Selected Short Stories

by Rabindranath Tagore

  My eyes filled with tears at the tender, maternal deception played by this young girl on her aged guardian. I sat silently for a long time; when at last hākurdā had finished his story and gone, I went up to his granddaughter with the things I had deceitfully stolen, placed them before her, and left without a word.

  When I saw the old man again, I did praṇām to him (previously, in accordance with modern custom, I had not offered any salutation). He presumably thought this sudden show of respect was prompted by the Lieutenant-Governor’s visit. He excitedly described it to me, and I happily fell in with his account. Others who were there listening knew that it was all made up, but merrily accepted it.

  When everyone had gone I nervously and humbly made a proposal. I said that although my own lineage was in no way comparable to the Babus of Nayanjor, yet…

  When I had finished, the old man clasped me to his breast and said joyfully, ‘I am poor – I never imagined I would have good fortune like this, my friend – my Kusum must have won great merit in heaven for you to favour us now.’ He wept as he spoke. This was the first time that Kailas Babu forgot his duty to his noble ancestors and admitted he was poor, admitted it would not do damage to the house of Nayanjor to accept me. I had plotted to humiliate the old man, while he had longed for me, heart and soul, as the worthiest possible groom for his granddaughter.

  Guest

  I

  Matilal Babu, zamindar of Kathaliya, was returning home with his family by boat. One afternoon he moored the boat near a riverside market so that their meal could be prepared. A Brahmin boy came over and asked, ‘Where are you going, Babu?’ The boy was not more than fifteen or sixteen.

  ‘Kathaliya,’ replied Matilal Babu.

  ‘Could you drop me at Nandigram on the way?’

  Matilal consented. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

  ‘Tarapada,’ said the boy.

  The fair-skinned boy was beautiful to look at. His smile and his large eyes had the grace of youth. His body – bare except for a stained dhoti – was free of any excess: as if lovingly carved by a sculptor, or as if in a previous life he had been a young sage whose pure religious devotion had removed all grossness, honed him to gleaming, Brahminical perfection.

  ‘Come and wash, bābā,’ said Matilal Babu tenderly. ‘You can eat with us.’

  ‘Leave that to me,’ said Tarapada, and without a moment’s hesitation he joined in the cooking. Matilal’s servant was Hindusthani: he was not very good at cutting up fish.1 Tarapada took over, and soon had the dish ready, and had cooked some vegetables too with practised skill. He then took a dip in the river, and, opening his bundle, produced a clean white garment and a small wooden comb. He sleeked his long hair away from his forehead and down to his neck, adjusted his glistening sacred thread, and stepped on to the boat.

  Matilal Babu invited him into the cabin. His wife and his nine-year-old daughter were there. His wife Annapurna was tenderly attracted to the boy when she saw him, and wondered, ‘Whose child is he? Where has he come from? How could his mother bear to abandon him?’ She placed mats for Matilal and the boy to sit on, side by side. The boy was not a big eater. Annapurna felt he must be shy, and tried to get him to eat this or that; but when he had finished, he would not be tempted to more. He clearly did everything according to his own wishes – but with such ease that there was nothing assertive about him. He was not at all shy.

  When everyone had eaten, Annapurna sat him next to her and asked him about his background. She didn’t gather much. All she could establish was that the boy had run away from home of his own volition at the age of seven or eight.

  ‘Isn’t your mother alive?’ asked Annapurna.

  ‘She is,’ said Tarapada.

  ‘Doesn’t she love you?’ asked Annapurna.

  Tarapada seemed to find this question peculiar. ‘Why shouldn’t she love me?’ he said, laughing.

  ‘Then why did you leave her?’ said Annapurna.

  ‘She has four more sons and three daughters,’ said Tarapada.

  Pained by this odd reply, Annapurna said, ‘What a thing to say! Just because I have five fingers, does it mean that I want to chop one off?’

  Tarapada was young, so his life-story was brief; but the boy was a complete original. He was his parents’ fourth son, and was still a baby when his father died. Despite there being so many in the house, Tarapada was the darling of all; mother, brothers, sisters and neighbours doted on him. So much so, that his tutor never beat him – everyone would have been appalled if he had. There was no reason for him to leave. Half-starved boys who constantly stole fruit from trees and were thrashed by the owners of the trees – they never strayed from the village or their scolding mothers! But this darling of everyone joined a touring yātrā-troupe and left his village without a thought.

