Selected Short Stories

by Rabindranath Tagore

  Many months passed. Nirupama sent messenger after messenger, but her father never appeared. In the end she took offence, and stopped sending. This grieved Ramsundar sorely, but he still would not go to her. The month of Āśvin came. ‘This year I shall bring Nirupama home for the pūjā or else!’ he said to himself, making a fierce vow.

  On the fifth or sixth day of the pūjā-fortnight, Ramsundar once again tied a few notes into the end of his chadar and got ready to go out. A five-year-old grandson came and said, ‘Grandpa, are you going to buy a cart for me?’ For weeks he had set his heart on a push-cart to ride in, but there had been no way of meeting his wish. Then a six-year-old granddaughter came and said tearfully that she had no nice dress to wear for the pūjā. Ramsundar knew that well, and had brooded over it for a long time as he smoked. He had sighed to think of the women of his household attending the pūjā celebrations at the Raybahadur’s house like paupers receiving charity, wearing whatever miserable ornaments they had; but his thoughts had no result other than making the old man’s lines on his forehead even deeper.

  With the cries of his poverty-stricken household ringing in his ears, Ramsundar arrived at the Raybahadur’s house. Today there was no hesitation in his manner, no trace of the nervous glances with which he had formerly approached the gatekeeper and servants: it was as if he was entering his own house. He was told that the Raybahadur was out – he would have to wait a while. But he could not hold back his longing to meet his daughter. Tears of joy rolled down his cheeks when he saw her. Father and daughter wept together; neither of them could speak for some moments. Then Ramsundar said, ‘This time I shall take you, my dear. Nothing can stop me now.’

  Suddenly Ramsundar’s eldest son Haramohan burst into the room with his two small sons. ‘Father,’ he cried, ‘have you really decided to turn us out on the streets?’

  Ramsundar flared up. ‘Should I condemn myself to hell for your sakes? Won’t you let me do what is right?’ He had sold his house: he had gone to great lengths to conceal the sale from his sons, but to his anger and dismay it appeared that they had found out all the same. His grandson clasped him round his knees and looked up, saying, ‘Grandpa, haven’t you bought me that cart?’ When he got no answer from the now crestfallen Ramsundar, the little boy went up to Nirupama and said, ‘Auntie, will you buy me a cart?’

  Nirupama had no difficulty in understanding the whole situation. ‘Father,’ she said, ‘if you give a single paisa more to my father-in-law, I swear solemnly you will never see me again.’

  ‘What are you saying, child?’ said Ramsundar. ‘If I don’t pay the money, the shame will be forever on my head – and it will be your shame too.’

  ‘The shame will be greater if you pay the money,’ said Nirupama. ‘Do you think I have no honour? Do you think I am just a money-bag, the more money in it the higher my value? No, Father, don’t shame me by paying this money. My husband doesn’t want it anyway.’

  ‘But then they won’t let you come and see me,’ said Ramsundar.

  ‘That can’t be helped,’ said Nirupama. ‘Please don’t try to fetch me any more.’

  Ramsundar tremblingly pulled his chadar – with the money tied into it – back round his shoulders, and left the house like a thief again, avoiding everyone’s stare.

  It did not, however, remain a secret that Ramsundar had come with the money and that his daughter had forbidden him to hand it over. An inquisitive servant, a listener at keyholes, passed the information on to Nirupama’s mother-in-law, whose malice towards her daughter-in-law now went beyond all limits. The household became a bed of nails for her. Her husband had gone off a few days after their wedding to be Deputy Magistrate in another part of the country. Claiming that Nirupama would be corrupted by contact with her relatives, her in-laws now completely forbade her from seeing them.

  She now fell seriously ill. But this was not wholly her mother-in-law’s fault. She herself had neglected her health dreadfully. On chilly autumn nights she lay with her head near the open door, and she wore no extra clothes during the winter. She ate irregularly. The servants would sometimes forget to bring her any food: she would not then say anything to remind them. She was forming a fixed belief that she was herself a servant in the household, dependent on the favours of her master and mistress. But her mother-in-law could not stand even this attitude. If Nirupama showed lack of interest in food, she would say, ‘What a princess she is! A poor household’s fare is not to her liking!’ Or else she would say, ‘Look at her. What a beauty! She’s more and more like a piece of burnt wood.’

