The Land of Cards: Stories, Poems, and Plays for Children

by Rabindranath Tagore

  Thakurda:That will be very good. If I take you with me, I too shall receive my fill in royal bounty. What alms will you seek?

  Amal:I’ll say, make me your postman. I’ll go like that, lantern in hand, from door to door, distributing your letters . . . Do you know, fakir? Someone has told me, when I get well he will teach me to beg. I can go with him wherever I like, to beg for alms.

  Thakur:Who’s that, may I ask?

  Amal:Chhidam.

  Thakurda:Who is this Chhidam?

  Amal:The one who’s lame, and blind in one eye. He comes to my window every day, pushed along in his cart by a boy just like me. I’ve told him that when I get well, I’ll push his cart as I go along.

  Thakurda:That will be fun, I can see.

  Amal:He’s the one who has promised to teach me how to beg. I urge Pishemoshai to give him alms, but he says the man is actually neither half-blind nor lame. Achchha, even if he isn’t really blind, it’s still true after all that he can’t see properly.

  Thakurda:Quite right baba, the truth is simply that he can’t see properly—whether you call him blind or not. So, if he doesn’t receive any alms, why does he hobnob with you?

  Amal:Because I tell him where things are. The poor man can’t see. I tell him all about the lands you describe to me. That airy land you told me about the other day, where nothing has any weight, where the tiniest bounce can help you leap over a mountain—he was delighted to hear of that lightweight land . . . Achchha fakir, how does one get to that land?

  Thakurda:There is an inside route, but it might be hard to find.

  Amal:But the poor man is blind; he may not see it at all—he’ll have to spend his days wandering in search of alms. He was grieving for that reason, but I told him: in searching for alms you get to wander far and wide. Not everyone can do that.

  Thakurda:Baba, what is so miserable about remaining indoors either?

  Amal:No, no, there’s nothing sad about it. At first when they kept me confined indoors, I felt as if my days would not pass. But now, ever since I saw the king’s post office, I feel cheerful every day . . . just sitting here in this room, I feel cheerful . . . just the thought that my letter will arrive one day makes it possible for me to wait patiently, in a cheerful mood . . . But I don’t know what the king’s letter will say.

  Thakurda:So let it remain unknown. It will bear your name, after all—that’s enough.

  Exit

  Enter Madhabdatta

  Madhabdatta:What sort of mess have the two of you created, I ask you!

  Thakurda:Why, what’s the matter?

  Madhabdatta:I hear you’ve spread word that the king has set up this post office only to write letters to you.

  Thakurda:What’s wrong with that?

  Madhabdatta:Our Panchanan Morol has disclosed the matter to the king in an anonymous letter.

  Thakurda:Everything reaches the king’s ears. Don’t we know that?

  Madhabdatta:Then why don’t you act with caution? Why make such nonsensical statements in the name of kings and emperors? The two of you will land me in trouble as well.

  Amal:Fakir, will the king be angry?

  Thakurda:How can anyone say such things! Angry! We’ll see how angry he can be! Would he display his royal authority by getting angry with a fakir like me and a boy like you? We’ll see about that!

  Amal:Look, fakir, since this morning, my vision has been growing dim, every now and then. Everything seems like a dream. I feel like remaining absolutely quiet. I no longer feel like saying anything. Will the king’s letter never arrive? What if this room, everything, should fade away . . . if . . .

  Thakurda(fanning him): It will come; the letter will come today.

  Enter Kobiraj

  Kobiraj:How do you feel today?

  Amal:Kobirajmoshai, I feel very good today—as if all my pain has gone away.

  Kobiraj(aside to Madhabdatta): I don’t like the look of that smile. When he says he feels very good, that is itself a bad sign. Our Chakradharadatta says . . .

  Madhabdatta:I beg you Kobirajmoshai, forget about Chakradharadatta. Now tell me how things stand.

