“Nonsense, my friend. Saints do not die so easily,” he remarked, and laughed as usual, releasing me from his embrace. “Saints live very long, you know.”
“Then you mean he must be in India now?”
“Of course, a swami, like one of those thousands in your country, maybe receiving the homage of innocent people, sitting under a tree, a hasid. How much his thaumaturgical powers, healing people – maybe even bring back the cadaver to life – ten rupee a dead body, how do you like that?”
“Maybe not.”
“And again, being an inventor, I am sure he could invent for the good Hindu, a machine gun, a bomb, a nonviolent atom bomb, to kill without killing, your wicked neighbour of Pakistan–”
“Now, now, Michel, don’t be so facetious. Why has no one written about him?”
“The only man who might have written about him is – would have been – Papa Buber. But he wouldn’t have approved of this devotee of Gandhi –”
“Why not?”
“Because Gandhi was against the Jew.”
“Nonsense. Gandhi was against no man. Never.”
“But you know what Gandhi said to Buber. The Poles who fought against the Germans and the Russins were sort of non-violent, but we, the Jews, who did not fight, we were – I don’t know what he called us –”
“The jews went to their death in prayer,” I said, “in pure non-violence, non-violence. The true Jews, I mean, I honour them for their truth.”
“Like uncle Dinka.”
“Wonderful.”
“Then go and speak that to your Indians. Tell them the true Gandhians, the Jews of Poland, of Brikenau, the true, the true” and Michel stood up against the mantelpiece, as if in grave contemplation of the dying fire.
Then coming straight at me, and holding me by the lapel, he shouted: “The jews love God – love God, you know, and with passion.”
“But, but,” I remarked, smiling, “Gods need man to be.”
“or, man needs God–”
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“It’s not the same. Man invented a superman – thus sprach Zarathustra. Heil Gott!”
“Yes.”
“So, man made God.”
“What then the answer, Brahmin sir?” He became suddenly polite again.
“The nondual – pure Liberty.”
“La Foutaise,” he spat, looking down with contempt. “The non cannot exist with Nous. That much even I know.”
“You must realize, Michel, we invent language.”
“I know. Don’t I Remember I am in linguistics. Anyway, give me an example.”
“Like God, Dieu, etc, etc.”
“Yahweh,” he pronounced, intrepid.
“Isvara, in Sanskrit.”
“Not the same,” he declared decisively. “Imagine Abraham speaking Sanskrit or Manu speaking Hebrew. Impossible!”
“I am sure Manu would happily sprach Hebrew”
“But Abraham will never sprach Sanskrit.”
“Yet Isaac is to be saved. The impossible will be made possible. That’s where your God is. You crawled out of the dead, Michel. But I, want to crawl out into –”
“into – ?”
“I do not know what.”
“Into eternity!”
“No, Michel, that still smells time.”
“Then Heaven?”
“That smells Hell.”
“A saint, then?”
“Never, I have a horror of good men. Or for that matter of good women – and by your leave, may I say, like Suzanne….”
“But evil, then,?”
“Evil, the non-recognition of the nondual.”
“You see, there’s duality then,”
“But tell me, dear, dear Michel -”
“Yes, dear, dear Siv-”
‘-in your non-recognitions is there cognition- or nicht!”
“Yes, there is.”
“Then is not the cognition of the non-cognition the dissolution of cognition.”
“Into what?”
“Into knowledge, of course. To what else!”
“But then, Siv, my friend, how to get there then? That is the question.” He put his hand warmly on my shoulder this time. We were getting somewhere.
“Yes, of course, that’s the question of questions.”
Then he walked toward the window and stood there gazing intently at the garden, shimmering with the evening breezes. And suddenly turning back, he asked : “What is eveil then?”
“A lesser good,” and he seemed so under shock, I added, “en une facon on de parler.”
“Well, well. If evil then the lesser good, where, sir, does less come from? Once again the non in the Nous, the fish in the water.”
“It’s all a metaphor – a metaphor, just a way of looking at things.”
