Venu took out his watch and looked at it and jumped up saying that he would miss his train. Then he asked Har Alal to keep all his rings and his watch and chain until he asked for them again. Har Alal put them all together in a leather bag and laid it in the iron safe. Venu went out. The canvas bags containing the currency notes had already been placed in the safe. Only the loose coins remained to be counted over and put away with the rest. Chapter 11 Har Alal lay down on the floor of the same room with the key under his pillow and went to sleep. He dreamt that Venu's mother was loudly reproaching him from behind the curtain. Her words were indistinct but rays of different colors from the jewels on her body kept piercing the curtain like needles and violently vibrating. Har Alal struggled to call Venu but his voice seemed to forsake him. At last with a noise the curtain fell down. Har Alal started up from his sleep and found darkness piled up round about him. A sudden gust of wind had flung open the window and put out the light. Har Alal's whole body was wet with perspiration. He relighted the lamp and saw by the clock that it was four in the morning. There was no time to sleep again for he had to get ready to start. After Har Alal had washed his face and hands his mother called from her own room. Baba, why add you up so soon? It was the habit of Har Alal to see his mother's face the first thing in the morning in order to bring a blessing upon the day. His mother said to him I was dreaming that you were going out to bring back a bride for yourself. Har Alal went to his own bedroom and began to take out the bags containing the silver and the currency notes. Suddenly his heart stopped beating. Three of the bags appeared to be empty. He knocked them against the iron safe but this only proved his fears to be true. He opened them and shook them with all his might. Two letters from Venu dropped out from one of the bags. One was addressed to his father and one to Har Alal. Har Alal tore open his own letter and began reading. The words seemed to run into one another. He trimmed the lamp but felt as we could not understand what he read. Yet the purport of the letter was clear. Venu had taken 3000 rupees in currency notes and had started for England. The streamer was to sail before daybreak that very morning. The letter ended with the words, I am explaining everything in a letter to my father. He will pay off the debt and then again my mother's ornaments which I have left in your care will more than cover the amount I have taken. Har Alal locked up his room and hired a carriage and went with all the haste to the jetty. But he did not know even the name of the streamer which Venu had taken. He ran the whole length of the wharves from Princeps Ghat to Metia Burridge. He found that two streamers had started on their voyage to England early that morning. It was impossible for him to know which one of them carried Venu or how to reach him. When Har Alal got home the sun was strong and the whole of Calcutta was awake. Everything before his eyes seemed blurred. He felt as if he were pushing against a fearful obstacle which was bodyless and without pity. His mother came on the veranda to ask him anxiously where he had gone. With a dry laugh he said to her to bring home a bride for myself. And then he fainted away. On opening his eyes after a while Har Alal asked his mother to leave him. Entering his room he shut the door from the inside while his mother remained seated on the floor of the veranda in the fierce clear of the sun. She kept calling to him fitfully almost mechanically. Baba, Baba! The servant came from the manager's office and knocked at the door saying that they would miss the train if they did not start out at once. Har Alal called from inside. It will not be possible for me to start this morning. Then where are we to go, sir? I will tell you later on. The servant went downstairs with a gesture of impatience. Suddenly Har Alal thought of the ornaments which Venu had left behind. Up till now he had completely forgotten about them but with the thought came instant relief. He took the leather back containing them and also Venu's letter to his father and left the house. Before he reached Adhaar Lal's house he could hear the bands playing for the wedding yet on entering he could feel that there had been some disturbance. Har Alal was told that there had been a theft the night before and one or two servants were suspected. Adhaar Babu was sitting in the upper veranda flushed with anger and Ratikanta was smoking his hookah. Har Alal said to Adhaar Babu I have something private to tell you. Adhaar Lal flared up I have no time now. He was afraid that Har Alal had come to borrow money or to ask his help. Ratikanta suggested that if there was any delicacy in making the request in his presence he would leave the place. Adhaar Lal told him angrily to sit where he was. Then Har Alal handed over the bag which Venu had left behind. Adhaar Lal asked what was inside it and Har Alal opened it and gave the contents into his hand. Then Adhaar Babu said with a sneer it's a pain business that you two have started you and your formal pupil. You were certainly that the stolen property would be traced and so you came along with it to me to claim a reward. Har Alal presented the letter which Venu had