  When her illness got worse, her mother-in-law said, ‘It’s all put on.’ Finally one day Nirupama said humbly, ‘Let me see my father and brothers just once, Mother.’

  ‘Nothing but a trick to get to her father’s house,’ said her mother-in-law.

  It may seem unbelievable, but the evening when Nirupama’s breath began to fail was when the doctor was first called, and it was the last visit that he made too.

  The eldest daughter-in-law in the household had died, and the funeral rites were performed with appropriate pomp. The Raychaudhuris were renowned in the district for the lavishness with which they performed the immersion of the deity at the end of Durgā-pūjā, but the Raybahadur’s family became famous for the way Nirupama was cremated: such a huge sandalwood pyre had never been seen. Only they could have managed such elaborate rites, and it was rumoured that they got rather into debt as a result.

  Everyone gave Ramsundar long descriptions of the magnificence of his daughter’s death, when they came to condole with him. Meanwhile a letter from the Deputy Magistrate arrived: ‘I have made all necessary arrangements here, so please send my wife to me quickly.’ The Raybahadur’s wife replied, ‘Dear son, we have secured another girl for you, so please take leave soon and come home.’

  This time the dowry was 20,000 rupees, cash down.

  Housewife

  When we were two years or so below the scholarship class, our teacher was Shibanath. He was clean-shaven, with closely cropped hair except for a short pigtail. The very sight of him scared boys out of their wits. In the animal world, creatures that sting do not bite. Our teacher did both. His blows and slaps were like hailstones pounding saplings, and his sarcasm, too, burnt us to the core.

  He complained that the relationship between pupils and teacher was not what it was in times past; that pupils no longer revered their teacher like a god. Then he would hurl his power down on to our heads, like a slighted god, roaring thunderously; but his roaring was mixed with so many coarse words that no one could have taken it for a thunderbolt. His ordinary Bengali appearance, too, belied the noise he made, so no one confused this god of the second stream of the third year with Indra, Chandra, Varuna or Kartik. There was only one god like him: Yama, god of death; and after all these years there is no harm in admitting that we often wished he would go, there and then, to Yama’s home. But clearly no god can be more malevolent than a man-god. The immortal gods cause nowhere near so much trouble. If we pick a flower and offer it to them, they are pleased; but they do not harass us if we don’t offer it. Human gods demand far more; if we fall the slightest bit short, they swoop, red-eyed with fury, not at all godlike to look at.

  Our teacher had a weapon for torturing boys that sounds trivial but which was actually terribly cruel. He would give us new names. Although a name is nothing but a word, people generally love their names more than their own selves; they will go to tremendous lengths to further their names; they are willing to die for them. If you distort a man’s name, you strike at something more precious than life itself. Even if you change someone’s ugly name to a pretty one – ‘Lord of ghosts’, say, to ‘Lotus-lover’ – it’s unbearable. From this we derive a principle: that the abstract is worth more to us than the material, fees to the goldsmith seem dearer than gold, honour means more than life, one’s name more than one’s self.

  Because of this deep law of human nature, Shashishekhar (‘Moon-crown’) was intense
ly distressed when Shibanath gave him the name ‘Bhetaki’ (‘Flat-fish’). His misery was doubled by the knowledge that the name was precisely pointed at his looks; yet all he could do was sit quietly and suffer silently.

  Ashu was given the name ‘Ginni’ (‘Housewife’), but there was a story behind this.

  Ashu was the goody-goody of the class. He never complained to anyone: he was very shy – maybe he was younger than the others. He smiled gently at anything that was said to him; he studied hard; many were keen to make friends with him, but he never played with any other boy, and as soon as we were released from class he would go straight home. At one o’clock every day a servant-girl would bring him a few sweets wrapped up in a leaf, and a little bell-metal pot of water. Ashu was very embarrassed by this; he could not wait for her to go home again. He did not want his classmates to think of him as anything more than a schoolboy. The people at home – his parents, brothers and sisters – everything about them was very much a private matter, which he did his utmost to conceal from the boys at school.

