 Story number six 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 Abindanath Tagore. Subha. When the girl was given the name Subhashani who could have guessed that she would prove dumb. Her two elder sisters were Sukeshani and Suhasani and for the sake of uniformity her father named his youngest girl Subhashani. She was called Subha for short. Her two elder sisters had been married with the usual cost and difficulty and now the youngest daughter lay like a silent weight upon the heart of her parents. All the world seemed to think that because she did not speak therefore she did not feel. It discussed her future and its own anxiety freely in her presence. She had understood from her earliest childhood that God had sent her like a curse to her father's house so she would drew herself from ordinary people and try to live apart. If only they would all forget her she felt she could endure it. But who can forget pain? Night and day her parents' minds were aching on her account especially her mother looked upon her as a deformity in herself. To her mother a daughter is more closely intimate part of herself than a son can be and a fault in her is a source of personal shame. Manikanta Subha's father loved her rather better than his other daughters. Her mother regarded her with a version as a stain upon her own body. If Subha lacked speech she did not lack a pair of large dark eyes shaded with long lashes and her lips trembled like a leaf in response to any thought that rose in her mind. When we express our thought in words the medium is not found easily. There must be a process of translation which is often inexact and then we fall into error. But black eyes need no translating. The mind itself throws a shadow upon them. In them thought opens or shuts, shines forth or goes out in darkness, hangs steadfast like the setting moon or like the swift and restless lighting illumines all quarters of the sky. They who from birth have had no other speech than the trembling of their lips learn a language of the eyes. Endless in expression, deep as the sea, clear as the heavens, written play dawn and sunset, light and shadow. The dumb have a lonely grandeur like nature's own. Therefore the other children almost dreaded Subha and never played with her. She was silent and companionless as noon died. The hamlet where she lived was Chandipur. Its river, small for the river of Bengal, kept to its narrow bounds like a daughter of the middle class. This busy streak of water never overflowed its banks, but went about its duties as though it were a member of every family in the villages beside it. On either side were houses and banks shaded with trees. So stepping from her queenly throne, the river goddess became a garden deity of each home and, forgetful of herself, performed her task of endless benediction with swift and cheerful foot. Barnikantha's house looked out upon the stream. Every hut and stack in the place could be seen by the passing boatmen. I know not if amid these signs of worldly wealth anyone noticed a little girl who, when her work was done, stole away to the water side and sat there. But here nature fulfilled her want of speech and spoke for her. The murmur of the brook, the voice of the village folk, the songs of the boatmen, the crying of the birds and rustle of trees mingled and were one with the trembling of her heart. They became one vast wave of sound which beat upon her restless soul. This murmur and movement of nature were the dumb girl's language. That speech of the dark eyes, which the long lashes shaded, was the language of the world about her. From the trees, where the sycalas chirped, to the quiet stars there was nothing but signs and gestures, weeping and sighing. And in the deep mid-noon, when the boatmen and fisherfolk had gone to their dinner, when the villagers slept and birds were still, when the ferry boats were idle, when the great busy world paused in its toil and became suddenly a lonely awful giant, then beneath the vast impressive heavens there were only dumb nature and a dumb girl, setting very silent. One under the spreading sunlight, the other where a small tree cast its shadow. But Zubba was not altogether without friends. In the stall were two cows, Sarbashi and Panguli. They had never heard their names from her lips, but they knew her footfall. Though she had no words, she murmured lovingly and they understood her gentle murmuring better than all speech. When she fondled them or scolded or coaxed them, they understood her better than men could do. Zubba would come to the shed and throw her arms around Sarbashi's neck. She would rub her cheeks against her friends and Panguli would turn her great-kind eyes and lick her face. The girl paid them three regular visits every day and others that were irregular. Whenever she heard any words that hurt her, she would come to these dumb friends out of due time. It was as though they guessed her anguish of spirit from her quiet look of sadness. Coming close to her, they would rub their horns softly against her arms and in dumb, puzzled fashion tried to comfort her. Besides these two, there were goats and a kitten, but Zubba had not the same equality of friendship with them, though they showed the same attachment. Every time it got a chance, night or day, the kitten would jump into her lap and settle down to slumber and show its appreciation of an aid to sleep as Zubba drew her soft fingers over its neck and back. Zubba had a comrade also among the higher animals and it is hard to say what were the girl's relation with him, for he could speak and his gift of speech left them without any common language. He was the youngest boy of the Gossais, Pratap, by name, an idol fellow. After long effort, his parent had abandoned the hope that he would ever make his living. Now, losers have this advantage that, though their own folk disapprove of them, they are generally popular with everyone else. Having no work to chain them, they become public property. Just as every town needs an open space where all may breathe, so a village needs two or three gentlemen of leisure who can give time to all, then, if we are lazy and want a companion, one is to hand. Pratap's chief ambition was to catch fish. He managed to waste a lot of time this way and might be seen almost any afternoon so employed. It was thus most often that he met Zubba. Whatever he was about, he liked a companion and, when one is catching fish, a silent companion is best of all. Pratap respected Zubba for her taciturnity and, as everyone called her Zubba, he showed his affection by calling her Sue. Zubba used to sit beneath the tamrant and Pratap, a little distance off, would cast his line. Pratap took with him a small allowance of beetle and Zubba prepared it for him. And I think that, setting and gazing along while, she desired ardently to bring some great help to Pratap to be of real aid to prove by any means that she was not a useless burden to the world. But there was nothing to do. Then she turned to the creator in prayer for some rare power that, by an astonishing miracle, she might startle Pratap into exclaiming, my, I never dreamt our Sue could have done this. Only think, if Zubba had been a water nymph, she might have risen slowly from the river, bringing the gem of a snake's crown to the landing place. Then Pratap, leaving his paltry fishing, might dive into the lower world and see there on a golden bed in a place of silver, whom else but dumb little Sue, Bhanikanta's child. Yes, our Sue, the only daughter of the king of that shining city of Juvals. But that might not be. It was impossible. Not that anything is really impossible, but Sue had been born not into the royal house of Patalpur, but into Bhanikanta's family, and she knew no means of astonishing the Ghusai's boy. Gradually she grew up. Gradually she began to find herself a new inexpressible consciousness, like a tide from the central place of the sea when the moon is full, swept through her. She saw herself, questioned herself, but no answer came that she could understand. Once upon a time, late on a night of full moon, she slowly opened her door and peeped out timidly. Nature, herself at full moon, like lonely Zubba, was looking down on the sleeping earth. Her strong young life peeped within her. Joy and sadness filled her being to its brim. She reached the limits even of her own illimitable loneliness, nay, passed beyond them. Her heart was heavy, and she could not speak. At the skirts of this silent trouble mother, there stood a silent trouble girl. The thought of her marriage filled her parents with an anxious scare. People blamed them and even talked of making them outcasts. Barney Kantha was well off. They had fish curry twice daily, and consequently he did not lack enemies. Then the woman interfered, and Barney went away for a few days. Presently he returned and said, we must go to Calcutta. They got ready to go to this strange country. Zubba's heart was heavy with tears, like a mist wrapped down. With a wake fear that had been gathering for days, she docked her father and mother like a dumb animal. With her large eyes wide open, she scanned their faces as though she wished to learn something. But not a word did they vow to save. One afternoon, in the midst of all this, as Pratap was fishing, he laughed. So then, Sue, they have got your bridegroom, and you are going to be married. Mind you, don't forget me altogether. Then he turned his mind again to his fish. As a stricken doe looks in the hunter's face, asking in silent agony, what have I done to you? So Zubha looked at Pratap. That day she sat no longer beneath her tree. Barney Kantha, having finished his nap, was smoking in his bedroom when Zubba dropped down at his feet and burst out weeping as she gazed towards him. Barney Kantha tried to comfort her, and his cheeks grew wet with tears. It was settled that on the morrow they should go to Calcutta. Zubha went to the cow shed to bid farewell to her childhood's comrades. She fed them with her hand. She clasped their necks. She looked into their faces, and tears fell fast from the eyes which spoke for her. That night was the tenth of the moon. Zubha left the room and flung herself down on her grassy couch beside her dear river. It was as if she threw her arms about earth, her strong silent mother, and tried to say, Do not let me leave you, mother. Put your arms about me, as I have put mine about you, and hold me fast. One day in a house in Calcutta, Zubha's mother dressed her up with great care. She imprisoned her hair, knotting it up in laces. She hung her about with ornaments, and did her best to kill her natural beauty. Zubha's eyes filled with tears. Her mother, fearing they would grow swollen with weeping, scolded her harshly, but the tears disregarded the scolding. The bride groom gamed with a friend to inspect the bride. Her parents were dizzy with anxiety and fear when they saw the god arrive to select the beast for his sacrifice. Behind the stage, the mother called her instructions allowed, and increased her daughter's weeping twofold, before she sent her into the examiner's presence. The great man, after scanning her a long time observed, not so bad. He took special note of her tears, and thought she must have a tender heart. He put it to her credit in the account, arguing that the heart, which today was distressed at leaving her parents, would presently prove a useful possession. Like the oyster's pearls, the child's tear only increased her value, and he made no other comment. The almanac was consulted, and the marriage took place on an auspicious day. Having delivered over their dumb girl into another's hands, Zubha's parents returned home. Thank God, their cast in this and their safety in the next world were assured. The bridegroom's work lay in the west, and shortly after the marriage, he took his wife's tither. In less than ten days, everyone knew that the bride was dumb. At least, if anyone did not, it was not her fault, for she deceived no one. Her eyes told them everything, though no one understood her. She looked in every hand. She found no speech. She missed the faces, familiar from birth, of those who had understood a dumb girl's language. In her silent heart, there sounded an endless, voiceless weeping, which only the searcher of hearts could hear. End of story number six. Story number seven 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 Postmaster. The Postmaster first took up his duties in the village of Ulappur. Though the village was a small one, there was an indigo factory nearby, and the proprietor, an Englishman, had managed to get a post office established. Our Postmaster belonged to Calcutta. He felt like a fish out of water in this remote village. His office and