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

by Rabindranath Tagore

  Not that this was the second time Mini had met the Kabuliwala, as I discovered. He had been visiting almost every day, and had captured a large share of Mini’s avid little heart by bribing her with pistachios and almonds.

  This pair of friends regularly shared some stock remarks and private jokes, I found. For instance, as soon as she saw Rahmat, my daughter would ask with a smile: ‘Kabuliwala, O Kabuliwala, what’s inside that bag of yours?’

  ‘Hanti,’ Rahmat would laugh, in an unnecessarily nasal accent.

  In other words, his bag contained an elephant: that was the subtle point of his joke. Not that it was extremely subtle, but still, both of them found this joke quite hilarious. And on a cool, autumnal morning, I too relished the simple laughter of an elderly man and a little child.

  There was another joke they shared, the two of them.

  Rahmat would tell Mini, ‘Khonkhi, you must never go away to sasurbari, your in-laws’ home!’

  Bengali daughters were acquainted with the word ‘sasurbari’ from birth, but being quite modern, we had not alerted our daughter to that word’s meaning. So she could not clearly understand what Rahmat’s request meant. Yet it was entirely against her nature to offer no reply. So she would ask him, in turn: ‘Will you go to your sasurbari?’

  ‘I’ll kill the sasur,’ Rahmat would respond in broken Bengali, shaking a huge fist against the imaginary father-in-law. Mini would burst out laughing at the imagined plight of the unknown creature called a sasur.

  It was early autumn, the bright sharat season. In ancient days, this was the time of year when the kings set out to conquer the world. I had never travelled anywhere beyond Kolkata, but for that very reason, my spirit roamed the world. A permanent exile in the narrow corner of my home, I pined constantly for the outside world. At the bare mention of a foreign land, I would rush there in spirit. Likewise, at the sight of a foreigner, I would at once imagine a cottage against a backdrop of river, mountain and forest, my soul stirred by this vision of a free, blissful existence.

  But I am also like a plant by nature, so firmly rooted that I am thrown into consternation whenever I have to emerge from my corner into the outside world. So, sitting at my desk inside my little room, my conversations with this man from Kabul were like virtual travel for me. I imagined a caravan of camels laden with goods, traversing a narrow desert track lined on both sides by tall, rugged, inaccessible mountain ranges, sun-scorched and blood-red. Some of the turbaned merchants and travellers moved on camel-back, others on foot. Some carried spears; others were armed with old-fashioned flintlock rifles. In a voice as deep as the rumbling of clouds, the Kabuliwala would talk of his own land in broken Bengali, and these scenes would pass before my eyes.

  Mini’s mother was extremely nervous by temperament. At the slightest sound from the street, she would imagine that all the drunkards in the world were making a beeline for our house. Even after living in this world for so long (not very long, actually), she had not outgrown the fear that it was teeming with thieves, robbers, drunkards, snakes, tigers, malaria, caterpillars, cockroaches and white men.

  She did not hold Rahmat the Kabuliwala entirely above suspicion. She had repeatedly urged me to keep a special eye on him. When I tried to laugh off her anxieties, she posed a series of questions: ‘Do children never get kidnapped? Is there no slave trade in Kabul? Is it utterly impossible for a giant Kabuliwala to abduct a little child?’

  Not quite impossible, I had to admit, but unbelievable. Not everyone is capable of such conviction, though; so my wife’s anxieties persisted. But still, I could not bring myself to forbid Rahmat to visit our house for no fault of his own.

  Every winter, in the middle of the month of Magh, Rahmat would go back to his own land. At this time, he would be very busy, collecting all his dues. He had to go from door to door, but still, he would drop by once a day to see Mini. It truly seemed as if the two of them were hatching some conspiracy. When he could not visit during the day, he would come by in the evening, I found. In a dark corner of the room, that tall figure dressed in loose shirt and pyjamas, carrying all those bags and jholas, aroused a sudden apprehension in one’s mind. But the sight of Mini rushing up to him with her cheerful call, ‘Kabuliwala! O Kabuliwala,’ and the familiar simple banter between these two friends of unequal age, filled my heart with gladness.

