Selected Short Stories

by Rabindranath Tagore

  Why was the Charu who had tried to strike the boy down with arrows of hatred so anxious to claim sole rights over him? Understand this who will.

  Later that day Charu had a serious rift with Sonamani over another trivial matter. She marched into Tarapada’s room, found his beloved flute, and callously jumped and stamped on it. She was still doing so when Tarapada came in. He was amazed by the image of destruction that the girl presented.

  ‘Charu, why are you smashing my flute?’ he asked.

  ‘I want to smash it! I’m going to smash it!’ shouted Charu with red eyes and flushed face; and, stamping unnecessarily on the already smashed flute, she burst into loud sobs and ran from the room. Tarapada picked up the pieces, turned them this way and that, but it was useless. To wreak destruction on his old, innocent flute was so absurd that he burst out laughing. Charushashi intrigued him more every day.

  He was also intrigued by the English illustrated books in Matilal Babu’s library. Tarapada had considerable knowledge of the world, but he could not enter the world of these pictures at all. He tried to do so in his imagination, but found no satisfaction in this. Seeing his interest in these books, Matilal said one day, ‘Would you like to learn English? You’ll understand these pictures then.’

  ‘I would like to learn it,’ he replied at once.

  Matilal Babu happily engaged the headmaster of the village secondary school – Ramratan Babu – to teach the boy English each evening.

  V

  Tarapada set about learning English with great concentration and retention. It released him into a hitherto inaccessible realm, unconnected with his former world. The local people saw no more of him; at dusk, when he went to the empty riverside to pace swiftly up and down reciting his lessons, his boyish devotees mournfully watched from a distance; they dared not disturb his studies.

  Charu too did not see much of him now. Formerly Tarapada ate in the women’s quarters, under Annapurna’s loving gaze; but because this could take a long time he asked Matilal Babu to arrange for him to eat outside them. Annapurna was hurt by this and objected, but Matilal was so pleased by Tarapada’s keenness to learn that he agreed to the new arrangement.

  Charu now insisted that she too wanted to learn English. At first her parents were amused by their wayward daughter’s new idea, lovingly laughed at it; but its absurdity was soon washed away by tears. Doting parents that they were, they were forced to give in, and she started to study alongside Tarapada with the same tutor.

  Study, however, was alien to her restless nature. She learned nothing herself – merely disrupted Tarapada’s learning. She fell far behind, couldn’t learn anything by heart, but couldn’t bear to be behind! If Tarapada overtook her and moved on to a new lesson, she was furious and burst into tears. When he finished an old book and bought a new one, she had to buy the new book too. In his spare time he would sit in his room learning and writing his lessons: the jealous girl couldn’t stand this – she would secretly come and pour ink on his exercise-book, steal his pen, even tear from the book the passage he had been set to learn. Tarapada bore most of this with amusement: if she went too far he slapped her, but he was quite unable to control her.

  A chance occurrence saved him. One day, truly annoyed, he tore up his ink-spilled exercise-book and sat gloomily. Charu came to the door, and prepared herself for a beating. But nothing happened: Tarapada went on sitting in silence. The girl went in and out of the room. Several times she came so close that Tarapada could, if he had wished, easily have thwacked her on the back. But he did not do that, and remained solemn. The girl was in a quandary. How to ask for forgiveness was something she had never learnt; yet she was extremely anxious for forgiveness. Finally, seeing no other way, she took a piece of the torn exercise-book, sat down next to Tarapada and wrote in large round letters, ‘I will never pour ink on your exercise-book again.’ She then made elaborate efforts to attract his attention. At this Tarapada could not contain himself any more, and he burst out laughing. The girl dashed from the room, overcome with shame and anger. Only if she had been able to expunge from all time the paper on which she had humbled herself, would her fury have been eased.

  During this period Sonamani had once or twice, with her heart in her mouth, lurked outside the lesson-room. She was close to her friend Charushashi in most matters, but with regard to Tarapada she feared and distrusted her. At moments when Charu was in the women’s quarters, she would stand timidly outside Tarapada’s door. He would look up from his book and say tenderly, ‘What is it, Sona, what’s up? How is Māsī?’ Sonamani would say, ‘You haven’t been to see us for a long time – Mother wishes you would sometime. She has backache, so she can’t come to you.’