living room were in a dark, thatched shed, not far from a green, slimy pond, surrounded on all sides by a dense growth. The men employed in the indigo factory had no leisure. Moreover, they were hardly desirable companions for decent folk. Nor is a Calcutta boy an adept in the art of associating with others. Among strangers, he appeared either proud or ill at ease. At any rate, the Postmaster had but little company, nor had he much to do. At times he tried his hand at writing a verse or two, that the movement of the leaves and the clouds of the sky were enough to fill his life with joy. Such were the sentiments to which he sought to give expression. But God knows that the poor fellow would have felt it as the gift of a new life if some genie of the Arabian knights had in one night swept away the trees, leaves, and all and replaced them with a macadamized road, hiding the clouds from view with the rows of tall houses. The Postmaster's salary was small. He had to cook his own meals, which he used to share with Ratan, an orphan girl of the village who did odd jobs for him. When in the evening, the smoke began to curl up from the village cowsheds and the Sikalas chirped in every bush. Then the mendicants of the Baul sect sang their shrill songs in the daily meeting place, when any poet who had attempted to watch the movement of the leaves in the dense bamboo thickets would have felt a ghostly shiver run down his back. The Postmaster would light his little lamp and call out Ratan. Ratan would sit outside waiting for this call, and instead of coming in at once would reply, Did you call me sir? What are you doing? The Postmaster would ask. I must be going to light the kitchen fire, would be the answer. And the Postmaster would say, Oh, let the kitchen fire be for a while. Light me my pipe first. At last Ratan would enter, with puffed out cheeks, vigorously blowing into a flame, a life coal, to light the tobacco. This would give the Postmaster an opportunity of conversing. Well, Ratan, perhaps he would begin. Do you remember anything of your mother? That was a fertile subject. Ratan partly remembered, and partly didn't. Her father had been fonder of her than her mother. Him she recollected more vividly. He used to come home in the evening after his work, and one or two evenings stood out more clearly than others, like pictures in her memory. Ratan would sit on the floor near the Postmaster's feet, as memories crowded in upon her. She called to mind a little brother that she had, and how, on some bygone cloudy day, she had played at fishing with him on the edge of the pond, with a twig for a make-believe fishing rod. Such little incidents would drive out greater events from her mind. Thus, as they talked, it would often get very late, and the Postmaster would feel too lazy to do any cooking at all. Ratan would then hastily light the fire and toast some unleavened bread, which, with the cold remnants of the morning meal, was enough for the supper. On some evenings, seated at his desk in the corner of the big empty shed, the Postmaster too would call up his memories of his own home, of his mother and his sister. Of those for whom, in his exile, his heart was sad. Memories which were always haunting him, but which he could not talk about with the men of the factory, though he found himself naturally recalling them aloud in the presence of the simple little girl. And so it came about that the girl would allude to his people as mother, brother and sister, as if she had known them all her life. In fact, she had a complete picture of each one of them painted in her little heart. One noon, during a break in the rains, there was a cool soft breeze blowing. The smell of the damp grass and leaves in the hot sun felt like the warm breathing of the tired earth on one's body. A persistent bird went on all the afternoon, repeating the burden of its one complaint in nature's audience chamber. The Postmaster had nothing to do. The shimmer of the freshly washed leaves and the banked up remnants of the retreating rain clouds were sight to see, and the Postmaster was watching them and thinking to himself, Oh, if only some kindred soul were near, just one loving human being whom I could hold near my heart. This was exactly he went on to think what that bird was trying to say, and it was the same feeling which the murmuring leaves were striving to express. But no one knows or would believe that such an idea might also take possession of an ill-paid village postmaster in the deep, silent, midday interval of his work. The Postmaster sighed and called out Ratan. Ratan was then sprawling beneath the guava tree, busily engaged in eating unripe guavas. At the voice of her master, she ran up breathlessly saying, Were you calling me Dala? I was thinking, said the Postmaster, of teaching you to read, and then for the rest of the afternoon he taught her the alphabet. Thus in a very short time Ratan had got as far as the double consonants. It seemed as though the showers of the season would never end. Canals, ditches and hollows were all overflowing with water. Day and night the patter of rain was heard and the croaking of frogs. The village roads became impossible and marketing had to be done in punts. One heavily clouded morning, the Postmaster's little pupil had been long waiting outside the door for her call, but not hearing it as usual, she took up her dog-eared book and slowly entered the room. She found her master stretched out on his bed and, thinking that he was resting, she was about to retire on tiptoe when she suddenly heard her name, Ratan. She turned at once and asked, Were you sleeping Dada? The Postmaster, in a plaintive voice said, I am not well. Feel my head, is it very hot? In the loneliness of his exile and in the gloom of the rains, his ailing body needed a little tender nursing. He longed to remember the touch on the forehead of soft hands with tinkling bracelets to imagine the presence of loving womanhood, the nearness of mother and sister. And the exile was not disappointed. Ratan ceased to be a little girl. She, at once, stepped into the post of mother, calling in the village doctor, gave the patient his pills at the proper intervals, sat up all night by his pillow, cooked his gruel for him and every now and then asked, Are you feeling a little better, Dada? It was sometime before the Postmaster, with weakened body, was able to leave his sick bed. No more of this, said he with decision, I must get a transfer. He, at once, wrote off to Calcutta an application for a transfer on the ground of the unhealthiness of the place. Relieved from her duties as nurse, Ratan again took up her old place outside the door, but she no longer heard the same old call. She would sometimes peep inside furtively to find the Postmaster sitting on his chair or stretched on his bed and staring absent-mindedly into the air. While Ratan was awaiting her call, the Postmaster was awaiting a reply to his application. The girl read her old lessons over and over again, her great fear was lest. When the call came, she might be found wanting in the double consonants. At last, after a week, the call did come one evening. With an overflowing heart, Ratan rushed into the room with her. Were you calling me, Dada? The Postmaster said, I am going away tomorrow, Ratan. Where are you going, Dada? I am going home. When will you come back? I am not coming back. Ratan asked no other question. The Postmaster, of his own accord, went on to tell her that his application for a transfer had been rejected, so he had resigned his post and was going home. For a long time, neither of them spoke another word. The lamp went on dimly burning and, from a leak in one corner of the tatch, water dripped steadily into an earthen vessel on the floor beneath it. After a while, Ratan rose and went off to the kitchen to prepare the meal, but she was not so quick about it as on other days. Many new things to think of had entered her little brain. When the Postmaster had finished his supper, the girl suddenly asked him, Dada, will you take me to your home? The Postmaster loved. What an idea, said he, but he did not think it necessary to explain to the girl wherein lay the absurdity. The whole night, in her waking and in her dreams, the Postmaster's laughing reply haunted her. What an idea! On getting up in the morning, the Postmaster found his bath ready. He had stirred to his Calcutta habit of bathing in water drawn and kept in pitches, instead of taking a plunge in the river as was the custom of the village. For some reason or other, the girl could not ask him about the time of his departure, so she had fetched the water from the river long before sunrise that it should be ready as early as he wanted. After the bath came, a call for Ratan. She entered noiselessly and looked silently into her Master's face for orders. The Master said, you need not be anxious about my going away, Ratan. I shall tell my successor to look after you. These words were kindly meant, no doubt, but inscrutable are the ways of a woman's heart. Ratan had borne many a scolding from her Master without complaint, but these kind words she could not bear. She burst out weeping and said, No, no, you need not tell anybody anything at all about me. I don't want to stay on here. The Postmaster was dumbfounded. He had never seen Ratan like this before. The new Incubant duly arrived, and the Postmaster, having given over charge, prepared to depart. Just before starting, he called Ratan and said, Here is something for you. I hope it will keep you for some little time. He brought out from his pocket the whole of his month's salary, retaining only a trifle for his travelling expenses. Then Ratan fell at his feet and cried, Oh Dada, I pray you, don't give me anything. Don't in any way trouble about me. And then she ran away, out of sight. The Postmaster heaped a sigh, took up his carpet bag, put his umbrella over his shoulder, and accompanied by a man carrying his many-coloured tin trunks, he slowly made for the boat. When he got in, and the boat was on the way, and the rain swollen river, like a stream of tears welling up from the earth, swirled and sobbed at her bows, then he felt a pain at heart. The grief-stricken face of a village girl seemed to represent for him the great unspoken pervading grief of mother earth herself. At one time he had an impulse to go back, and bring away along with him that lonesome wave. Forsaken of the world. But the wind had just filled the sails, the boat had got well into the middle of the turbulent current, and already the village was left behind, and its outlying, burning ground came in sight. So the traveller, born on the breast of the swift flowing river, consoled himself with philosophical reflections on the numberless meetings and partings going on in the world, on death, the great parting from which none returns. But Ratan had no philosophy. She was wondering about the post office in a flood of tears. It may be that she had still a lurking hope in some corner of her heart that her dada would return, and that is why she could not tear herself away. Halas for our foolish human nature. Its fawn mistakes are persistent. The dictates of reason take a long time to assert their own sway. The surest proves meanwhile are disbelieved. False hope is clung to with all once might and main, till a day comes when it had sucked the heart dry and it forcibly breaks through its bonds and departs. After that comes the misery of awakening, and then once again the longing to get back into the maze of the same mistakes. And of story number seven. Story number eight 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 cast away. Towards evening the storm was at its hide. From the terrific downpour of rain, the crash of thunder and repeated flashes of lightning, you might think that a battle of the gods and demons was raging in the skies. Black clouds wave like the flags of doom. The Ganges was lashed into a fury and the trees of the gardens on either bank swayed from side to side with sighs and groans. In a closed room of one of the riverside houses at Chandranagur, a husband and his wife were seated on a bed spread on the floor, intently discussing. An earthen lamp burned beside them. The husband, Sharath, was saying, I wish you would stay on a few days more. You would then be able to return home quite strong again. The wife, Kiran, was saying, I have quite recovered already. It will not, cannot possibly, do me any harm to go home now. Every married person will at once understand that the conversation was not quite so brief as I have reported it. The matter was not difficult, but the arguments for and against did not advance it towards a solution. Like a rudderless boat, the discussion kept