  One morning, I was in my little chamber, correcting the proofs of my manuscript. Before departing, the winter had grown very severe these last two or three days, and everyone was shivering in the cold. Through the window, the morning sun cast its rays upon my feet beneath the table, and its warmth was rather pleasing. It was about eight o’clock. Most of the early risers, heads and necks wrapped in scarves, had returned home from their early morning walk. Just then, a terrible commotion was heard in the street.

  I looked out and saw a pair of guards dragging our Rahmat in chains, a crowd of curious children following behind. Rahmat’s clothes were bloodstained, and one guard had a bloody knife in his hand. I stepped out of the door and stopped one of the guards to ask what this was all about.

  Hearing some details from him and some from Rahmat, I gathered that a neighbour of ours owed Rahmat a small amount of money for a wrap. He falsely denied this debt, and in the ensuing argument, Rahmat had stabbed him once with the knife. Rahmat was abusing the liar in obscene language, when Mini emerged from the house, calling, ‘Kabuliwala! O Kabuliwala!’

  Rahmat’s face instantly broke into a humorous grin. There was no jhola on his shoulder today, so they could not indulge in their customary exchange about the jhola. Mini asked him right away:

  ‘Will you go to sasurbari?’

  ‘That’s where I’m going,’ smiled Rahmat.

  Seeing that this answer failed to amuse Mini, he showed her his hands and said: ‘I’d kill the sasur, but my hands are tied. What can I do?’

  Rahmat was sentenced to several years in prison, for inflicting grievous bodily harm.

  We more or less forgot him. Day after day, immersed in our ever-accustomed daily tasks at home, it did not even occur to us to wonder how a free-ranging mountain-traveller was passing his years within the walls of a prison.

  And the fickle Mini’s conduct was extremely shameful, as even her father must admit. She easily forgot her old soul mate, and at first befriended the new groom at the stables. Then, as she gradually grew older, her male friends began to be replaced by female companions. In fact, she was no longer to be seen even in her father’s study. Piqued, I had virtually stopped talking to her.

  Many years passed. The sharat season came round again. My Mini’s marriage had been fixed. Her wedding was scheduled for the Durga Puja holidays. Along with goddess Durga who dwells in Mount Kailash, Mini, our own beneficent household deity, would also depart for her marital home, leaving her parental abode desolate.

  A beautiful day had dawned. After the rains, the fresh-bathed sharat sunlight had assumed the colour of pure molten gold. The sunlight had spread a glow of exquisite loveliness even upon the worn, ragged brick buildings huddled inside the Kolkata alleys. The night had barely ended when the shehnais struck up in my house that day. The music seemed to emerge, wailing, from within the ribs of my own body. In the melancholy strains of raga Bhairavi, the pangs of impending separation spread from my own heart, out across the whole universe, along with the sharat sunshine. It was my Mini’s wedding day.

  Since morning, there had been a great commotion, many comings and goings. In the courtyard, a marquee was being constructed on a bamboo frame. From every room and veranda came the tinkle of chandeliers being mounted on the ceilings. There was no end to all the hustle and bustle.

  I was in my study, checking accounts, when Rahmat appeared there and greeted me with a salaam. At first I did not recognize him. His jhola was gone, so was his long hair. His body lacked its former robust energy. Ultimately, I recognized him by his smile.

  ‘How are you Rahmat? When did you arrive?’ I asked.

  ‘I was rel
eased from jail last evening.’

  His words gave me an unpleasant jolt. I had never seen a murderer face to face before. Looking at him, my whole being seemed to cringe inwardly. Better if this man were to go away, on this auspicious day, I thought.

  ‘We have a ceremony at home today,’ I told him. ‘I am rather busy. You had better leave now.’

  He at once prepared to depart, but at the door, he paused hesitantly. ‘Can I not meet Khonkhi, the little girl, just once?’ he asked.

  He seemed to imagine that Mini had remained exactly the same, that she would come rushing up as before, calling, ‘Kabuliwala! O Kabuliwala!’ As if there would be no change in their former banter, which they used to find so hilarious. In fact, in memory of their old friendship, he had procured a box of grapes and some paper-wrapped raisins and nuts from some friendly compatriot, after much wheedling. His own jhola was gone.