written to his father. This only made Adhaar Lal all the more furious. What's all this? He shouted. I'll call for the police. My son has not yet come of age and you have smuggled him out of the country. I'll bet my soul you've lent him a few hundred rupees and then taken a note of hand for three thousand but I am not going to be bound by this. I never advanced him any money at all. Said Har Alal. Then how did he find it? Said Adhaar Lal. Do you mean to tell me he broke open your safe and stole it? Har Alal stood silent. Ratikanta sarcastically remarked. I don't believe this fellow ever said hands on as much as three thousand rupees in his life. When Har Alal left the house he seemed to have lost the power of dreading anything or of even being anxious. His mind seemed to refuse to work. Directly he entered the lane he saw a carriage waiting before his own lodging. For a moment he felt certain that it was Venus. It was impossible to believe that his calamity could be so hopelessly final. Har Alal went up quickly but found an English assistant from the firm sitting inside the carriage. The man came out when he saw Har Alal and took him by the hand and asked him why didn't she go out by the train this morning? The servant had told the manager his suspicions and he had sent this man to find out. Har Alal answered. Notes to the amount of three thousand rupees are missing. The man asked how that could have happened. Har Alal remained silent. The man said to Har Alal let us go upstairs together and see where you keep your money. They went up to the room and counted the money and made a thorough search of the house. When the mother saw this she could not contain herself any longer. She came out before the stranger and said Baba, what has happened? He answered in broken Hindustani that some money had been stolen. Stolen? The mother cried. Why? How could it be stolen? Who could do such a dastardly thing? Har Alal said to her Mother, don't say a word. The man collected the remainder of the money and told Har Alal to come with him to the manager. The mother barred the way and said Sir, where are you taking my son? I have brought him up starving and straining to do honest work. My son would never touch money belonging to others. The Englishman, not knowing Bengali, said achha achha. Har Alal told his mother not to be anxious. He would explain it all to the manager and soon be back again. The mother entreated him with a distressed voice. Baba, you haven't taken a morsel of food all morning. Har Alal stepped into the carriage and drove away and the mother sank to the ground in the anguish of her heart. The manager said to Har Alal Tell me the truth. What did happen? Har Alal said to him I haven't taken any money. I fully believe it, said the manager, but you surely know who has taken it. Har Alal looked on the ground and remained silent. Somebody, said the manager, must have taken it away with your carnivans. Nobody, replied Har Alal, could take it away with my knowledge without taking first my life. Look here, Har Alal, said the manager, I trust you completely. I took no security. I employed you in a post of great responsibility. Everyone 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. Har Alal with bent head went out of the office. The clerks began to discuss the affair with exaltation. What can I do? What can I do? Har Alal repeated to himself as he walked along like one dazed, the sun's heat pouring down upon him. At last his mind sees to think at all about what could be done, but the mechanical walk went on without seizing. 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 office were eating their lunch on the roadside from their plates made of leaves. A tired wayfarer on the maidan under the shade of a tree was lying with one hand beneath his head and one leg raced over the other. The up-country women crowded into hackney carriages were vending their way to the temple. A chapadasi 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 today, 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 inquire how late it was. The veins on his forehead throbbed and he felt as if his head would burst. Through the paddock sims 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 I may never wake again. Haralal's one trouble was less 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 Madan 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 there upon the driver crossed and then re-crossed. The Madan from one side to the other traversing the different roads. Haralal laid his throbbing head on the side of the open window of the carriage and closed his eyes. Slowly all the pain abated. His body became cool. A deep and intense piece felled his heart and a supreme deliverance seemed to embrace him on every side. It was not true. The days 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 non-entity 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 vapor of pain and now there was neither darkness nor light but only one tense fullness. The cathedral clocks struck one. The driver called out impatiently Babu my horse can't go any longer. Where do you want to go? There came no answer. The driver came down and shook Haralal and asked him again where he wanted to go. There came no answer and the answer was never received from Haralal where he wanted to go. End of story number five.