  Search-parties went out and he was brought back. His mother pressed him to her breast and drenched him with tears; his sisters wept too. His elder brother tried to perform his duty as guardian; but he soon abandoned his feeble attempts at discipline, and welcomed him back with open arms. Women invited him to their houses, plied him with even greater displays of affection. But he would not accept ties, even ties of love: his stars had made him a wanderer. If he saw strange boats on the river, or a sannyāsī from a distant region under the local peepul tree, or if gypsies sat by the river, making mats or wicker baskets, his heart would stir with longing to be free, to explore the outside world. And after he had run away two or three times, family and villagers gave up hope of him.

  Again he joined a yātrā-troupe at first. But when the master of the troupe began to treat him almost as a son, and the members of the troupe, young and old, had all fallen for him – and even the people in the houses where they performed (especially the women) began to make a special fuss of him – one day, without saying a word, he disappeared, and could not be found.

  Tarapada was as wary of ties as a young fawn, and was also like a deer in his love of music.1 The songs of the yātrā were what had first lured him away from home. Melodies sent a trembling through his veins, and rhythms made his body swing. Even as a baby he had shown such solemn, grown-up attention at musical gatherings, sitting and swaying and forgetting himself, that his elders could hardly restrain their amusement. Not only music: when the rains of Śrābaṇ fell on the thick leaves, when the clouds thundered, when the wind moaned in the woods like a motherless demon-child, his heart was swept away. The call of a kite high in the sky in the still heat of noon, the croaking of frogs on rainy evenings, the howling of jackals at night, all entranced him. Impelled by this passion for music, it was not long before he had joined a group of pcāli-singers. The leader of the group carefully taught him songs and trained him to recite pcāli by heart. He too began to love him as his own. Like a pet cage-bird, Tarapada learnt a few songs, and then one morning flew away.

  Finally he joined a troupe of gymnasts. From Jyaistha to Āṣāṛh a fair toured the district. Yātrā-troupes, pcāli-singers, bards, dancers and stallholders travelled by boat from one site to another. For the second year running this round of entertainment included a small gymnastics-troupe from Calcutta. At first Tarapada joined the stallholders – sold pān at the fair. But then his natural curiosity drew him to the wonderful skills of the gymnasts, and he joined their troupe. He had taught himself to play the flute very well: during the gymnastic display he had to play Lucknow thuṃris at top speed on the flute – this was his only task.

  It was from this troupe that he had most recently absconded. He had heard that the zamindars at Nandigram had founded, on a lavish scale, an amateur yātrā-group, so he tied up his bundle and headed for the place, meeting Matilal Babu on the way.

  Despite these connections with various groups, his nature had not been corrupted by any. He was, deep down, entirely detached and free. The foul language he had heard, the dreadful sights he had seen, had not fixed themselves in his mind. They passed him by. He remained unbound by any kind of habit or custom. He swam in
the murky waters of the world with pure white wings, like a swan. However many times his curiosity made him dive in, his wings could not be soaked or soiled. There was a pure and natural innocence in this runaway boy’s expression. So much so, that the worldly-wise Matilal Babu invited him in without doubt or question, and with great tenderness.

  II

  In the afternoon the boat set sail. Annapurna continued to ask the boy kind questions about his home and family; he answered laconically, and then went out on deck to escape. The monsoon river, swollen to maximum fullness, seemed to harry the earth with its reckless turbulence. In the cloudless sunshine, the half-sunk reeds along the bank, the fields of succulent sugar-cane beyond, and the far-off bluey-green woods kissing the horizon, seemed transformed by the touch of a golden wand into new beauty. The speechless sky gazed down in wonder: everything was alive, throbbing, awash with confident light, shiny with newness, bursting with plenty.