turning round and round the same point, and at last threatened to be overwhelmed in a flood of tears. Sharath said, The doctor thinks you should stop here a few days longer. Kiran replied, Your doctor knows everything. Well, Sharath said, You know that just now all sorts of illnesses are abroad. You would do well to stop here a month or two more. And at this moment, I suppose everyone in this place is perfectly well. What had happened was this. Kiran was a universal favorite with her family and neighbors, so that when she felt seriously ill, they were all anxious. The village vice-acres thought it shameless for her husband to make so much fuss about a mere wife and even to suggest a change of air, and asked if Sharath supposed that no woman had ever been ill before, or whether he had found out that the folk of the place to which he meant to take her were immortal. Did he imagine that the rite of fate did not run there? But Sharath and his mother turned a deaf ear to them, thinking that their little life of their darling was of greater importance than the united wisdom of a village. People are wont to reason thus when danger threatens their loved ones. So Sharath went to Chandranagar and Kiran recovered, though she was still very weak. There was a pinched look on her face which filled the beholder with pity and made his heart trembled as he thought how narrowly she had escaped death. Kiran was fond of society and amusement. The loneliness of her riverside villa did not suit her at all. There was nothing to do, there were no interesting neighbours and she hated to be busy all day with medicine and dieting. There was no fun in measuring doses and making fermentations. Such was the subject discussed in their closed room on this stormy evening. So as long Kiran died to argue, there was a chance of a fair fight. When she ceased to reply and with the toss of her head disconsolently looked the other way, the poor man was disarmed. He was on the point of surrendering unconditionally when a servant shouted a message through the shut door. Sharath got up and on opening the door learned that a boat had been upset in the storm and that one of the occupants, a young Brahmin boy, had succeeded in swimming ashore at their garden. Kiran was at once her own sweet self and set to work to get out some dry clothes for the boy. She then warmed a cup of milk and invited him to her room. The boy had long curly hair, big expressive eyes and no sign yet of hair on the face. Kiran, after getting him to drink some milk, asked him all about himself. He told her that his name was Nilkanta and that he belonged to a theatrical troupe. They were coming to play in a neighbouring villa when the boat had suddenly foundered in the storm. He had no idea what had become of his companions. He was a good swimmer and had just managed to reach the shore. The boy stayed with them. His narrow escape from a terrible death made Kiran take a warm interest in him. Sharath thought the boy's appearance at this moment rather a good thing as his wife would now have something to amuse her and might be persuaded to stay on for some time longer. Her mother-in-law too was pleased at the prospect of profiting their Brahmin guest by her kindness. Anilkanta himself was delighted at this double escape from his master and from the other world as well as at finding a home in this wealthy family. But in a short while, Sharath and his mother changed their opinion and longed for his departure. The boy found a secret pleasure in smoking Sharath's hookahs. He would calmly go off in pouring rain with Sharath's best silk umbrella for a stroll through the village and make friends with all whom he met. Moreover, he had got hold of a mongrel village dog which he petted so recklessly that it came indoors with muddy paws and left tokens of its visit on Sharath's spotless bed. Then he gathered about him a devoted band of boys of all sorts and sizes and the result was that not a solitary mango in the neighbourhood had a chance of ripening that season. There is no doubt that Kiran had a hand in spoiling the boy. Sharath often warned her about it but she would not listen to him. She made a dandy of him with Sharath's cast off clothes and gave him new ones also. And because she felt drawn towards him and had a curiosity to know more about him, she was constantly calling him to her own room. After her bath and midday meal, Kiran would be seated on the bedstead with her beater leaf box by her side and while her maid combed and dried her hair Neelkantha would stand in front and recite pieces out of his repertory with appropriate gesture and song, his elf locks waving wildly. Thus the long afternoon hours spent merrily away. Kiran would often try to persuade Sharath to sit with her as one of the audience but Sharath who had taken a cordial dislike to the boy refused. Nor could Neelkantha do his part half so well when Sharath was there. His mother would sometimes be lured by the hope of hearing sacred names in the recitation but love of her midday sleep speedily overcame devotion and she lay lapped in dreams. The boy often got his ears boxed and pulled by Sharath but as this was nothing to what he had been used to as a member of the troop he did not mind it in the least. In his short experience of the world he had come to the conclusion that as the earth consisted of land and water so human life was made up of eatings and beatings and that the beatings largely predominated. It was hard to tell Neelkantha's age. If it was about 14 or 15 then his face was too old for his years. If 17 or 18 then it was too young. He was either a man too early or a boy too late. The fact was that joining the theatrical band when very young he had played the parts of Radhika, Damayanti and Sita and a thoughtful Providence arranged things that he grew to the exact stature that his manager required and then growth seized. Since everyone saw how small Neelkantha was and he himself felt small he did not receive due respect for his years. Causes natural and artificial combined to make him sometimes seem immature for 17 years and at other times a mere lad of 14 but far too knowing even for 17. And as no sign of hair appeared on his face the confusion became greater. Either because he smoked or because he used language beyond his ears his lips puckered into lines that showed him to be old and hard but innocence and youth shown in his large eyes. I fancy that his heart remained young but the hot glare of publicity had been a forcing house that ripened untimely his outward aspect. In the quiet shelter of Sharad's house and garden at Chandranagar nature had leisure to work her way unimpended. Neelkantha had lingered in a kind of unnatural youth but now he silently and swiftly overpassed that stage. His 17 or 18 years came to adequate revelation. No one observed the change and its first sign was this that when Kiran treated him like a boy he felt ashamed. When the gay Kiran one day proposed that he should play the part of a lady's companion the idea of women's dress hurt him though he could not say why. So now when she called for him to act over again his old characters he disappeared. It never occurred to Neelkantha that he was now not much more than a lad of all work in a strolling company. He even made up his mind to pick up a little education from Sharad's factor but because he was the pet of his master's wife the factor could not endure the sight of him. Also his restless training made it impossible for him to keep his mind long engaged sooner or later the alphabet did a misty dance before his eyes. He would sit long enough with an open book on his lap leaning against a champak bush beside the ganges. The waves sighed below. Boats floated past, birds flitted and twittered restlessly above. What thoughts spas through his mind as he looked down on that book he alone knew if indeed he did know. He never advanced from one word to another but the glorious thought that he was actually reading a book felt his soul with exultation. Whenever a boat went by he lifted his book and pretended to be reading hard shouting at the top of his voice but his energy dropped as soon as the audience was gone. Formerly he sang his songs automatically but now their tunes steered in his mind. Their words were of little import and full of trifling alliteration. Even the feeble meaning they had was beyond his comprehension. Yet when he sang Twice born bird are wherefore stirred to wrong our royal lady. Goose are save by wealth thou slay her in forest shady. Then he felt as if transported to another world and to fear other folk. This familiar earth and his own poor life became music and he was transformed. That tale of the goose and the king's daughter flung upon the mirror of his mind a picture of surpassing beauty. It is impossible to say what he imagined himself to be but the destitute little slave of the theatrical troupe faded from his memory. When with evening the child of want lies down dirty and hungry in his squalid home and hears of prince and princess and fable gold then in the dark hovel with its dim flickering candle his mind springs free from its bond of poverty and misery and walks in fresh beauty and glowing raiment strong beyond all fear of hindrance through that fairy realm where all is possible. Even so this drudge of wandering player fashioned himself and his world anew as he moved in spirit amid his songs. The lapping water rustling leaves and calling birds the goddess who had given shelter to him the helpless the god forsaken her gracious lovely face her exquisite arms with their shining bangles her rosy feet as soft as flower petals all these by some magic became one with the music of his song. When the singing ended the mirage faded and the Neel Kanta of the stage appeared again with his wild elf locks. Fresh from the complaints of his neighbour the owner of the dispoiled mango orchard Sharad would come and box his ears and cuff him. The boy Neel Kanta the misleader of adoring youths went forth once more to make ever new mischief by land and water and in the branches that are above the earth. Shortly after the advent of Neel Kanta Sharad's younger brother Satish came to spend his college vacation with them. Kiran was hugely pleased at finding a fresh occupation. She and Satish were of the same age and the time passed pleasantly in games and quarrels and reconciliations and laughter and even tears. Suddenly she would clasp him over the eyes from behind with vermilion stained hands or she would write monkey on his back or else she would bolt the door on him from the outside amidst the peels of laughter. Satish in his turn did not take things lying down. He would steal her keys and rings. He would put pepper among her beetle. He would tie her to the bed when she was not looking. Meanwhile heaven only knows what possessed poor Neel Kanta. He was suddenly filled with a bitterness which he must avenge on somebody or something. He trashed his devoted boy followers for no fault and sent them away crying. He would kick his pet mongrel till it made the sky's result with its whinings. When he went out for a walk he would litter his path with twigs and leaves beaten from the roadside shrubs with its cane. Kiran liked to see people enjoying good fare. Neel Kanta had an immense capacity for eating and never refused a good thing however often it was offered. So Kiran liked to spend for him to have his meals in her presence and play him with delicacies happy in the bliss of seeing this Brahmin boy eat to satiety. After Satish's arrival she had much less spare time on her hands and was seldom present when Neel Kanta's meals were served. Before her absence made no difference to the boy's appetite and he would not rise till he had drained his cup of milk and rinsed it thoroughly with water. But now if Kiran was not present to ask him to try this and that he was miserable and nothing tasted right. He would get up without eating much and say to the serving maid in a choking voice, I am not hungry. He thought in imagination that the news of his repeated refusal I am not hungry would reach Kiran. He pictured her concern and hoped that she would send for him and press him to eat. But nothing of the sort happened. Kiran never knew and was sent for him and the maid finished whatever he left. He would then put out the lamp in his room and throw himself on his bed in the darkness burying his head in the pillow in a paroxym of sobs. What was his grievance against whom and from whom did he expect redress? At last when no one else came mother sleep soothed with her soft caresses the wounded heart of the motherless lad. Neel Kanta came to the unshakable conviction that Satish was poisoning Kiran's mind against him. If Kiran was