  So far as his studies were concerned he could not be faulted in any way, but every now and then he was late to school and could give no good answer when Shibanath questioned him. His disgrace on these occasions was appalling: the teacher made him stand by the steps to the building, bent double with his hands on his knees. His misery and shame were thus displayed to four whole classes of boys.

  A day’s holiday came (to mark an eclipse). The next day Shibanath took his place on his stool as usual and, looking towards the door, saw Ashu entering the class with his slate and school-books wrapped in an ink-stained cloth. He was even more hesitant than usual.

  ‘Here comes the Housewife!’ said Shibanath, laughing drily. Later, when the class was over, just before he dismissed the boys, he called out, ‘Listen to this, everyone.’

  It was as if the whole of Earth’s gravity were dragging young Ashu down, but all he could do was sit with his legs and the end of his dhoti dangling down from the bench, while all the boys stared at him. There were many years to come in Ashu’s life, many days of joy, sorrow and shame more significant than this – but none could compare with what his young heart suffered on this occasion. Yet the background to it was very ordinary, and can be explained in a very few words.

  Ashu had a little sister. She had no friend or cousin of her own age, so Ashu was her only playmate. Ashu’s home had a covered porch, with a gate and railings in front. The holiday had been cloudy and very wet. The few people who continued to pass by, shoes in their hands, umbrellas over their heads, were in too much of a hurry to look round. Ashu played all day with his sister, seated on the steps of the porch, while clouds darkened the sky and the rain pattered.

  It was the wedding-day of his sister’s doll. Ashu was giving solemn and scrupulous instructions to his sister about the preparations for the wedding. A problem then arose about who would be the priest. The little girl suddenly jumped up, and Ashu heard her ask someone, ‘Please, will you be the priest at my doll’s wedding?’ Turning round, he saw a bedraggled Shibanath standing under the porch, folding his wet umbrella. He had been walking along the road, and had taken shelter from the rain there. It was Shibanath whom the little girl had asked to be priest at her doll’s wedding.

  Ashu dashed straight into the house when he saw him, abandoning the game and his sister. His holiday had been utterly ruined.

  This was what Shibanath described with withering amusement the following day, to account for his calling Ashu ‘Housewife’ in front of everyone. At first the boy smiled gently, as he did to everything he heard, and tried to join in a little with the merriment all around him. But then one o’clock struck, the classes were dismissed, the servant-girl from home was standing at the gate with two sweets in a śāl-leaf and some water in a shining bell-metal pot, and Ashu’s smile gave way to a deep red blush around his face and ears. The veins in his aching forehead began to throb; he could no longer hold back the flood of tears in his eyes.

  Shibanath took a light meal in his rest-room, and settled down for a smoke. The boys danced round Ashu, boisterously chanting, ‘Housewife, housewife!’ He realized that to play with your little sister on a school holiday was the most shameful thing in the world, and he could not believe that people would ever forget what he had done.

  Little Master’s Return

  I

  Raicharan was twelve when he first came to work in the house. He was from Jessore district and had long hair and large eyes; a slender boy with gleaming dark skin. His employers, like him, were Kaisthas. His main duty was to help with looking after their one-year-old son – who in time progressed from Raicharan’s arms to school, from school to college, and from college to being munsiff in the local court. Raicharan had remained his servant. But now there was a mistress as well as a master in the household, and most of the rights that Raicharan had hitherto had over Anukul Babu passed to her.

  Although his former responsibilities were diminished by her presence, she largely replaced them with a new one. A son to Anukul was soon born, and was won over completely by the sheer force of Raicharan’s devotion. He swung him about with such enthusiasm, tossed him in the air with such dexterity, cooed and shook his head in his face so vigorously, chanted so many meaningless random questions for which there could be no reply, that the very sight of Raicharan sent the little master into raptures.