  Tarapada took refuge on the roof of the boat in the shade of the sail. Sloping pastures, flooded jute-fields, green, rippling late-autumn paddy, narrow paths leading from the ghāṭs, and villages shaded by encircling foliage, came one by one into view. To this water, earth and sky, this movement of life and sound, these varied levels and vast vistas, to this huge, immovable, mute, unblinking, natural world, the boy was intimately linked. Yet not for a moment did it try to hold him with its loving embrace. Calves running on the banks with tails up-raised; ponies grazing and hopping about with hobbled legs; kingfishers swooping from fishing-net poles to plop into the water to catch fish; boys splashing; women shrilly chatting as they stood chest-deep, floating their saris out in front to rub them clean; fish-wives with baskets, saris tucked up, buying fish from the fishermen: all of this Tarapada watched with unflagging curiosity – never were his eyes sated.

  As he sat, he soon got talking with the helmsman and oarsmen. Sometimes he took the lagi and punted the boat himself. When the helmsman needed a smoke, he would take the tiller; when the sail needed to be turned, he helped skilfully.

  Just before dusk Annapurna called Tarapada and asked, ‘What do you like to eat at night?’

  ‘Whatever I get,’ said Tarapada. ‘I don’t eat every day.’

  She felt disturbed by this beautiful Brahmin boy’s indifference to her hospitality. She longed to feed, clothe and give succour to him. But she could not discover how to please him. She ostentatiously sent her servants to buy milk and sweets: Tarapada ate the sweets willingly enough, but he would not touch the milk. Even the taciturn Matilal urged him to drink it, but he simply replied, ‘I don’t like it.’

  Three days passed. Tarapada expertly joined in everything, from the cooking and shopping to the sailing of the boat. Anything he saw interested him; any work that he did absorbed him. His sight, his hands and his mind were ever-active: like Nature herself he was always serene and detached, yet always busy. People usually dwell in a fixed place, but Tarapada was like a joyous wave on life’s unending stream: past or future meant nothing – moving forward was the only thing that mattered.

  By mixing with various groups, he had learnt all sorts of delightful accomplishments. Things were stamped on his mind with astonishing ease, unclouded as it was by any kind of worry. He knew pcāli, folk-tales, kīrtan, and long pieces from yātrās. Matilal Babu habitually read the Rāmāyaṇa to his wife and daughter. One evening he had just got to the story of Kush and Lab when Tarapada, unable to restrain himself, came down from the roof of the boat and said, ‘Put the book away. I know a song about Kush and Lab – listen!’

  He began a pcāli. Dashu Ray’s verse, sweet as a flute, flowed on swiftly; the helmsman and oarsmen came and peered through the door of the cabin; as dusk fell, a stream of laughter, pathos and music spread through the evening air: the banks became alert, and people in passing boats were lured for a moment and strained their ears to listen. When the pcāli had finished, everyone sighed deeply, wishing it would last forever. The tearful Annapurna longed to take the boy and press him to her breast and bury her face in his hair. Matilal Babu thought, ‘If I could somehow keep this boy, he would make up for my having no son.’ The little girl Charushashi, though, was full of envy and jealousy.

  III

  She was her parents’ only child, sole claimant on their affection. There was no end to her wilfulness and obstinacy. She had her own opinions about food, clothes and hair-styles, but there was no consistency in them. Whenever she was invited out, her mother was terrified that she would make impossible demands over dress. If her hair-style displeased her, to do and redo it made no difference, and merely led to a tantrum. She was like this with everything. But if she was in a good mood, she was amenable to anything – and would show excessive love for her mother, hugging her, kissing her, laughing in an unbalanced way. The girl was a puzzle.

  But now her volatile feelings began to concentrate in fierce animosity towards Tarapada, and she caused exceptional trouble to her parents. At meals she scowled and pushed her plate away: she would complain about the cooking, slap the maid, and object to everything. The more that Tarapada’s accomplishments impressed her and others, the more angry she became. She would not admit that he had any virtues at all; undeniable evidence of them made her even more critical. On the night that Tarapada sang about Kush and Lab, Annapurna thought, ‘Wild animals can be tamed by music, so perhaps my daughter will soften.’

  ‘How did you like it, Charu?’ she asked. She gave no answer, merely tossed her head, implying: ‘I didn’t like it at all and shall never like it.’