absent-minded and had not her usual smile he would jump to the conclusion that some trick of Satish had made her angry with him. He took to praying to the gods with all the fervour of his hate to make him at the next rebirth Satish and Satish him. He had an idea that a Brahmin's wrath could never be in vain and the more he tried to consume Satish with the fire of his curses the more did his own heart burn within him. And upstairs he would hear Satish laughing and joking with his sister-in-law. Neel Kanta never dared openly to show his enmity to Satish but he would contrive a hundred petty ways of causing him annoyance. When Satish went for a swim in the river and left his soap on the steps of the bathing place on coming back for it he would find that it had disappeared. Once he found his favourite striped tunic floating past him on the water and thought it had been blown away by the wind. One day Kiran, desiring to entertain Satish, sent for Neel Kanta to recite as usual but he stood there in gloomy silence. Quite surprised, Kiran asked him what was the matter but he remained silent and when again pressured by her to repeat some particular favourite piece of hers he answered, I don't remember and walked away. At last the time came for their return home. Everybody was busy packing up. Satish was going with them but to Neel Kanta nobody said a word. The question whether he was to go or not seemed to have occurred to nobody. The subject, as a matter of fact, had been raised by Kiran who had proposed to take him along with them but her husband and his mother and brother had all objected so strenuously that she let the matter drop. A couple of days before they were to start she sent for the boy and with kind words advised him to go back to his own home. So many days had he felt neglected that this touch of kindness was too much for him. He burst into tears. Kiran's eyes were also brimming over. She was filled with the remorse at the thought that she had created a tie of affection which could not be permanent. But Satish was much annoyed at the blubbering of this overgrown boy. Why does the fool stand there howling instead of speaking, said he. When Kiran scolded him for an unfeeling creature he replied, My dear sister, you do not understand. You are too good and trustful. This fellow turns up from the Lord knows where and is treated like a king. Naturally the tiger has no wish to become a mouse again and he has evidently discovered that there is nothing like a tear or two to soften your heart. Neelkanta hurriedly left the spot. He felt he would like to be a knife to cut Satish to pieces. A needle to pierce him through and through a fire to burn him to ashes. But Satish was not even scared. It was only his heart that bled and bled. Satish had brought with him from Calcutta a grand ink stand. The ink pot was set in a mother of pearl boat drawn by a German silver goose supporting a pen holder. It was a great favorite of his and he cleaned it carefully every day when an old sink hankered chief. Kiran would laugh and tapping the silver bird's beak would say, twice burn bought ah wherefore stirred to wrong our royal lady and the usual war of words would break out between her and her brother-in-law. That day before they were to start the ink stand was missing and could nowhere be found. Kiran smiled and said, brother-in-law your goose has flown off to look for your dhamayanti. But Satish was in a great rage. He was certain that Neelkanta had stolen it for several people said they had seen him prowling about the room the night before. He had the accused brought before him. Kiran was also there. You have stolen my ink stand you thief. He blurted out. Bring it back at once. Neelkanta had always taken punishment from Sharat deserved or undeserved with perfect equanimity. But when he was called a thief in Kiran's presence his eyes blazed with a fierce anger. His breasts swelled and his throat choked. If Satish had said another word he would have flown at him like a wildcat and used his nails like claws. Kiran was greatly distressed at the scene and taking the boy into another room said in a sweet kind way. Neelu if you really have taken that ink stand give it to me quietly and I shall see that no one says another word to you about it. Big tears scorched down the boy's cheeks till at last he hit his face in his hand and wept bitterly. Kiran came back from the room and said I'm sure Neelkanta has not taken the ink stand. Sharat and Satish were equally positive that no other than Neelkanta could have done it. But Kiran said determinedly never. Sharat wanted to cross-examine the boy but his wife refused to allow it. Then Satish suggested that his room and box should be searched and Kiran said if you dare to do such a thing I will never forgive you. You shall not spy on the poor innocent boy and as she spoke her wonderful eyes filled with tears. That settled the matter and effectually prevented any further molestation of Neelkanta. Kiran's heart overflowed with pity at this attempted outrage on a homeless lad. She got two new suits of clothes and a pair of shoes and with these and a bank note in her hand she quietly went into Neelkanta's room in the evening. She intended to put these parting presents into his box as a surprise. The box itself had been her gift. From her bunch of keys she selected one that fitted and noiselessly opened the box. It was so jumbled up with odds and ends that the new clothes would not go in. So she thought she had better take everything out and pack the box for him. At first knives, tops, kite flying reels, bamboo twigs, polished shells for peeling green mangoes, bottoms of broken tumblers and such like things dear to a boy's heart were discovered. Then there came a layer of linen clean and otherwise and from under the linen there emerged the missing ink stand, goose and all. Kiran with flushed face sat down helplessly with the ink stand in her hand puzzled and wondering. In the meantime Neelkanta had come into the room from behind without Kiran knowing it. He had seen the whole thing and thought that Kiran had come like a thief to catch him in his thieving and that his deed was out. How could he ever hope to convince her that he was not a thief and that only revenge had prompted him to take the ink stand which he meant to throw into the river at the first chance? In a weak moment he had put it in the box instead. He was not a thief, his heart cried out, not a thief. Then what was he? What could he say that he had stolen and yet he was not a thief? He could never explain to Kiran how grievously wrong she was. And then how could he bear the thought that she had tried to spy on him? At last Kiran with a deep sigh replaced the ink stand in the box and as if she were the thief herself covered it up with the linen and the trinkets as they were before and at the top she placed the presents together with the bank note which she had brought for him. The next day the boy was nowhere to be found. The villagers had not seen him the police could discover no trace of him. Said Sharath now has a matter of curiosity let us have a look at his box but Kiran was obstinate in her refusal to allow that to be done. She had the box brought up to her own room and taking out the ink stand alone she threw it into the river. The whole family went home. In a day the garden became desolate and only that starving Mongrel of Nilkantas remained prowling along the riverbank whining and whining as if its heart would break. End of story number eight Story number nine 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 son of Rashmani Kali Pradas mother was Rashmani but she had to do the duty of the father as well because when both of the parents are mother then it is bad for the child. Bhavani her husband was wholly incapable of keeping his children under discipline. To know why he was bent on spoiling his son you must hear something of the former history of the family. Bhavani was born in the famous house of Saniyari. His father Abhiyacharan had a son Shyamacharan by his first wife. When he married again after her death he had himself passed the marriageable age and his new father-in-law took advantage of the weakness of his position to have a special portion of his estate settled on his daughter. In this way he was satisfied that proper provision had been made if his daughter should become a widow early in life. She would be independent of the charity of Shyamacharan. The first part of his anticipation came through for very soon after the birth of a son whom she called Bhavani, Abhiyacharan died. It gave the father-in-law great peace and consolation as he looked forward to his own death to know that his daughter was properly looked after. Shyamacharan was quite grown up. In fact, his own eldest boy was a year older than Bhavani. He brought up the latter with his own son. In doing this he never took a farthing from the property allotted to his stepmother and every year he got a receipt from her after submitting detailed accounts. His honesty in this affair surprised the neighborhood. In fact, they thought that such honesty was another name for foolishness. They did not like the idea of a division being made in the undivided ancestral property. If Shyamacharan in some underhand manner had been able to enell the dowry, his neighbors would have admired his sagacity. And there were good advisors ready to hand who could have rendered him material aid in the attainment of such an object. But Shyamacharan, in spite of the risk of crippling his patrimony, strictly set aside the dowry which came to the share of his stepmother and the widow Vrajasundari, being naturally affectionate and trustful, had every confidence in Shyamacharan whom she trusted as her own son. More than once she had shied at him for being so particular about her portion of the property. She would tell him that, as she was not going to take her property with her when she died and as it would in any case revert to the family, it was not necessary to be so very strict about rendering accounts. But he never listened to her. Shyamacharan was a severe disciplarian by habit and his children were perfectly aware of the fact. But Bhavani had every possible freedom and this gave rise to the impression that he was more partial to his stepbrother than to his own sons. But Bhavani's education was sadly neglected and he completely relied on Shyamacharan for the management of his share of the property. He merely had to sign documents occasionally without ever spending a thought on their contents. On the other hand, Tarapada, the eldest son of Shyamacharan, was quite an expert in the management of the estate having to act as an assistant to his father. After the death of Shyamacharan, Tarapada said to Bhavani, Uncle, we must not live together as we have done for so long because some trifling misunderstanding may come at any moment and cause utter disruption. Bhavani never imagined, even in his dream, that a day might come when he would have to manage his own affairs. The world in which he had been born and bred ever appeared to him complete and entire in itself. It was an incomprehensible calamity to him that there could be a dividing line somewhere and that this world of his could be split into two. When he found that Tarapada was immovable and indifferent to the grief and dishonour that such a step would bring to the family, he began to rack his brain to find out how the property could be divided with the least possible strain. Tarapada showed no surprise at his uncle's anxiety and said that there was no need to trouble about this because the division had already been made in the lifetime of his grandfather. Bhavani said in amazement, but I know nothing of this. Tarapada said in answer, then you must be the only one in the whole neighbourhood who does not. For, lest there should be ruinous litigation after he had gone, my grandfather had already given a portion of the property to your mother. Bhavani thought this not unlikely and asked, what about the house? Tarapada said, if you wish you can keep this house to yourself and we shall be contended with the other house in the district town. As Bhavani had never been to this town house, he had neither knowledge of it nor affection for it. He was astounded at the magnanimity of Tarapada for so easily relinquishing his right to the house in the village where they have been brought up. But when Bhavani told everything to his mother, she struck her forehead with her hand and said, this is preposterous. What I got from my husband was my own dowry and its income is very small. I do not see why you should be deprived of your share in your father's property. Bhavani said, Tarapada is quite positive that his grandfather never gave