  When the boy learnt to crawl stealthily over a door-sill, giggling with merriment if anyone tried to catch him, and speedily making for somewhere safe to hide, Raicharan was entranced by such uncommon skill and quickness of decision. He would go to the child’s mother and say admiringly, ‘Mā, your son will be a judge when he grows up – he’ll earn a fortune.’ That there were other children in the world who could at this young age dart over a door-sill was beyond Raicharan’s imagination; only future judges could perform such feats. His first faltering steps were amazing too, and when he began to call his mother ‘Ma’, his pisimā ‘Pishi’, and Raicharan ‘Channa’, Raicharan proclaimed these staggering achievements to everyone he met. How astonishing it was that he should not only call his mother ‘Ma’, his aunt ‘Pishi’, but also Raicharan ‘Channa’! Really, it was hard to understand where such intelligence had sprung from. Certainly no adult could ever show such extraordinary intelligence, and people would be unsure of his fitness to be a judge even if he could.

  Before long, Raicharan had to put a string round his neck and pretend to be a horse; or he had to be a wrestler and fight with the boy – and if he failed to let himself be defeated and thrown to the ground, there would be hell to pay. By now, Anukul had been transferred to a Padma river district. He had brought a push-chair from Calcutta for his son. Raicharan would dress him in a satin shirt, gold-embroidered cap, golden bangles and a pair of anklets, and take the young prince out in his push-chair twice a day for some air.

  The rainy season came. The Padma began to swallow up gardens, villages and fields in great hungry gulps. Thickets and bushes disappeared from the sandbanks. The menacing gurgle of water was all around, and the splashing of crumbling banks; and swirling, rushing foam showed how fierce the river’s current had become.

  One afternoon, when it was cloudy but did not look like rain, Raicharan’s capricious young master refused to stay at home. He climbed into his push-chair and Raicharan gingerly pushed it to the river-bank beyond the paddy-fields. There were no boats on the river, no people working in the fields: through gaps in the clouds, the sun could be seen preparing with silent fiery ceremony to set behind the deserted sandbanks across the river. Suddenly peace was broken by the boy pointing and calling, ‘Fowers, Channa, fowers!’ A little way off there was a huge kadamba tree on a wet, muddy stretch of land, with some flowers on its upper branches: these were what had caught the boy’s attention. (A few days previously, Raicharan had strung some flowers on to sticks and made him a ‘kadamba-cart’; he had had such fun pulling it along with a string that Raicharan did not have to put on reins that day
– an instant promotion from horse to groom.)

  ‘Channa’ was not very willing to squelch through the mud to pick the flowers. He quickly pointed in the other direction and said, ‘Look, look at that bird – flying – now it’s gone. Come, bird, come!’ He pushed the chair forward fast, burbling on in this way. But it was futile to try to distract by so simple a device a boy who would one day become a judge – especially as there was nothing particular to attract his attention anywhere, and imaginary birds would not work for very long. ‘All right,’ said Raicharan, ‘you sit in the chair and I’ll get you the flowers. Be good now, don’t go near the water.’ Tucking his dhoti up above his knees, he headed for the kadamba tree.

  But the fact that he had been forbidden to go near the water immediately attracted the boy’s mind away from the kadamba-flowers and towards the water. He saw it gurgling and swirling along, as if a thousand wavelets were naughtily, merrily escaping to a forbidden place beyond the reach of some mighty Raicharan. The boy was thrilled by their mischievous example. He gently stepped down from his chair, and edged his way to the water. Picking a long reed, he leant forward, pretending the reed was a fishing-rod: the romping gurgling wavelets seemed to be murmuring an invitation to the boy to come and join their game.

  There was a single plopping sound, but on the bank of the Padma river in monsoon spate many such sounds can be heard. Raicharan had filled the fold of his dhoti with kadamba-flowers. Climbing down from the tree, he made his way back towards the push-chair, smiling – but then he saw that the child was not there. Looking all around, he saw no sign of him anywhere. His blood froze: the universe was suddenly unreal – pale and murky as smoke. A single desperate cry burst from his breaking heart: ‘Master, little master, my sweet, good little master!’ But no one called out ‘Channa’ in reply, no childish mischievous laugh came back. The Padma went on rushing and swirling and gurgling as before, as if it knew nothing and had no time to attend to the world’s minor occurrences.