  Charu would perhaps now appear. Sonamani was flustered: she felt like a thief. Charu would scowl and shriek at her, ‘Well, Sona – coming to disturb our studies! I’ll tell my father!’ As if she herself was Tarapada’s guardian, whose sole object was to watch him day and night in case his studies were disturbed! But God was not unaware of what her actual motive was in coming to Tarapada’s room at this odd time, and Tarapada also knew it well. Poor Sonamani fumbled for false explanations; when Charu venomously called her a liar she withdrew, sick at heart, defeated. The kindly Tarapada would call her and say, ‘Sona, I’ll come to your house this evening.’ Charu hissed back like a snake, ‘How can you go? What about your lessons? I’ll tell Māṣṭārmaśāy!’

  Undaunted by Charu’s threat, Tarapada spent a couple of evenings at Bāmunthākrun’s house. On the third day Charu, without further warning, quietly bolted his door; and, fetching the padlock from her mother’s spice-box, locked him in. She kept him prisoner for the whole evening, only opening the door when it was time to eat. Tarapada was angrily silent, and was about to go out without eating. Then the passionate, overwrought girl clasped her hands and cried out repeatedly, ‘I promise you – cross my heart – that I won’t do it again. Please, I beg you, eat before you go!’ When even this had no effect she began to wail, and he was forced to turn back and eat.

  Charu many times promised herself that she would behave properly towards Tarapada, that she would not annoy him again; but when Sonamani and others turned up it put her into such a rage that she could not control herself. If she was good for a few days, Tarapada would steel himself for another tempest. No one could say how the attack would come or on what grounds. There would be a mighty storm, and floods of tears to follow, and after that peace and affection again.

  VI

  Almost two years passed like this. Tarapada had never moored himself to anyone for so long. Maybe his studies had a hold on him; or maybe he was changing as he grew up, and a stable existence in a comfortable house had more appeal than before. Maybe the beauty of his study-companion – even if she had been constantly bad-tempered – was exerting unconscious influence.

  Meanwhile Charu had reached the age of eleven. Matilal Babu had sought out two or three good marriage-offers. Now that she had reached marriageable age, he placed a ban on English books and outside visits. She kicked up a terrible fuss at these new restrictions.

  Then one day Annapurna called Matilal and said, ‘Why search outside for a groom? Tarapada would make a fine husband. And your daughter likes him.’

  Matilal Babu was astonished at this suggestion. ‘That’s impossible,’ he said. ‘We don’t know anything about his family. She’s my only daughter: I want to marry her well.’

  Some people came from the zamindar’s house at Raydanga to look at the girl. Efforts were made to dress Charu up: she shut herself in her room and refused to come out. Matilal Babu begged and rebuked her from outside, but without result. Finally he had to lie to the delegation from Raydanga: his daughter had suddenly fallen ill, and could not be seen today. They assumed from this lame excuse that the girl had some kind of defect.

  Matilal Babu started to reflect that Tarapada was indeed good to look at, good in every outward aspect; he could keep him at home, so his only daughter would not have to go t
o someone else’s house. He realized that his truculent daughter’s foibles, which he and his wife could smile at, would not be received so well by in-laws.

  After lengthy discussion, Matilal and Annapurna sent a man to Tarapada’s village to find out about his family. The information came that it was poor, but high-caste. Matilal Babu then sent a marriage-proposal to the boy’s mother and brothers. They were well-pleased, and agreed to it at once.

  Back at Kathaliya, Matilal and Annapurna discussed the day and hour of the wedding, but the naturally cautious Matilal kept the whole matter secret.