  Kobiraj:It seems we can’t hang on to him any longer. I had forbidden it of course, but he seems to have received a touch of the outside air.

  Madhabdatta:No, Kobirajmoshai, I have kept him secure and protected in every aspect, with great care. I don’t let him go out—I generally keep the door closed.

  Kobiraj:There’s a strange, sudden breeze blowing today—I saw the wind gushing in through your main entrance. That’s not good at all. Lock that door very securely. Never mind if visitors stop coming for a few days. If anyone turns up, there’s always the back door. The rays of the setting sun are coming in through that window: close it as well, for those rays keep the patient awake too long.

  Madhabdatta:Amal’s eyes are closed: he may be asleep. His face looks as if . . . Kobirajmoshai, I brought home someone who does not belong to me; I grew to love him, and now it seems I cannot keep him.

  Kobiraj:What’s this? The Morol is heading for your house! What a nuisance! I’ll be off, bhai! But go and secure that door, at once. As soon as I get home I’ll send a poison pill. Give it to him and see what happens. If he is to be kept alive then that’s what will hold him here.

  Exit Madhabdatta and Kobiraj

  Enter Morol

  Morol:So how goes it, young lad!

  Thakurda(hastily rising to his feet): Arre, arre, hush, be quiet!

  Amal:No fakir, do you think I am asleep? I’m not sleeping. I can hear everything. I seem to be able to hear even very distant words from far away. I feel as if my parents are talking to each other by my bed, close to my pillow.

  Enter Madhabdatta

  Morol:Listen Madhabdatta, you seem to be hobnobbing with very eminent people nowadays!

  Madhabdatta:How can you say that, Morolmoshai! Don’t make such jokes. I am an utterly ordinary person.

  Morol:But this boy of yours is awaiting a letter from the king.

  Madhabdatta:He’s young, and crazy. We shouldn’t take his words seriously, should we!

  Morol:No, no, what’s so surprising about it? Where would the king find a worthy household such as yours? That’s why, don’t you see, the king’s new post office is situated directly in front of your window? Here, you young lad, here’s a letter for you from the king!

  Amal(starting up): Truly?

  Morol:Can it be anything but true! Your friendship with the king! (Handing him a blank sheet) Hahahaha, here’s his letter!

  Amal:Please don’t laugh at me . . . Fakir, fakir, do tell me, is this really his letter?

  Thakurda:Yes baba, as I am the fakir I assure you, this is indeed his letter.

  Amal:But I can’t see anything written here—everything has gone blank today! Morolmoshai, please tell me, what does this letter say?

  Morol:The king writes: I am going to visit your house within the next couple of days; keep your feast of muri and murki, puffed and sugar-coated rice, ready for me—I can’t tolerate my royal palace even another hour. Hahahaha!

  Madhabdatta(with folded hands): Morolmoshai, I beseech you, please don’t make a joke of such things.

  Thakurda:Joke? What joke? Would he dare joke about this?

  Madhabdatta:Arre! Thakurda, have you lost your senses as well!

  Thakurda:Yes, I have taken leave of my senses. That is why I can see the writing on this blank sheet of paper. The king writes, he is coming to visit Amal in person, and is bringing his royal Kobiraj, the medicine man, along with him as well.

  Amal:Fakir! There, fakir, I hear his music playing, can’t you hear it?

  Morol:Hahahaha! Unless he loses his senses some more, he can’t hear it.

  Amal:Morolmoshai, I used to imagine you were angry with me—that you didn’t love me. I hadn’t expected that you would really bring me a letter from the king—come, let me bow at your feet and receive your blessings.

  Morol:No, I must say this boy has a devout soul. He lacks brains, i
t’s true, but he has a good heart.

  Amal:It must be past the hour for dusk by now, I think. There it goes—ding-dong ding-dong! Has the evening star arisen, fakir? Why can’t I see it?

  Thakurda:Because they’ve closed the window. I’ll open it.