us anything except this land. Vrajasundari was astonished and informed her son that her husband had made two copies of his will, one of which was still lying in her own box. The box was opened and it was found that there was only the deed of gift for the property belonging to the mother and nothing else. The copy of the will had been taken out. The help of advisers was sought. The man who came to their rescue was Bhagala, the son of their family guru. It was the profession of the father to look after the spiritual needs of the village. The material side was left to the son. The two of them had divided between themselves the other world and this. Whatever might be the result for others, they themselves had nothing to suffer from this division. Bhagala said that even if the will was missing, the shares in the ancestral property must be equal as between the brothers. Just at this time a copy of a will made its appearance supporting the claims of the other side. In this document there was no mention of Bhavani and the whole property was given to the grandsons at the time when no son was born to Bhavani. With Bhagala as his captain, Bhavani set out on his voyage across the perilous sea of litigation. When his vessel at last reached harbour, his funds were nearly exhausted and the ancestral property was in the hands of the other party. The land which was given to his mother had dwindled to such an extent that it could barely give them shelter or keep up the family dignity. Then Tarapada went away to the district town and they never met again. Chapter 2 Shyamachiran's treachery peers the heart of the video like an assassin's knife. To the end of her life, almost every day, she would heave a sigh and say that God would never suffer such an injustice to be done. She was quite firm in her faith when she said to Bhavani, I do not know your law or your law courts, but I am certain that my husband's true will and testament will someday be recovered. You will find it again. Because Bhavani was helpless in worldly matters, such assurances as these gave him great consolation. He settled down in his inactivity, certain in his own mind that his pious mother's prophecy could never remain unfulfilled. After his mother's death, his faith became all the stronger since the memory of her piety acquired greater radiance through death's mystery. He felt quite unconcerned about the stress of their poverty which became more and more formidable as the years went by. The necessities of life and the maintenance of family traditions, these seemed to him like play acting on a temporary stage, not real things. When his former expensive clothing was outworn and he had to buy cheap materials in the shop, this amused him almost like a joke. He smiled and said to himself, these people do not know that this is only a passing phase of my fortune. Their surprise will be all the greater when someday I shall celebrate the puja festival with unwanted magnificence. This certainty of future projectility was so clear to his mind's eye that present penury escaped his attention. His servant, Noto, was the principal companion with whom he had discussions about these things. They used to have animated conversations in which sometimes his opinion differed from his masters as to the propriety of bringing down a theatrical troupe from Calcutta for these future occasions. Noto used to get reprimands from Bhavani for his natural miserliness in these items of future expenditure. While Bhavani's one anxiety was about the absence of an heir who could inherit his vast possible wealth, a son was born to him. The horoscope plainly indicated that the lost property would come back to this boy. From the time of the birth of his son, Bhavani's attitude was changed. It became cruelly difficult for him now to bear his poverty with his old amused equanimity because he felt that he had a duty to worth this new representative of the illustrious house of Sanyari who had such a glorious future before him. That the traditional extravagance could not be maintained on the occasion of the birth of his child gave him the keenest sorrow. He felt as if he were cheating his own son. So he compensated his boy with an inordinate amount of spoiling. Bhavani's wife, Rashmani, had a different temperament from her husband. She never felt any anxiety about the family traditions of the Chaudhary's of Sanyari. Bhavani was quite aware of the fact and indulgently smiled to himself as though nothing better could be expected from a woman who came from a Vaishnav family of very humble lineage. Rashmani frankly acknowledged that she could not share the family sentiments. What concerned her most was the welfare of her own child. That was hardly an acquaintance in the neighborhood with whom Bhavani did not discuss the question of the lost will. But he never spoke a word about it to his wife. Once or twice he had tried but her perfect unconcern had made him drop the subject. She neither paid attention to the past greatness of the family nor to its future glories. She kept her mind busy with the actual necessities of the present and those necessities were not small in number or quality. When the Goddess of Fortune deserts a house, she usually leaves some of her burdens behind and this ancient family was still encumbered with its host of dependents though its own shelter was nearly crumbling to dust. These parasites take it to be an insult if they are asked to do any service. They get headaches at the least touch of the kitchen smoke. They are visited with sudden rheumatism the moment they are asked to run errands. Therefore all the responsibilities of maintaining the family were laid upon Rashmani herself. Women lose their delicacy of refinement when they are compelled night and day to haggle with their destiny over things which are pitifully small and for this they are blamed by those for whom they toil. Besides her household affairs Rashmani had to keep all the accounts of the little landed property which remained and also to make arrangements for collecting rents. Never before was the estate managed with such strictness. Bhavani had been quite incapable of collecting his dues. Rashmani never made any remission of the least fraction of rent. The tenants and even her own agents reviled her behind her back for the meanness of the family from which she came. Even her husband occasionally used to enter his protest against the harsh economy which went against the grain of the world-fame house of Saniyari. Rashmani quite ungrudgingly took the blame of all this upon herself and openly confessed the poverty of her parents. Tying the end of her sari tightly around her waist she went on with her household duties in her own vigorous fashion and made herself totally disagreeable both to the inmates of the house and to her neighbours. But nobody ever had the courage to interfere. Only one thing she carefully avoided. She never asked her husband to help her in any work and she was nervously afraid of his taking up any responsibilities. Indeed she was always furiously engaged in keeping her husband idle and because he had received the best possible training in this direction she was wholly successful in her mission. Rashmani had attained middle age before her son came up. Up to this time all the pent-up tenderness of the mother in her and all the love of the wife had their centre of devotion in this simple-hearted good for nothing husband. Bhavani was a child grown up by mistake beyond its natural age. This was the reason why after the death of her husband's mother she had to assume the position of mother and mistress in one. In order to protect her husband from invasions of Bagla the son of the Guru and other calamities Rashmani adopted such a sterned meaner that the companions of her husband used to be terribly afraid of her. She never had the opportunity which a woman usually has of keeping her fierceness hidden and of softening the keen edge of her words maintaining a dignified reserve towards men such as is proper for a woman. Bhavani meekly accepted his wife's authority with regard to himself but it became extremely hard for him to obey her when it related to Kali pada his son. The reason was that Rashmani never regarded Bhavani's son from the point of view of Bhavani himself. In her heart she pitied her husband and said poor man it was no fault of his but his misfortune to be born into a rich family. That is why she never could expect her husband to be deprived of any comfort to which he had been accustomed. Whatever might be the condition of the household finance she tried hard to keep him in his habitual ease and luxury. Under her regime all expense was strictly limited except in the case of Bhavani. She would never allow him to notice if some inevitable gap occurred in the preparation of his meals or his apparel. She would blame some imaginary dog for spoiling dishes that were never made and would blame herself for her carelessness. She would attack Noto for letting some fictious article of dress be stolen or lost. This had the usual effect of rousing Bhavani's sympathy on behalf of his favorite servant and he would take up his defense. Indeed it had often happened that Bhavani had confessed with bare-faced shamelessness that he had used the dress which had never been bought and for those lost Noto was blamed. But what happened afterwards he had not the power to invent and was obliged to rely upon the fertile imagination of his wife who was also the accuser. Thus Rashmini treated her husband but she never put her son in the same category. For he was her own child and why should he be allowed to give himself airs? Kalipada had to be content for his breakfast with a few handfuls of puffed rice and some triacle. During the cold weather he had to wrap his body as well as his head with a thick row of cotton chaddar. She would call his teacher before her and warn him never to spare her boy if he was the least neglectful with his lessons. This treatment of his own son was the hardest blow that Bhavani Charan suffered since the days of his destitution. But as he had always acknowledged defeat at the hands of the powerful he had not the spirit to stand up against his wife in her method of dealing with the boy. The dress which Rashmini provided for her son during the puja festivities was made of such poor material that in former days the very servants of the house would have rebelled if it had been offered to them. But Rashmini more than once tried her best to explain to her husband that Kalipada being the most recent addition to the Chaudhary family had never known their former splendor and so was quite glad to get what was given to him. But this pathetic innocence of the boy about his own destiny heard Bhavani more than anything else and he could not forgive himself for deceiving the child. When Kalipada would dance for joy and rush to him to show him some present from his mother which was ridiculously trivial Bhavani's heart would suffer torture. Bhagala the Guru's son was now in an affluent condition owing to his agency in the lawsuit which had brought about the ruin of Bhavani. With the money which he had in hand he used to buy cheap tin silvers from Calcutta before the puja holidays. Invisible ink absurd combinations of stick fishing rod and umbrella letter paper with pictures in the corner silk fabrics bought at auctions and other things of this kind attractive to the simple villagers. These were his talk in trade. All the forward young men of the village fired with one another in rising above their rusticity by purchasing these sweepings of the Calcutta market which they were told were absolutely necessary for the city gentry. Once Bhagala had bought a wonderful toy a doll in the form of a foreign woman which when wound up would rise from her chair and began to fan herself with sudden alacrity. Kalipada was fascinated by it. He had a very good reason to avoid asking his mother about the toy so he went straight to his father and begged him to purchase it for him. Bhavani answered, Yes, at once, but when he heard the price his face fell. Rashmani kept all the money and he went to her as a timid beggar. He began with all sorts of irrelevant remarks and then took a desperate plunge into the subject with startling incoherence. Rashmani briefly remarked, Are you mad? Bhavani Charan sat silent revolving in his mind what to say next. Look here, he exclaimed. I don't think I need milk putting daily with my dinner. Who told you? said Rashmani sharply. The doctor said it's very bad for biliousness. The doctor is a fool. But I'm sure that rice agrees with me better than your luchis. They are too indigestible. I've never seen the least sign of indigestion in you. You have been accustomed to them all