  ‘There is a ceremony at home today,’ I replied. ‘You can’t meet anyone else today.’

  He seemed rather upset. Standing immobile, he gazed fixedly at me for a moment. ‘Babu, salaam!’ he said, and went out of the door.

  I felt a strange twinge in my heart. I was thinking of calling him back, when I found that he had returned on his own.

  ‘I had brought these grapes, raisins and nuts for Khonkhi,’ he said, coming up to me. ‘Please give them to her.’

  When I tried to pay for these items, he suddenly gripped my hand.

  ‘You are very kind,’ he said. ‘I shall always remember you. But please don’t offer me money. Babu, just like you, I too have a ladki, a little girl, back in my own country. It is her face I remember when I bring small amounts of mewa, these sweetmeats for your khonkhi. I don’t come here to sell merchandise, after all.’

  So saying, he searched within his long, loose robe. From somewhere close to his heart, he drew out a soiled scrap of paper. With exquisite care he unfolded the paper, and spread it open on my table with both hands.

  I saw a tiny handprint on the paper. It was not a photograph, nor an oil-painting, but an impression taken on the paper after smearing the hand with soot. Carrying this token of his daughter’s memory close to his heart, Rahmat would come every year to sell mewa in the Kolkata streets—as if the touch of that soft, tiny, childish hand brought sweet comfort to his great, grieving, lonely bosom.

  The sight brought tears to my eyes. I now forgot that he was a mewa-seller from Kabul and I, a well-born Bengali. I realized that he and I were the same: he was a father, and so was I. That handprint of his tiny mountain-dwelling goddess Parvati reminded me of my own Mini. I at once sent word for her to come out of the antahpur. This aroused great opposition within the private quarters. But I ignored it all. Dressed in a red cheli, forehead adorned with sandal paste, Mini in her bridal attire came shyly up to me.

  Seeing her, the Kabuliwala was at first taken aback, unable to summon up their old camaraderie. Finally, he smiled:

  ‘Khonkhi, tomi sasurbari jabis? Are you going to your in-laws’ home?’

  Mini was now aware of the meaning of ‘sasurbari’. She could not respond as before. Blushing in embarrassment at Rahmat’s question, she averted her face. Reminded of the day Mini had first met the Kabuliwala, I felt strangely melancholy.

  When Mini had gone away, Rahmat sank to the ground with a deep sigh. It suddenly became clear to him that his own daughter had also matured similarly in the intervening years, that he would have to renew his acquaintance with her as well, that he would not find her exactly as before. Who could tell what had befallen her in these eight years? The strains of the shehnai wafted out into the mellow, autumnal morning sunshine. From the depths of a Kolkata alley, Rahmat saw in his mind’s eye the arid mountains of Afghanistan.

  I gave him some money.

  ‘Rahmat,’ I said, ‘go home to your daughter in your own land. May the joy of your reunion with her bring good fortune to my Mini.’

  To donate this money, I had to trim my budget for the festive occasion. I could not use electric illuminations as I had planned, and the military band had to be dropped. The women in the antahpur were extremely dissatisfied, but for me, the auspicious ceremony shone with a blessed light.

  The Parrot’s Tale

  Once there was a bird. He was uneducated. He sang, but did not read the shastras. He hopped about and flew, but didn’t know good manners.

  ‘Such a bird is of no use,’ declared the king, ‘but he harms the sale of fruit in the royal market by eating up the wild fruits in the forest.’

  He sent for the minister. ‘Educate this bird,’ he ordered.

  2

  The king’s nephews were given the responsibility of educating the bird.

  The pundits assembled and considered the matter at length. The question was: ‘What is the reason for this creature’s lack of education?’

  They concluded that there was not much room for learning in the bird’s nest, made from a few humble straws and twigs. Hence it was necessary, first of all, to make him a proper cage.

  Receiving their dues, the royal pundits went home happily.

  3

  The goldsmith now set about making a golden cage. So marvellous was the cage he made, people from far-off lands came there to admire it. Some said, ‘It is the height of education.’ ‘Even if he doesn’t get an education, at least he has a cage,’ declared others. ‘What a lucky bird!’