  Charu, though, could not be restricted. She sometimes burst into Tarapada’s room like a cavalry-charge, disturbing his studies with crossness, eagerness or scorn. Sometimes, detached and independent though he was, he felt a strange stirring in his heart at this, a sort of electrical impulse. Till now he had floated lightly and serenely without impediment on Time’s stream: sometimes now he was snared by strange distracting day-dreams. He would leave his studies and go into Matilal Babu’s library and flick through the pages of the illustrated books; the imaginary world which he mixed with these pictures was much changed – much more highly-coloured than before. He could not laugh at Charu’s strange behaviour quite as he had done in the past. When she was bad he never thought of beating her now. This deep change, this powerful feeling of attraction, was like a new dream.

  Matilal Babu fixed the wedding for the month of Śrābaṇ, and sent word to Tarapada’s mother and brothers; but he did not inform Tarapada himself. He told his moktār in Calcutta to hire a trumpet-and-drum band, and he ordered everything else that would be needed for the wedding.

  Early monsoon clouds formed in the sky. The village-river had been dried up for weeks; there was water only in holes here and there; small boats lay stuck in these pools of muddy water, and the dry river-bed was rutted with bullock-cart tracks. But now, like Parvati returning to her parents’ home, gurgling waters returned to the empty arms of the village: naked children danced and shouted on the river-bank, jumped into the water with voracious joy as if trying to embrace the river; the villagers gazed at the river like a dear friend; a huge wave of life and delight rolled through the parched village. There were boats big and small with cargoes from far and wide; in the evenings the ghāṭ resounded with the songs of foreign boatmen. The villages along the river had spent the whole year confined to their own small worlds: now, with the rains, the vast outside world had come in its earth-coloured watery chariot, carrying wondrous gifts to the villages, as if on a visit to its daughters. Rustic smallness was temporarily subsumed by pride of contact with the world; everything became more active; the bustle of distant cities came to this sleepy region, and the whole sky rang.

  Meanwhile at Kurulkata, on the Nag family estate, a famous chariot-festival was due to be held. One moonlit evening Tarapada went to the ghāt and saw, on the swift flood-tide, boats with merry-go-rounds and yātrā-troupes, and cargo-boats rapidly making for the fair. An orchestra from Calcutta was practising loudly as it passed; the yātrā-troupe was singing to violin accompaniment, shouting out the beats; boatmen from lands to the west split the sky with cymbals and thudding drums. Such excitement! Then clouds from the east covered the moon with their huge black sails; an east wind blew sharply; cloud after cloud rolled by; the river gushed and swelled; darkness thickened in the swaying riverside trees; frogs croaked; crickets rasped like wood-saws. To Tarapada the whole world seemed like a chariot-festival: wheels turning, flags flying, earth trembling, clouds swirling, wind rushing, river flowing, boats sailing, songs rising! There were rumbles of thunder, and slashes of lightning in the sky: the smell of torrential rain approached from the dark distance. But Kathaliya village next to the river ignored all this: she shut her doors, turned out her lamps and went to sleep.

  The following morning Tarapada’s mother and brothers arrived at Kathaliya; and that same morning three large boats from Calcutta, laden with things for the wedding, moored at the zamindar’s ghāt; and very early, that same morning, Sonamani brought some mango-juice preserve1 in paper and some pickle wrapped in a leaf, and timidly stood outside Tarapada’s room – but Tarapada was not to be seen. In a cloudy monsoon night, before love and emotional ties could encircle him completely, this Brahmin boy, thief of all hearts in the village, had returned to the unconstraining, unemotional arms of his mother Earth.

  Wishes Granted

  Subalchandra’s son was called Sushilchandra. But people do not always suit their names.1 Subalchandra was not strong, and Sushilchandra was not very well-behaved. He would go around annoying all the people of the neighbourhood. His father tried to chase after him, but he had rheumatism in his legs and the boy could run like a deer; so the cuffs, blows and slaps did not always fall in the right places. But whenever Sushilchandra was caught, he did not get off lightly.

  Today was Saturday and school stopped at two o’clock, but Sushilchandra did not want to go to school at all. There were many reasons for this. One was that today there was to be a geography test; another was that tonight there was to be a firework display at the Boses’ house near by. The preparations had started in the morning. Sushil wanted to spend the day there.

  After a lot of thought, he lay down on his bed when it was time to go to school. His father Subal asked him, ‘What’s this? Lying on your bed? Aren’t you going to school?’