your life. Bhavani Charan was ready enough to make sacrifices but then his passage was barred. Butter might rise in price but the number of his luchis never diminished. Milk was quite enough for him at his midday meal but curds also had to be supplied because that was the family tradition. Rashmani could not have born seeing him sit down to his meal if curds were not supplied. Therefore all his attempts to make a breach in his daily provisions through which the fanning foreign woman might enter were a nut of failure. Then Bhavani paid a visit to Bagla for no reason whatever and after a great deal of roundabout talk asked concerning the foreign doll. Of course his straight in circumstances had long been known to Bagla yet it was a perfect misery to Bhavani to have to hesitate to buy this doll for his son owing to want of ready money. Swallowing his pride he brought out from under his arm an expensive old Kashmir shawl and said in a husky voice my circumstances are bad just at present and I haven't got much cash so I have determined to mortgage this shawl and buy that doll for Kalipada. If the object offered had been less expensive than this Kashmir shawl Bagla would at once have closed the bargain but knowing that it would not be possible for him to take position of this shawl in face of the village opinion and still more in face of Rashmani's watchfulness he refused to accept it and Bhavani had to go back home disappointed with the Kashmir shawl hidden under his arm. Kalipada asked every day for that foreign fanning toy and Bhavani smiled every day and said wait a bit my boy till the seven day of the moon comes round but every new day it became more and more difficult to keep up that smile. On the fourth day of the moon Bhavani made a sudden inroad upon his wife and said I've noticed that there's something wrong with Kalipada something the matter with his health. Nonsense said Rashmani he's in the best of health haven't you noticed him sitting silently for hours together I should be very greatly relieved if he could sit still for as many minutes when all his arrows had missed their mark and no impression had been made Bhavani Charan heaved a deep sigh and passing his fingers through his hair went away and sat down on the veranda and began to smoke with fearful acidity. On the fifth day at his morning meal Bhavani passed by the curds and the milk pudding without touching them. In the evening he simply took one single piece of sandesh. The luchis were left unheeded. He complained of want of appetite. This time a considerable breach was made in the fortifications. On the sixth day Rashmani took Kalipada into the room and sweetly calling him by his pet name said, Pettu, you are old enough to know that it is the halfway house to stealing to desire that which you can't have. Kalipada whimpered and said, What do I know about it? Father promised to give me that doll. Rashmani sat down to explain to him how much lay behind his father's promise, how much pain, how much affection, how much loss and privation. Rashmani had never in her life before talked thus to Kalipada because it was her habit to give short and sharp commands. It filled the boy with amazement when he found his mother coaxing him and explaining things at such a length and mere child though he was he could fathom something of the deep suffering of his mother's heart. Yet at the same time it will be easily understood that it was hard for this boy to turn his mind away altogether from the captivating foreign fanning woman. He pulled a long face and began to scratch the ground. This made Rashmani's heart at once hard and she said in her severe tone Yes, you may weep and cry or become angry but you'll never get that which is not for you to have. And she hastened away without another word. Kalipada went out. Bhavani Charan was still smoking his hookah. Noticing Kalipada from a distance he got up and walked in the opposite direction as if he had some urgent business. Kalipada ran to him and said but that doll? Baba wait a little I have some pressing business to get through let me finish it first and then we will talk about it. Saying this he went out of his house. Kalipada saw him brush a tear from his eyes. He stood at the door and watched his father and it was quite evident even to this boy that he was going nowhere in particular and that he was dragging the weight of a despair which could not be relieved. Kalipada at once went back to his mother and said Mother I don't want that foreign doll. That morning Bhavani Charan returned late. When he sat down to his meal after his bath it was quite evident by the looks on his face that the curds and the milk pudding would fare no better with him than on the day before and that the best part of the fish would go to the cat. Just at this critical juncture Rashmani brought in a cardboard box bound round with twine and set it before her husband. Her intention had been to reveal the mystery of this packet to her husband when he went to take his nap after his meal. But in order to remove the undeserved neglect of the curds and the milk and the fish she had to disclose its contents before the time. So the foreign doll came out of the box and without more ado began to fan itself vigorously. After this the cat had to go away disappointed. Bhavani remarked to his wife that the cooking was the best he had ever tasted. The fish soup was incomparable. The curd had set themselves with an exactness that was rarely attained and the milk pudding was superb. On the seven day of the moon Kalipada got the toy for which he had been pinning. During the whole of that day he allowed the foreigner to go and fanning herself and thereby made his boy companions jealous. In any other case this performance would have seemed to him monotonously tiresome but knowing that on the following day he would have to give the toy back his constancy to it on that single occasion remained unabated. At the rental of two rupees per diem Rashmani had hired it from Bagla. On the eight day of the moon Kalipada heaved a deep sigh and returned the toy along with the box and twine to Bagla with his own hands. From that day forward Kalipada began to share the confidences of his mother and it became so absurdly easy for Bhavani to give expensive presents every year that it surprised even himself. When, with the help of his mother Kalipada came to know that nothing in this world could be gained without paying for it with the inevitable price of suffering he rapidly grew up in his mind and became a valued assistant to his mother in her daily tasks. It came to be a natural rule of life with him that no one should add to the burden of the world but that each should try to lighten it. When Kalipada won a scholarship at the vernacular examination Bhavani proposed that he should give up his studies and take in hand the supervision of the estate. Kalipada went to his mother and said I shall never be a man if I do not complete my education. The mother said you are right Baba you must go to Calcutta. Kalipada explained to her that it would not be necessary to spend a single price on him his scholarship would be sufficient and he would try to get some work to supplement it. But it was necessary to convince Bhavani of the wisdom of the course. Rashmani did not wish to employ the argument that there was very little of the estate remaining to require supervision for she knew how it would hurt him. She said that Kalipada must become a man whom everyone could respect. But all the members of the Chaudhary family had attained their respectability without ever going a step outside the limits of Sani Ari. The outer world was as unknown to them as the world beyond the grave. Bhavani therefore could not conceive how anybody could think of a boy like Kalipada going to Calcutta. But the cleverest man in the village, Bhagala, fortunately agreed with Rashmani. It is perfectly clear he said that one day Kalipada will become a lawyer and then he will set matters right concerning the property of which the family has been deprived. This was a great consolation to Bhavani Charan and he brought out the file of records about the theft of the will and tried to explain the whole thing to Kalipada by dint of daily discussion. But his son was lacking in proper enthusiasm and merely echoed his father's sentiment about this solemn wrong. The day before Kalipada's departure for Calcutta, Rashmani hung around his neck an amulet containing some mantras to protect him from evils. She gave him at the same time a fifty rupee currency note advising him to keep it for any special emergency. This note, which was the symbol of his mother's numberless daily acts of self-denial, was the truest amulet of all for Kalipada. He determined to keep it by him and never to spend it, whatever might happen. Chapter 3 From this time onward, the old interminable discussions about the theft of the will became less frequent on the part of Bhavani. His one topic of conversation was the marvellous adventure of Kalipada in search of his education. Kalipada was actually engaged in his studies in the city of Calcutta. Kalipada knew Calcutta as well as the palm of his hand. Kalipada had been the first to hear the great news that another bridge was going to be built over the Ganges near Hogali. The day on which the father received his son's letter, he would go to every house in the village to read it to his neighbours and he would hardly find time even to take his spectacles from his nose. On arriving at a fresh house, he would remove them from their case with the utmost deliberation. Then he would wipe them carefully with the end of his dhoti. Then, word by word, he would slowly read the letter through to one neighbour after another with something like the following comment. Brother, just listen. What is the world coming to? Even the dogs and the jackals are to cross the holy Ganges without washing the dust from their feet. Who could imagine such a sacrilege? No doubt it was very deplorable. But all the same it gave Bhavani Charan a peculiar pleasure to communicate at first hand such important news from his own son's letter and this more than compensated for the spiritual disaster which must surely overtake the numberless creatures of this present age. To everyone he met, he solemnly nodded his head and prophesied that the days were soon coming when Mother Ganges would disappear all together, all the while cherishing the hope that the news of such a momentous event would come to him by letter from his own son in the proper time. Kalipada, with very great difficulty, scraped together just enough money to pay his expenses till he passed his matriculation and again won a scholarship. Bhavani at once made up his mind to invite all the village to a feast for he imagined that his son's good ship of fortune had now reached its haven and there would be no more occasion for economy. But he received no encouragement from Rashmani. Kalipada was fortunate enough to secure a place of study in a student's lodging house near his college. The proprietor allowed him to occupy a small room on the ground floor which was absolutely useless for other lodgers. In exchange for this and his board, he had to coach the son of the owner of the house. The one great advantage was that there would be no chance of any fellow lodger ever sharing his quarters. So, although ventilation was lacking, his studies were uninterrupted. Those of the students who paid their rent and lived in the upper story had no concern with Kalipada. But soon it became painfully evident that those who are up above have the power to hurl missiles at those below with all the more deadly force because of the distance. The leader of those above was Cylan. Cylan was the sky end of a rich family. It was unnecessary for him to live in a student's mess but he successfully convinced his guardians that this would be best for his studies. The real reason was that Cylan was naturally fond of company and the student's lodging house was an ideal place where he could have all the pleasure of companionship without any of its responsibilities. It was the firm conviction of Cylan that he was a good fellow and a man of feeling. The advantage of harboring such a conviction was that it needed no proof in practice. Vanity is not like a horse or an elephant requiring expensive fodder. Nevertheless, as Cylan had plenty of money he did not allow his vanity merely to graze at large. He took special pride in keeping it stall fed. It must be said to his credit that he had a genuine desire to help people in their need but the desire in him was of such a character that if a man in difficulty refused to come to him for help he would turn round on him and do his best to add to his trouble. His messmaids