“For–”
“For, from the Plenum, you see, there’s nothing but the good.”
“Oh!”
“And not our good at that!”
“Beyond good and evil, then. From there you go straight to the madhouse in Basel. And finally end up on the Berlin bunker, this time with St.Eva. Oh, my poor, poor friend,” he said in compassionate irony. I shuddered.
“Every jew is an Isaac. The lamp may not appear. So God eats man. The potato is born,” I said deliberately, and in utter desperation.
“Oh, mon pauvre Ivan.”
“Quel Ivan?” I said looking straight at him, angry.
“Of course, Ivan Karamazov,” and both laughed together.
“And you, Michel, are you Alyosha then?”
“Every, Jew an Alyosha – but, but, minus chastity, please!”
“Le mal c’est le limitrophe du bien.”
“Oh, you benighted Hindus!”
“Not so bad,” I retorted, angry again at his superciliousness.
“We had Hitler,” he spat finally.
“We had Ravana.” He now looked at me, smiling, stretching out his hands. He had understood something then and there. So peace had happened.
And I left him there and went over to have a wash. I was exhausted. It was getting late. And I had to be back home.
Rabindranath Tagore
4 The Cabuliwallah
My five-year old daughter Mini cannot live without chattering. I really believe that in all her life she has not wasted a minute in silence. Her mother is often vexed at this, and would like to stop her prattle, but I would not. For Mini to be quiet is unnatural, and I cannot bear it long. And so my own talk with her is always lively.
One morning, for instance, when I was in the midst of the seventeenth chapter of my new novel, my little Mini stole into the room, and putting her hand into mine, said: “Father! Ramdayal, the door-keeper, calls a crow a krow! He doesn’t know anything, does he?”
Before I could explain to her the difference between one language and another in this world, she had embarked on the full tide of another subject. “What do you think, Father? Bhola says there is an elephant in the clouds, blowing water out of his trunk, and that is why it rains!”
And then, darting off anew, while I sat still, trying to think of some reply to this: “Father! What relation is Mother to you?”
With a grave face I contrived to say: “Go and play with Bhola, Mini! I am busy!”
The window of my room overlooks the road. The child had seated herself at my feet near my table, and was playing softly, drumming on her knees. I was hard at work on my seventeenth chapter, in which Pratap Singh, the hero, has just caught Kanchanlata, the heroine, in his arms, and is about to escape with her by the third-storey window of the castle, when suddenly
Mini left her play, and ran to the window, crying: ‘A Cabuliwallah! A Cabuliwallah!’ And indeed, in the street below, there was a Cabuliwallah, walking slowly along. He wore the loose, soiled clothing of his people, and a tall turban; he carried a bag on his back, and boxes of grapes in his hand.
I cannot tell what my daughter’s feelings were when she saw this man, but she beg
an to call him loudly. ‘Ah!’ thought I; ‘he will come in, and my seventeenth chapter will never be finished!’ At that very moment the Cabuliwallah turned, and looked up at the child. When she saw this, she was overcome by terror, and running to her mother’s protection, disappeared. She had a blind belief that inside the bag, which the big man carried, there were perhaps two or three other children like herself. The pedlar meanwhile entered my doorway and greeted me with a smile.
So precarious was the position of my hero and my heroine that my first impulse was to stop and buy something, since Mini had called the man to the house. I made some small purchases, and we began to talk about Abdur Rahman, the Russians, the English, and the Frontier Policy.
As he was about to leave, he asked: ‘And where is the little girl, sir?’
And then, thinking that Mini must get rid of her false fear, I had her brought out.
She stood by my chair, and looked at the Cabuliwallah and his bag. He offered her nuts and raisins, but she would not be tempted, and only clung closer to me, with all her doubts increased.
This was their first meeting.