  Knock on the door, from outside

  Madhabdatta:What is that! Who is it? What sort of disturbance is this?

  From outside

  Open the door

  Madhabdatta:Who are you all?

  From outside

  Open the door.

  Madhabdatta:Morolmoshai, these are not dacoits, for sure!

  Morol:Who is it? I am Panchanan Morol. Do you have no fear in your hearts? . . . See, the noise has stopped. Panchanan’s voice strikes terror in their hearts. However notorious the dacoits might be . . .

  Madhabdatta(leaning out of the window): They have broken down the door; that’s why there’s no more noise.

  Enter royal messenger

  Royal Messenger:The king will come tonight.

  Morol:What a disaster!

  Amal:How late at night, O messenger? At what hour?

  Messenger:At midnight.

  Amal:When my friend the Prahari rings the bell at the city gate, ding-dong ding-dong ding-dong—at that hour?

  Messenger:Yes, at that hour. The king has sent his senior-most Kobiraj to examine his young friend.

  Enter the Rajkobiraj, the royal medicine man

  Rajkobiraj:What’s this! Everything all around is fastened shut! Open them, open them, open all the doors and windows. (Stroking Amal’s body) Baba, how do you feel?

  Amal:Very good, very good, Kobirajmoshai. I no longer have any sickness, any pain. Ah! They have opened everything—I can see all the stars—the stars beyond the darkness.

  Rajkobiraj:When the king arrives at midnight, can you rise from your bed to go outside with him?

  Amal:I can, I can. If I can go out, I’ll be saved. I’ll tell the king, show me the Pole Star in this dark sky. I must have seen that star so many times, but I don’t recognize which one it is, after all.

  Rajkobiraj:He will help you recognize everything . . . (to Madhabdatta) Clean this room and decorate it with flowers for the king’s arrival. (Indicating the Morol) But we can’t have that man in the room.

  Amal:No, no, Kobirajmoshai, he is my friend. Before you came, it was he who brought me the king’s letter.

  Rajkobiraj:Achchha baba, since he is your friend, he too shall remain in the room.

  Madhabdatta(whispering to Amal): Baba, the king loves you; he is coming here in person tonight—ask him for some blessings tonight. We are not well off after all. You know all about that, don’t you?

  Amal:I have already decided to do that, Pishemoshai; you need not worry about it.

  Madhabdatta:What have you decided, baba?

  Amal:I’ll request him to make me a messenger for his post office—I’ll go from land to land, house to house, distributing his letters.

  Madhabdatta(striking his forehead): Alas, how unfortunate I am!

  Amal:Pishemoshai, the king is coming. What feast shall we prepare for him?

  Messenger:He has said he will feast on muri-murki here at your place.

  Amal:Muri-murki! Morolmoshai, you had already told us that! You know all about the king! We knew nothing, after all.

  Morol:If you send someone over to my house, to fetch some nice dishes for the king . . .

  Rajkobiraj:There’s no need for that. Calm down now, all of you. Here it comes, now sleep descends upon his eyes. I shall sit by his pillow . . . he is growing drowsy. Turn out the lamp . . . Now let the light shine in, from that star in the sky. He has grown drowsy.

  Madhabdatta(to Thakurda): Thakurda, why have you become silent as a statue, with folded hands? I feel rather frightened. These things I see now, are they good signs? Why are they darkening my house! What use is starlight to me?

  Thakurda:Quiet, you disbeliever! Don’t say a word.

  Enter Sudha

  Sudha:Amal!

  Rajkobiraj:He has gone to sleep.

  Sudha:But I have brought flowers for him—can’t I hand them to him?

  Rajkobiraj:Achchha, give him your flowers.

  Sudha:When will he awaken?

  Rajkobiraj:Just now, when the king comes to call him.

  Sudha:Will you whisper something in his ear then?

  Rajkobiraj:What shall I tell him?

  Sudha:Tell him: ‘Sudha has not forgotten you.’