  Realizing that Charu was jealous, her mother stopped showing affection for Tarapada in front of her. After dark, when Charu had gone to bed after eating early, Annapurna would sit by the door of the cabin and Matilal Babu and Tarapada would sit outside, and at Annapurna’s request Tarapada would sing. With his singing, the goddess of the sleeping, darkened homes on the bank would sink into a trance, and Annapurna’s heart swelled with love and appreciation. But Charu would get up and shout tearfully and angrily, ‘Mother, I can’t get to sleep with this noise!’ She found it quite unbearable to be sent to bed on her own while her parents sat and listened to Tarapada singing.

  The natural fierceness of this fiery black-eyed girl fascinated Tarapada. He would tell her stories, sing her songs, play her the flute, make great efforts to win her round – but with no success at all. Only in the afternoons when he bathed in the swollen river, sporting his fair, pure body in a swimming display worthy of a young water-god – only then could she not help being attracted just a little bit. She would watch him then. But she didn’t reveal her interest to anyone, and – born actress that she was – carried on knitting a woollen scarf with apparent indifference to Tarapada’s water-sports.

  IV

  Tarapada took no notice of Nandigram when they passed it. The large boat – sometimes with its sails up, sometimes towed – proceeded slowly on down rivers and tributaries, and the days of the passengers too flowed with a soft and easy pace through the peace and beauty of the scene. No one was in any kind of hurry; long afternoons were spent bathing and eating; and as soon as dusk fell the boat was moored at a village ghāṭ, by trees buzzing with crickets and aglow with fireflies.

  After about ten days of this the boat arrived at Kathaliya. Ponies and a palanquin were sent from the house to receive the zamindar; a guard of honour (with bamboo lāṭhis) fired rounds of blanks – raucously echoed by the village crows.

  Meanwhile Tarapada slipped off the boat and quickly looked round the village. Calling one villager Dādā, another Khuṛā, another Didi, and another Māsī, he established friendly relations with everyone in a couple of hours. Because he had no normal ties, he could get to know people with amazing ease and speed. Within a few days he had won all hearts.

  He mixed with everyone on equal terms. He was unconventional, yet able to adapt to any situation or work. With boys he was a boy, yet somehow separate and special; with older people he was not a boy, yet not too precocious either; with herders h
e was a herder, yet also a Brahmin. He joined in with things as if used to them all his life. He’d be chatting in the sweet-shop: the sweet-maker would say, ‘Could you mind the shop for a while? I shan’t be long.’ Cool as a cucumber, Tarapada sat there keeping the flies off the sandeś with a śāl-leaf. He could even make sweets himself, knew something of weaving, and was not completely ignorant of how to turn a potter’s wheel.

  Tarapada reigned over the whole village; there was just one young girl whose hatred he simply could not overcome. Perhaps it was because this girl so fiercely wished him to leave that he stayed on so long. But Charushashi now proved how hard it is to fathom even a juvenile female mind.

  Bāmunṭhākrun’s1 daughter Sonamani had been widowed at the age of five; she was Charu’s playmate. She had been ill for a while, and had not been able to go out to see her friend. When she was recovered and came to see her again, a rift between them came about for almost no reason.

  Charu had been speaking at length about Tarapada: she hoped, by saying what a precious asset he was, to astonish and intrigue her friend. But when she discovered he was known to Sonamani, that he called Bāmunthākrun Māsī and that Sonamani called him Dādā; when she heard that he not only treated mother and daughter to kīrtan-tunes on his flute but had, at Sonamani’s request, made her a bamboo flute; that he’d picked her fruits from high branches and flowers from thorny ones; when she heard all this, darts of fire stabbed her. She had thought of Tarapada as their Tarapada – guarded closely, so that ordinary people might glimpse him yet never be able to grasp him: they would admire his beauty and talents from a distance, and Charushashi’s family would gain glory thereby. Why should Sonamani have such easy contact with this singular, divinely favoured Brahmin boy? If Charu’s family had not taken him in, had not looked after him so, how would Sonamani ever have seen him? Sonamani’s Dādā indeed! She burned all over at the thought.