A few mornings later, however, as I was leaving the house, I was startled to find Mini, seated on a bench near the door, laughing and talking, with the great Cabuliwallah at her feet. In all her life, it appeared, my small daughter had never found so patient a listener, save her father. And already the corner of her little sari was stuffed with almonds and raisins, the gift of her visitor. ‘Why did you give her those?’ I said, and taking out an eight-anna piece, I handed it to him. The man accepted the money without demur, and put it into his pocket.
Alas, on my return, an hour later, I found the unfortunate coin had made twice its own worth of trouble! For the Cabuliwallah had given it to Mini; and her mother, catching sight of the bright round object, had pounced on the child with: ‘Where did you get that eight-anna piece?’
‘The Cabuliwallah gave it me,’ said Mini cheerfully.
‘The Cabuliwallah gave it you!’ cried her mother greatly shocked. ‘O Mini! How could you take it from him?’
I entered at that moment, and saving her from impending disaster, proceeded to make my own inquiries.
It was not the first or the second time, I found, that the two had met. The Cabuliwallah had overcome the child’s first terror by a judicious bribe of nuts and almonds, and the two were now great friends.
They had many quaint jokes, which amused them greatly. Mini would seat herself before him, look down on his gigantic frame in all her tiny dignity, and with her face rippling with laughter would begin:
‘O Cabuliwallah! Cabuliwallah! What have you got in your bag?’.
And he would reply, in the nasal accents of the mountaineer: ‘An elephant!’ Not much cause for merriment, perhaps; but how they both enjoyed the fun! And for me, this child’s talk with a grown-up man had always in it something strangely fascinating.
Then the Cabuliwallah, not to be behindhand would take his turn: ‘Well, little one, and when are you going to your father-in-law’s house?’
Now nearly every small Bengali maiden had heard long ago about her father-in-Iaw’s house; but we were a little newfangled, and had kept these things from our child, so that Mini at this question must have been a trifle bewildered. But she would not show it, and with ready tact replied: ‘Are you going there?’
Amongst men of the Cabuliwallah’s class, however, it is well known that the words father-in-laws house have a double meaning. It is a euphemism for jail, the place where we are well cared for, at no expense to ourselves. In this sense would the sturdy pedlar take my daughter’s question. ‘Oh,’ he would say, shaking his fist at an invisible policeman, ‘I will thrash my father-in-law!’ Hearing this, and picturing the poor discomfited relative, Mini would go off into peals of laughter in which her formidable friend would join.
These were autumn mornings, the very time of year when kings of old went forth to conquest; and I, without stirring from my little corner in Calcutta, would let my mind wander over the whole world. At the very name of another country, my heart would go out to it, and at the sight of a foreigner in the streets, I would fall to weaving a network of dreams – the mountains, the glens, and the forests of his distant land, with his cottage in their midst, and the free and independent life, or far away wilds. Perhaps scenes of travel are conjured up before me and pass and repass in my imagination all the more vividly, because I lead an existence so like a vegetable that a call to travel would fall upon me like a thunderbolt. In the presence of this Cabuliwallah, I was immediately transported to the foot of arid mountain peaks, with narrow little defiles twisting in and out amongst their towering heights. I could see the string of camels bearing the merchandise, and the company of turbaned merchants, some carrying their queer old firearms, and some their spears, journeying downward towards the plains. I could see but at some such point Mini’s mother would intervene, and implore me to ‘beware of that man.’
Mini’s mother is unfortunately very timid. Whenever she hears a noise in the streets, or sees people coming towards the house, she always jumps to the conclusion that they are either thieves, or drunkards, or snakes, or tigers, or malaria, or cockroaches, or caterpillars. Even after all these years of experience, she is not able to overcome her terror. So she was full of doubts about the Cabuliwallah, and used to beg me to keep a watchful eye on him.
If I tried to laugh her fear gently away, she would turn round seriously, and ask me solemn questions:
Were children never kidnapped?
Was it not true that there was slavery in Cabul?
Was it so very absured that this big man should be able to carry off a tiny child?
I urged that, though not impossible, it was very improbable. But this was not enough, and her dread persisted. But as it was a very vague dread, it did not seem right to forbid the man the house, and the intimacy went on unchecked.