had their tickets for the theater bought for them by Cylan and it cost them nothing to have occasional feasts. They could borrow money from him without meaning to pay it back. When a newly married youth was in doubt about the choice of some gift for his wife he could fully rely on Cylan's good taste in the matter. On these occasions the love long youth would take Cylan to the shop and pretend to select the cheapest and least suitable presents. Then Cylan with a contemptuous love would intervene and select the right thing. At the mention of the prize the young husband would pull a long face but Cylan would always be ready to abide by his own superior choice and to pay the cost. In this manner Cylan became the acknowledged patron of the students upstairs. It made him intolerant of the insolence of anyone who refused to accept his help. Indeed to help others in this way had become his hobby. Kalipada in his stattered jersey used to sit on a dirty mat in his lamp room below and recite his lessons swinging himself from side to side to the rhythm of the sentence. It was a sheer necessity for him to get that scholarship next year. Kalipada's mother had made him promise before he left home for Calcutta that he would avoid the company of rich young men. Therefore he bore the burden of his indigence alone strictly keeping himself from those who had been more favored by fortune. But to Cylan it seemed a sheer impertinence that a student as poor as Kalipada should yet have the pride to keep away from his patronage. Besides this in his food and dress and everything Kalipada's poverty was so blatantly exposed it heard Cylan's sense of decency. Every time he looked down into Kalipada's room he was offended by the sight of the cheap clothing the dingy mosquito net and the tattered bedding. Whenever he passed on his way to his room in the upper story the sight of these things was unavoidable. To crown it all there was that absurd emulate which Kalipada always had hanging around his neck and those daily rites of devotion which were so ridiculously out of fashion. One day Cylan and his followers condescended to invite Kalipada to a feast thinking that his gratitude would no no bounce. But Kalipada sent an answer saying that his habits were different and it would not be wholesome for him to accept the invitation. Cylan was unaccustomed to such a refusal and it roused up in him all the ferocity of his insulted benevolence. For some days after this the noise on the upper story became so loudly insistent that it was impossible for Kalipada to go on with his studies. He was compelled to spend the greater part of his days studying in the park and to get up very early and sit down to his work long before it was light. Owing to his half-starved condition his mental overwork and badly ventilated room Kalipada began to suffer from continual attacks of headache. There were times when he was obliged to lie down on his bed for three or four days together. But he made no mention of his illness in his letters to his father. Bhavani himself was certain that just as vegetation grew rank in his village surroundings so comforts of all kinds sprang up off themselves from the soil of Calcutta. Kalipada never for a moment disabused his mind of that misconception. He did not fail to write to his father even when suffering from one of these paroxyms of pain. The deliberate rowdiness of the students in the upper story added at such times to his distress. Kalipada tried to make himself as scarce and small as possible in order to avoid notice. But this did not bring him relief. One day he found that a cheap shoe of his own had been taken away and replaced by an expensive foreign one. It was impossible for him to go to college with such an incongruous pair. He made no complaint, however, but bought some old second hand shoes from the cobbler. One day a student from the upper story came into his room and asked him, have you by any mistake brought away my silver cigarette case with you? Kalipada got annoyed and answered, I have never been inside your room in my life. The students tube down, hello, he said, here it is, and the valuable cigarette case was picked up from the corner of the room. Kalipada determined to leave this lodging house as soon as every he had passed his intermediate examination provided only he could get a scholarship to enable him to do so. Every year the students of the house used to have their annual Saraswati Pooja. Though the greater part of the expenses fell to the share of silent, everyone else contributed according to his means. The year before they had contemptuously left out Kalipada from the list of contributors. But this year merely to tease him they came with their subscription book. Kalipada instantly paid five rupees to the fund though he had no intention of participating in the feast. His penury had long brought on him the contempt of his fellow lodgers, but this unexpected gift of five rupees became to them insufferable. The Saraswati Pooja was performed with great airclad and the five rupees could easily have been spared. It had been hard indeed for Kalipada to part with it. While he took the food given him in his landlord's house he had no control over the time at which it was served. Besides this since the servants brought him the food he did not like to criticize the dishes. He preferred to provide himself with some extra things and after the forced extravagance of his five rupees subscription he had to forgo all this and suffer in consequence. His paroxyms of headache became more frequent and though he passed his examination he failed to obtain the scholarship that he desired. The loss of the scholarship drove Kalipada to do extra work as a private tutor and to stick to the same unhealthy room in the lodging house. The students overheard had hoped that they would be relieved of his presence but punctually to the day the room was unlocked on the lower floor Kalipada entered clad in the same old dirty check parsi coat. A coolie from Sialda station took down from his head a steel trunk and other miscellaneous packages and laid them on the floor of the room and a long wrangle ensued as to the proper amount of pies that were due. In the depths of those packages there were mango chutneys and other condiments which his mother had specially prepared. Kalipada was aware that in his absence the upper story students in search of a jest did not scruple to come into his room by stealth. He was especially anxious to keep these home gifts from their cruel scrutiny. As tokens of home affection they were supremely precious to him but to the town students they denoted merely the boorishness of poverty-stricken villagers. The vessels were crude in earthen fastened by an earthen led fixed on with paste of floor. They were neither glass nor porcelain and therefore sure to be regarded with insolent disdain by rich town bread people. Formerly Kalipada used to keep these stores hidden under his bed covering them up with old newspapers but this time he took the precaution of always locking up his door even if he went out for a few minutes. The still further roused the spleen of silent and his party. It seemed to them preposterous that the room which was poor enough to draw tears from the eyes of the most hardened burglar should be as carefully guarded as if it were a second bank of Bengal. Does he actually believe they said among themselves that the temptation will be irresistible for us to steal that parsi coat? Silent had never visited this dark and mildewed room from which the plaster was dropping the glimpse that he had taken while going upstairs especially when in the evening Kalipada the upper part of his body bare would sit pouring over his books with a smoky lamb beside him were enough to give him a sense of suffocation. Silent asked his boon companions to explore the room below and find out the treasure which Kalipada had hidden. Everybody felt intensely amused at the proposal. The lock on Kalipada's door was a cheap one which had magnanimity to lend itself to any key. One evening when Kalipada had gone out to his private tuition two or three of the students with an exuberant sense of humor took a lantern and unlocked the room and entered. It did not need a moment to discover the pots of chutney under the bed. But these hardly seemed valuable enough to demand such watchful care on the part of Kalipada. A further search disclosed a key on a ring under the pillow. They opened the steel trunk with the key and found a few soiled clothes books and writing material. They were about to shut the box and discuss when they saw at the very bottom a packet covered by a dirty handkerchief. On uncovering three or four wrappers they found a currency note of 50 rupees. This made them burst out into peals of laughter. They felt certain that Kalipada was harboring suspicion against the whole world in his mind because of this 50 rupees. The meanness of this suspicious precaution deepened the intensity of their contempt for Kalipada. Just then they heard a footstep outside. They hysterically shut the door locked the door and ran upstairs with the note in the position. Silent was vastly amused though 50 rupees was a mere trifle he could never have believed that Kalipada had so much money in his trunk. They all decided to watch the result of this loss upon that queer creature downstairs. When Kalipada came home that night after his tuition was over he was too tired to notice any disorder in his room. One of his worst attacks of nervous headache was coming on and he went straight to bed. The next day when he brought out his trunk from under the bed and took out his clothes he found it open. He was naturally careful but it was not unlikely he thought that he had forgotten to lock it on the day before. But when he lifted the lid he found all the contents topsy turvy and his heart gave a great thud when he discovered that the note given to him by his mother was missing. He searched the box over and over again in the vain hope of finding and when his loss was made certain he flung himself upon his bed and lay like one dead. Just then he heard footsteps following one another on the stairs and every now and then an outburst of laughter from the upper room. It struck him all of a sudden that this was not a theft. Silent and his body must have taken the note to amuse themselves and make laughter out of it. It would have given him less pain if a thief had stolen it. It seemed to him that these young men had laid their impious hands upon his mother herself. This was the first time that Kalipada had ascended those stairs. He ran to the upper floor the old jersey on his shoulders. His face flushed with anger and the pain of his illness. As it was Sunday Silent and his company were seated in the veranda laughing and talking. Without any warning Kalipada burst upon them and shouted give me back my note. If he had begged it of them they would have relented. But the sight of his anger made them furious. They started up from their chairs and exclaimed What do you mean sir? What do you mean? What note? Kalipada shouted The note you have taken from my box. How dare you? They shouted back. Do you take us to be thieves? If Kalipada had held any weapon in his hand at that moment he certainly would have killed someone among them. But when he was about to spring they fell on him and four or five of them dragged him down to his room and thrust him inside. Silent said to his companions Here take this hundred rupee note and throw it to that dog. They all loudly exclaimed No let him climb down first and give us a written apology then we shall consider it. Silent's party all went to bed at the proper time and slept to sleep of the innocent. In the morning they had almost forgotten Kalipada but some of them while passing his room heard the sound of talking and they thought that possibly he was busy consulting some lawyer. The door was shut from the inside. They tried to over here but what they heard had nothing legal about it. It was quite incoherent. They informed Salem. He came down and stood with his ear close to the door. The only thing that could be distinctly heard was the word father. This frightened Salem. He thought that possibly Kalipada had gone mad on account of the grief of losing that 50 rupees note. Salem shouted Kalipada Babu two or three times but got no answer. Only that muttering sound continued. Salem called Kalipada Babu please open the door. Your note has been found. But still the door was not opened and that muttering sound went on. Salem had never anticipated such a result as this. He did not express a word of repentance to his followers but he felt the sting of it all the same. Some advised him to break open the door. Others thought