  ‘I’ve got a stomach-ache,’ said Sushil, ‘I can’t go to school today.’

  ‘Just you wait!’ said Subal to himself, seeing right through him, and went on: ‘Then you’d better not go out anywhere. I’ll send Hari to watch the Boses’ fireworks. I had bought some toffee for you today; you’d better not eat that either. You stay here quietly, and I’ll make some herbal medicine for you.’

  Bolting the door, he went and prepared an extremely bitter herbal medicine. Sushil was in a fix: he hated medicine quite as much as he loved toffee. He had been looking forward ever since yesterday night to going to the Boses’ house, and now it was ruled out.

  When Subal Babu returned to the room with a large bowl of medicine, Sushil jumped up from his bed saying, ‘My stomach-ache is completely gone – I’ll go to school.’

  ‘Out of the question,’ said Subal. ‘Drink the medicine and rest quietly.’ He forced him to drink the medicine and went out again, locking the door with a padlock.

  As he lay on the bed weeping, Sushil kept thinking, ‘If only I could be as old as Father! I could do as I liked and no one would be able to stop me!’

  His father Subal was sitting alone outside the room and thinking, ‘My parents spoilt me so – I never did any proper study. If only I could have my childhood back, I wouldn’t waste any time – I’d do nothing but school work.’

  The Goddess of Desires1 was passing by at that time. Seeing what father and son desired, she decided, ‘Right – let their wishes be granted for a while.’ So she said to the father, ‘Your wish is fulfilled. From tomorrow you will be as young as your son.’ To the boy she said, ‘From tomorrow you will be as old as your father.’ They were both delighted.

  The elderly Subalchandra did not sleep well at night – he used to fall asleep towards dawn. But today what happened? He woke up bright and early, and positively sprang out of bed. He found he was very small; all his lost teeth had been restored; his beard and moustache had vanished. The dhoti and shirt he had gone to sleep in were so loose and baggy that the sleeves practically reached the floor, the neck reached down to his chest, and the bottom of the dhoti drooped so low that he tripped on it.

  Sushilchandra normally got up early and ran around making mischief, but today he didn’t wake up. When he was roused by Subalchandra’s shouting, he found his clothes were so tight that they were in danger of bursting at the seams. His body had expanded all round; half his face was hidden by a pepper-and-salt beard; and when he felt his head, which formerly had a full shock of hair, he found a gleaming bald patch. He did not want to get out of bed. He yawned noisily, rolled over to this side
and that; and at last – greatly annoyed by his father’s shouts – he staggered to his feet.

  Both had had their wishes fulfilled; but with very awkward consequences. Earlier I said that Sushilchandra had thought that if he could be big and free like his father Subalchandra, he would climb trees as he pleased, jump into water, eat green mangoes, grab bird-chicks, and wander all over the fields. He would come home and eat when he liked, and no one would be able to stop him. But the extraordinary thing was that when he woke up this morning he had no wish to climb trees. When he saw the pond he felt he would catch his death of cold if he jumped into it. Instead, he spread out a mat on the verandah, and quietly sat down to think.

  He decided that it would not be good to give up games completely; he ought to have a go. So he tried several times to climb an āmṛā tree. The day before he would have climbed it as nimbly as a squirrel; but now with his old body he couldn’t climb it at all. A slender branch low down broke under his weight and he thudded to the ground. Passers-by burst out laughing at the sight of an old man climbing a tree like a boy and falling. Hanging his head in shame, Sushilchandra returned to the mat on the verandah.

  Calling the servant he said, ‘Hey, go and buy me a rupee’s worth of toffee!’ He had a passion for toffee. There were various kinds displayed in a shop near the school; he bought them with the few odd paisa he got as pocket-money – and was determined that when he had money like his father he would stuff his pockets full of sweets and eat them all the time! Today the servant brought him a whole bagful: he took one, put it into his toothless mouth, and started to suck – but a child’s sweets are not right at all for an old man. ‘My father is now a little boy, so he can have them,’ he thought to himself; but then he thought, ‘No, I can’t do that – it will make him ill to eat so many.’