  The goldsmith was rewarded with a bagful of money as reward. He went home happily.

  The pundits got down to the business of educating the bird. ‘This is not a task to be achieved with just a few books,’ they declared, inhaling snuff.

  Now the royal nephews summoned all the scribes. Copying many textbooks and making copies of copies, they produced a mountain-high pile of books. Anyone who saw it exclaimed: ‘Shabash—congratulations! This heap of knowledge is full to bursting!’

  Loading a bullock with all the money they received as payment, the scribes rushed home. They no longer had any trouble making both ends meet.

  There was no end to the royal nephews’ fussing over the very expensive cage. There was no end to all the repair and maintenance, either. And there was such a to-do about dusting, wiping and polishing that the sight made everyone declare: ‘These are signs of progress.’

  The work required a lot of manpower, and to keep an eye on the workers, even more men had to be deployed. Month by month, they collected their payments by the fistful and stuffed the money in their safes.

  These men, and all their maternal and paternal cousins, settled happily in palatial brick-built mansions.

  4

  Many other things are lacking in this world, but there is no dearth of fault-finders. ‘The cage is improving,’ they said, ‘but nobody asks after the bird.’

  The matter reached the king’s ears. He sent for the nephews and demanded: ‘O nephews, what’s this I hear?’

  ‘Maharaj,’ said the nephews, ‘if you want to hear the truth, summon the goldsmiths, pundits, scribes, the maintenance workers and their supervisors. It’s because the fault-finders don’t get enough to eat that they say such evil things.’

  From this reply, the situation became clear to the king. Golden necklaces were ordered at once, to adorn the nephews’ necks.

  5

  The king wanted to see for himself the tremendous pace at which the bird’s education was progressing.

  At once, the area near the portico began to resound with the noise of conchs, bells, dhak, dhol, kada, nakada, turi, bheri, damama, kanshi, flutes, gongs, khol, cymbals, mridanga and jagajhampa. With full-throated abandon, shaking the unshaven locks of their tikis atop their tonsured heads, the pundits began to chant mantras. The masons, workmen, goldsmiths, scribes, supervisors and their maternal and paternal cousins sang to the king’s glory.

  ‘Maharaj, can you see what a to-do there is!’ observed a nephew.

  ‘Amazing! The noise is quite extraordinary,’ observed the Maharaja.

  ‘It’s not just the noise
; the money that’s gone into it is not inconsiderable either,’ the nephew pointed out.

  Delighted, the Maharaja crossed the portico and was about to mount his elephant when a fault-finder concealed in the bushes called out: ‘Maharaj, have you had a look at the bird?’

  The king was startled. ‘Oh no!’ he exclaimed. ‘I had clean forgotten. I haven’t seen the bird.’

  He went back and told the pundit, ‘I need to observe your technique for training the bird.’

  He was duly shown the technique. What he saw pleased him greatly. The method was so much more important than the bird that the bird could not be seen at all; it seemed needless to see him. The king realized that the arrangements lacked nothing. There was no grain in the cage, no water, just a mass of pages torn from a mass of books, being stuffed down the bird’s throat by the end of a quill pen. The bird’s song could not be heard of course, for it was too stifled even to scream. It was a thrilling sight, enough to give one goose pimples.

  Now, while mounting his elephant, the king instructed the Chief Ear-puller to tweak the fault-finder thoroughly by the ears.

  6

  Day by day, the bird arrived at a half-dead state, in a civilized fashion. His guardians saw this as a hopeful sign. But still, by natural instinct, the bird would gaze at the morning light and flutter his wings in a way that was unacceptable. In fact, one day he was seen struggling to cut through the bars of his cage with his fragile beak.

  ‘What audacity!’ cried the Kotwal, the law-maker.

  Now the blacksmith appeared in the training quarters, armed with bellows, hammer and fire. How hard he beat the iron! Iron shackles were forged, and the bird’s wings were clipped.

  Gravely shaking their heads, the king’s associates declared: ‘In this kingdom, the birds lack not only brains, but gratitude as well.’

  Now, armed with pen in one hand and rod in the other, the pundits accomplished the dramatic feat called education.