Once a year, in the middle of January, Rahman, the Cabuliwallah, used to return to his own country, and as the time approached, he would be very busy, going from house to house collecting his debts. This year, however, he could always find time to come and see Mini. It might have seemed to a stranger that there was some conspiracy between the two, for when he could not come in the morning, he would appear in the evening.
Even to me it was a little startling now and then, suddenly to surprise this tall, loose-garmented man laden with his bags, in the corner of a dark room; but when Mini ran in smiling, with her ‘O Cabuliwallah! Cabuliwallah!’ and the two friends, so far apart in age, subsided into their old laughter and their old jokes, I felt reassured.
One morning, a few days before he had made up his mind to go, I was correcting proof-sheets in my study. The weather was chilly’. Through the window the rays of the sun touched my feet, and the slight warmth was very welcome. It was nearly eight o’clock, and early pedestrians were returning home with their heads covered. Suddenly I heard an uproar in the street, and, looking out saw Rahman being led away bound between two policemen, and behind them a crowd of inquisitive boys. There were bloodstains on his clothes, and one of the policemen carried a knife. I hurried out, and stopping them, inquired what it all meant. Partly from one, partly from another, I gathered that a certain neighbour had owed the pedlar something for a Rampuri shawl, but had denied buying it and that in the course of the quarrel Rahman ‘had struck him. Now, in his excitement, the prisoner began calling his enemy all sorts of names, when suddenly in the verandah of my house appeared my little Mini, with her usual exclamation: ‘O Cabuliwallah! Cabuliwallah!’ Rahman’s – face lighted up as he turned to her. He had no bag under his arm today, so that she could not talk about the elephant with him. She therefore at once proceeded to the next question: ‘Are you going to your father-in-law’s house?’ Rahman laughed and said: ‘That is just where I am going, little one!’ Then seeing that the reply did not amuse the child, he held up his fettered hands. ‘Ah!’ he said, ‘I would have thrashed that old father-in-law, bu
t my hands are bound!’
On a charge of murderous assult, Rahman was sentenced to several years’ imprisonment.
Time passed, and he was forgotten. Our accustomed work in the accustomed place went on, and the thought of the once free mountaineer spending his years in prison seldom or never occurred to us. Even my light-hearted Mini, I am ashamed to say, forgot her old friend. New companions filled her life. As she grew older, she spent more of her time with girls. So much, indeed, did she spent with them that she came no more, as she used to do, to her father’s room, so that I rarely had any opportunity of speaking to her.
Years had passed away. It was once more autumn, and we had made arrangements for our Mini’s marriage. It was to take place during the Puja holidays. With Durga returning to Kailas, the light of our home also would depart to her husband’s house, and leave her father’s in shadow.
The morning was bright. After the rains, it seemed as though the air had been washed clean and the rays of the sun looked like pure gold. So bright were they that they made even the sordid brick-walls of our Calcutta lanes radiant. Since early dawn the wedding-pipes had been sounding, and at each burst of sound my own heart throbbed. That wail of the tune, Bhairavi, seemed to intensify the pain I felt at the approaching separation. My Mini was to be married that night.
From early morning noise and bustle had pervaded the house. In the courtyard there was the canopy to be slung on its bamboo poles; there were chandeliers with their tinkling sound to be hung in each room and verandah. There was endless hurry and excitement. I was sitting in my study, looking through the accounts, when someone entered, saluting respectfully, and stood before me. It was Rahman, the Cabuliwallah. At first I did not recognize him. He carried no bag, his long hair was cut short and his old vigour seemed to have gone. But he smiled, and I knew him again.
‘When did you come, Rahman?’ I asked him. ‘Last evening,’ he said, ‘I was released from jail.’
The words struck harshly upon my ears. I had never before talked with one, who had wounded his fellow-man, and my heart shrank within itself when I realized this; for I felt that the day would have been better-omened had he not appeared.
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