  A Poetic Mood and Lack of Food

  Cast:

  Kunjabihari

  Bashambad

  Attendant

  The eminent poet Kunjabihari and Bashambad

  Kunjabihari:What brings you here?

  Bashambad:Sir, I can’t support myself any more. Moshai, that job you had spoken of . . .

  Kunjabihari(agitated): Job? What job? Who speaks of jobs on such a beautiful sharat day?

  Bashambad:Sir, nobody wilfully speaks of such things, but when pangs of hunger . . .

  Kunjabihari:Pangs of hunger? Chhi chhi, for shame, that’s a despicable thing to speak of. Don’t mention it again.

  Bashambad:As you say sir, I shan’t mention it again. But it always comes to mind.

  Kunjabihari:What’s this you say, Bashambad Babu? Always comes to mind? Even on such a calm, silent, beautiful evening?

  Bashambad:Yes sir, it haunts me indeed. At this time, it makes itself felt even more urgently. Long back, at ten-thirty, I had swallowed a few morsels of rice before setting out in search of a job. I haven’t eaten anything since.

  Kunjabihari:So what if you haven’t? What if you haven’t eaten?

  (Bashambad silently scratches his head)

  Don’t you feel, in this sharat moonlight, that human beings don’t have to consume food like animals in order to survive? As if one could pass one’s life quite happily by savouring this moonlight alone, or the nectar of flowers, or the spring breeze?

  Bashambad(timidly, in a low voice): Sir, life might well pass away in this fashion, but it would not survive—one needs to consume something more.

  Kunjabihari(angrily): Go and consume that stuff, then. Go stuff yourself with fistfuls of rice, dal and chorchori. This place is out of bounds for you.

  Bashambad:Where can those things be found, moshai? I’ll go there right away. (Observing that Kunja Babu had flown into a rage) Kunja Babu, you are quite right, just savouring the air in this garden is enough to fill one’s stomach. One does not feel like eating anything else.

  Kunjabihari:I am happy to hear you say that. Now you are speaking like a true human being. Come, let’s step out. Why remain indoors when we have access to such a garden?

  Bashambad:Let’s go then. (Aside) There’s a chill in the air . . . I am not carrying a wrap either . . .

  Kunjabihari:Wah! How exquisite is the sharat weather!

  Bashambad:Indeed it is. But it’s rather chilly.

  Kunjabihari(wrapping his shawl tight around him): It’s not chilly at all.

  Bashambad:No, it isn’t chilly. (He shivers violently)

  Kunjabihari(gazing at the sky): Wah, wah, wah! What a blissful sight! Fragments of white cloud floating like swans on the blue lake of the sky, and in their midst, the moon resembles . . .

  Bashambad(coughing very hard): Cough-cough-cough-cough!

  Kunjabihari:In their midst, the moon resembles . . .

  Bashambad:Cough-cough-cough-cough . . .

  Kunjabihari(prodding him): Do you hear, Bashambad Babu? In their midst, the moon resembles . . .

  Bashambad:Please wait . . . Cough-cough-gag-gag-rasp-rasp . . .

  Kunjabihari(enraged): You are a very nasty man. If you must cough in this fashion, please withdraw into a corner of your room and lie there, huddled in a blanket. Such a garden . . .

  Bashambad(terrified, desperately suppressing his cough): Sir, I have nothing else. (Aside) In other words, I have neither blanket nor kantha.

  Kunjabihari:The splendour of this scene reminds me of a song.
Let me sing:

  In the beau-u-utiful grove, blossoming in the tree-ees, lovely baku . . .

  Bashambad(sneezes violently): Achchhoooo!

  Kunjabihari:Lovely baku . . .

  Bashambad:Achchhooo . . . Achchhooo . . .

  Kunjabihari:Do you hear? Lovely baku . . .

  Bashambad:Achchhoo achchhooo!

  Kunjabihari:Get out of my garden . . .