that the police should be called in for Kalipada might be in a dangerous state of lunacy. Silent at once sent for a doctor who lived close at hand. When they burst open the door they found the bedding hanging from the bed and Kalipada lying on the floor unconscious. He was tossing about and throwing up his arms and muttering with his eyes red and open and his face all flushed. The doctor examined him and asked if there were any relative near at hand for the case was serious. Salem answered that he knew nothing but would make inquiries. The doctor then advised the removal of the patient at once to an upstairs room and proper nursing arrangements day and night. Salem took him up to his own room and dismissed his followers. He got some ice and put it on Kalipada's head and began to fan him with his own hand. Kalipada, fearing that mocking references would be made had concealed the names and address of his parents from these people with special care. So Salem had no alternative but to open his box. He found two bundles of letters tied up with ribbon. One of them contained his mother's letters and other contained his father's. His mother's letters were fewer in number than his father's. Salem closed the door and began to read the letters. He was startled when he saw the address. Saniyari, the house of the Chaudhary's and then the name of the father Bhavani. He folded up the letters and sat still gazing at Kalipada's face. Some of his friends had casually mentioned that there was a resemblance between Kalipada and himself. But he was offended at the remark and did not believe it. Today he discovered the truth. He knew that his own grandfather Shyamacharan had a step-brother named Bhavani. But the later history to the family had remained a secret to him. He did not even know that Bhavani had a son named Kalipada and he never suspected that Bhavani had come to such an abject state of poverty as this. He now felt not only relieved but proud of his own relative Kalipada that he had refused to enter himself on the list of protégés. Chapter 4 Knowing that his party had insulted Kalipada almost every day, Shyamacharan felt reluctant to keep him in the lodging house with them. So he rented another suitable house and kept him there. Bhavani came down in haze to Calcutta the moment he received a letter from Shyamacharan informing of his son's illness. Rashmani parted with all her savings giving instructions to her husband to spare no expense upon her son. It was not considered proper for the daughters of the great Chaudhary family to leave their home and go to Calcutta unless absolutely obliged and therefore she had to remain behind offering prayers to all the tutelary gods. When Bhavani Charan arrived he found Kalipada still unconscious and delirious. It nearly broke Bhavani's heart when he heard himself called Master Masai. Kalipada often called him in his delirium and he tried to make himself recognized by his son but in vain. The doctor came again and said the fever was getting less. He thought the case was taking a more favorable turn. For Bhavani it was an impossibility to imagine that his son would not recover. He must live. It was his destiny to live. Bhavani was much struck with the behavior of Seylin. It was difficult to believe that he was not of their own kith and kin. He supposed all this kindness to be due to the town training which Seylin had received. Bhavani spoke to Seylin disparagingly of the country habits which village people like himself got into. Gradually the fever went down and Kalipada recovered consciousness. He was astonished beyond measure when he saw his father sitting in the room beside him. His first anxiety was lest he should discover the miserable state in which he had been living. But what would be harder still to bear was if his father with his rustic manners became the butt of the people upstairs. He looked round him but could not recognize his own room and wondered if he had been dreaming. But he found himself too weak to think. He supposed that it had been his father who had removed him to this better lodging but he had no power to calculate how he could possibly bear the expense. The only thing that concerned him at that moment was that he felt he must live and for that he had a claim upon the world. Once when his father was absent Seylin came in with a plate of grapes in his hand. Kalipada could not understand this at all and wondered if there was some practical joke behind it. He at once became excited and wondered how he could save his father from annoyance. Seylin set the plate down on the table and touched Kalipada's feet humbly and said, My offense has been great. Pray forgive me. Kalipada started and set up on his bed. He could see that Seylin's repentance was sincere and he was greatly moved. When Kalipada had first come to the student's lodging house he had felt strongly drawn toward this handsome youth. He never missed a chance of looking at his face when Seylin passed by his room on his way upstairs. He would have given all the world to be friends with him but the barrier was too great to overcome. Now today when Seylin brought him the grapes and asked his forgiveness he silently looked at his face and silently accepted the grapes which spoke of his repentance. It amused Kalipada greatly when he noticed the intimacy that had sprung up between his father and Seylin. Seylin used to call Bhavani Charan grandfather and exercise to the full the grandchild's privilege of joking with him. The principal object of the jokes was the absent grandmother. Seylin made the confession that he had taken the opportunity of Kalipada's illness to steal all the delicious chutneys which his grandmother had made with her own hand. The news of his act of thieving gave Kalipada very great joy. He found it easy to deprive himself if he could find anyone who could appreciate the good things made by his mother. Thus this time of his convalescence became the happiest period in the whole of Kalipada's life. There was only one flaw in this unalloyed happiness. Kalipada had a fierce pride in his poverty which prevented him ever speaking about his family's better days. Therefore when his father used to talk of his former prosperity Kalipada wins. Bhavani could not keep to himself the one great event of his life, the theft of that will which he was absolutely certain that he would someday recover. Kalipada had always regarded this as the kind of mania of his fathers and in collusion with his mother he had often humoured his father concerning this amiable weakness. But he shrank in shame when his father talked about this to Seylin. He noticed particularly that Seylin did not relish such conversation and that he often tried to prove with a certain amount of feeling its absurdity. But Bhavani who was ready to give in to others in matters much more serious in this matter was adamant. Kalipada tried to pacify him by saying that there was no great need to worry about it because those who were enjoying its benefit were almost the same as his own children since they were his nephews. Such talk Seylin could not bear for long and he used to leave the room. This pained Kalipada because he thought that Seylin might get quite a wrong conception of his father and imagine him to be a grasping worldly old man. Seylin would have revealed his own relationship to Kalipada and his father long before but this discussion about the theft of the will prevented him. It was hard for him to believe that his grandfather or father had stolen the will. On the other hand he could not but think that some cruel injustice had been done in depriving Bhavani of his share of the ancestral property. Therefore he gave up arguing when the subject was brought forward and took some occasion to leave as soon as possible. Though Kalipada still had headaches in the evening with a slight rise in temperature he did not take it at all seriously. He became anxious to resume his studies because he felt it would be a calamity to him if he again missed his scholarship. He secretly began to read once more without taking any notice of the strict orders of the doctor. Kalipada asked his father to return home assuring him that he was in the best of health. Bhavani had been all his life fed and nourished and cooked for by his wife. He was spinning to get back. He did not therefore wait to be pressed. On the morning of his intended departure when he went to say goodbye to Kalipada he found him very ill indeed. His face was red with fever and his whole body burning. He had been committing to memory page after page of his textbook of logic half through the night and for the remainder he could not sleep at all. The doctor took Ceylin aside. This relapse he said is fatal. Ceylin came to Bhavani and said the patient required a mother's nursing. She must be brought to Calcutta. It was evening when Rashmani came and she only saw her son alive for a few hours. Not knowing how her husband could survive such a terrible shock she altogether suppressed her own sorrow. Her son was merged in her husband again and she took up this burden of the dead and the living on her own aching heart. She said to her God it is too much for me to bear but she did bear it. It was midnight. With the very weariness of her sorrow Rashmani had fallen asleep soon after reaching her own home in the village. But Bhavani had no sleep that night. Tossing on his bed for hours he heaved a deep sigh saying merciful God. Then he got up from his bed and went out. He entered the room where Kalipada had been warned to do his lessons in his childhood. The lamp shook as he held it in his hand. On the wooden settle there was still the torn ink-stained quilt made long ago by Rashmani herself. On the wall were figures of Euclid and algebra drawn in charcoal. The remains of a royal reader number three and a few exercised bergs were lying about. And the one odd slipper of his infancy which had evaded notice so long was keeping its place in the dusty obscurity of the corner of the room. Today it had become so important that nothing in the world, however great, could keep it hidden any longer. Bhavani put the lamp in the niche on the wall and silently sat on the settle. His eyes were dry but he felt choke as if with want of breath. Bhavani opened the shutters on the eastern side and stirred still, grasping the iron bars gazing into the darkness. Through the drizzling rain he could see the outline of the clump of trees at the end of the outer wall. At this spot Kalipada had made his own garden. The passion flowers which he had planted with his own hand had grown densely thick. While he gazed at this Bhavani felt his heart coming up into his throat with choking pain. There was nobody now to wait for and expect daily. The summer vacation had come but no one would come back home to fill the vacant room and use its old familiar furniture. He sat down. The rain came faster. A sound of footsteps was heard among the grass and withered leaves. Bhavani's heart stood still. He hoped it was that which was beyond all hope. He thought it was Kalipada himself come to see his own garden and in this downpour of rain how wet he would be. Anxiety about this made him restless. Then somebody stood for a moment in front of the iron window bars. The claw crowd his head made it impossible for Bhavani to see his face clearly but his height was the same as that of Kalipada. Darling cried Bhavani you have come and he rushed to open the door. But when he came outside to the spot where the figure had stood there was no one to be seen. He walked up and down in the garden through the drenching rain but no one was there. He stood still for a moment raising his voice and calling Kalipada but no answer came. The servant Noto who was sleeping in the cow shed heard his cry and came out and coaxed him back to his room. Next day in the morning Noto was sweeping the room found a bundle just underneath the grated window. He brought it to Bhavani who opened it and found it was an old document. He put on his spectacles and after reading a few lines came rushing into Rashmani and gave the paper into her hand. Rashmani asked what is it? Bhavani replied it is the well. Who gave it you? He himself came last night to give it to me. What are you going to do with it? Bhavani said I have no need of it now and he tore the will to pieces. When the news reached the village Buggala proudly nodded his head and said Tent I prophesied that the well would be recovered through Kalipada but the grocer Ramcharan replied Last night when the 10 o'clock train reached the station a handsome looking young man came to my shop and asked the way to the Chaudhary's house and I thought he had some kind of bundle in his hand. Absurd said Buggala End of study number nine