Selected Short Stories

by Rabindranath Tagore

  The other day I was writing my diary,1 now and then looking dreamily out at the road, when there was a sudden uproar. I went over to the window and saw a crowd of people round the gypsy encampment: amongst them there was a prosperous-looking type brandishing a lāṭhi and abusing them luridly. The gypsy-leader was standing and trying in a very meek and frightened way to explain himself. I realized he was suspected of something, so the police constable had come to make a fuss. His wife was sitting and calmly peeling bamboo-canes, as if she was sitting alone and there was nothing untoward going on. But suddenly she stood up, went up fearlessly to the constable, waved her arms and began to berate him at the top of her voice. At once the constable’s confidence diminished by about 75 per cent: he tried feebly to say something, but she didn’t give him a chance. He had to beat a retreat in a manner very different from that in which he had come. From a distance he shouted, ‘I warn you, you’d better clear off from here.’ I assumed that my gypsy neighbours would have to roll up their mats and stakes and shift from here with their children and pigs. But there is no sign of that; they are still here, serenely peeling bamboo, cooking and serving food, and picking head-lice.

  I see many things through my open window. I’m intrigued by them all, but some of them are especially haunting. I can’t bear to watch people loading up bullocks with impossible burdens and then stabbing at them with sticks to make them move. This morning I saw a woman taking her naked, skinny little boy to the canal-water to give him a wash. It’s terribly cold today; when she stood the child in the water and poured it over him, he wept and wailed piteously – and he had a dreadful hacking cough. His mother then gave him such a heavy slap on the cheek that I could hear it clearly inside my room. The boy bent over with his hands on his knees and shuddered with sobs – his cough was choking his weeping. The woman then dragged the soaked, naked, shivering child back home. This incident struck me as devilishly cruel. The boy was so small – my own son’s age. A scene like this strikes a heavy blow at one’s ideal of man – it really makes one’s faith stumble. Little children are so helpless – if they are treated unjustly their innocent distress and wails simply annoy their cruel tormentors even more. They don’t know how to defend themselves. The woman had come well wrapped up against the cold, and the boy didn’t have a stitch on – and he had a cough, and he had such a beating from her!

  5. ciṭhipatra, Vol. V, Letter No. 12, Shelidah, 19 December 1892, to Pramatha Chaudhuri1

  Bhāi Pramatha,

  I got your letter yesterday, but because I was busy with a poem I wasn’t able to reply immediately. I find it very difficult to write good letters to order. Writing articles is easy – the pen can range unhindered over a whole subject. But in letters everything has to be expressed in hints and gestures and delicate touches of feeling – it’s almost like writing poetry. But where is there the time to write letters like that? At one time I found letter-writing a joy, and maybe I was able to give joy by writing them; but the kind of adolescent indolence that is required is no more. Now everything has to be dashed off quickly. Yet so many ideas crowd my mind. Sometimes my mind feels carefree and light and fluttery, and then letters float up like coloured soap-bubbles. But when I spend all day in heavy, arduous, worldly work, then my fingers get so blunted that I can’t toss off fine artistic work easily – it takes me a long time to do it. Poem-writing has been my addiction all my life: sometimes when the craving for it comes over me, then if I am not able to write my whole mind becomes unbalanced and life becomes unbearable; but I can’t get the necessary time! I keep thinking I can polish off all my tasks quickly and then sit down and concentrate on my poetry in serene seclusion; but every day and every month new tasks present themselves. There’s no one who can give me any help: so I just have to grit my teeth and do it all – and it’s work that has to be done thoughtfully and slowly and patiently. Yet it’s not real work: all the things that I really want to do are having to be pushed aside and postponed to some unspecified future date. There are also many duties I’m neglecting, and complaints from my family to put up with, and every day a sense of frustration and dissatisfaction with myself. But there’s a kind of moral idealism in me that makes me patiently bear all the duties that pile themselves on to my shoulders. Whatever duties my circumstances dictate have to be borne and carried out. So every month I bow my head and write things for sādhanā, and every day I attend dutifully to all the petty responsibilities of a zamindar. Do you imagine I get any pleasure from this? Today even the letters I write are a kind of duty. I feel harassed a lot of the time, but I think that on the whole this is the best way of life for me. Flying about on a winged horse called Imagination is not very healthy exercise for a mind like mine!

  6. chinnapatrābalī, Letter No. 98, Shelidah, 16 May 1893, to Indira Devi

  At half past six yesterday afternoon, fresh and clean after a bath, I walked for an hour or so on the sandbank by the river; then I rowed out on the river in our new dinghy; then spread out my bedding in it and lay silently in the evening darkness in the cool breeze of evening. Sh——1sat near by and chatted on about various things. The sky above my eyes was absolutely studded with stars. Almost every day I wonder: shall I ever be born again under this starry sky? Shall I ever, in this beautiful corner of Bengal, be able to spread out my bedding in my dinghy in such a serene and absorbed frame of mind, in the still Gorai river, on an evening as calm as this? Perhaps I shall never get back such an evening again, in any future life. Who knows how the scene will be changed, or with what sort of mind I shall be born. I may experience many evenings, but will they ever, so calmly, let their hair fall on my breast with such deep love? For how can I be the same man again? It’s strange that my greatest fear is of being born in Europe – because in Europe there is never any chance to bare one’s soul so loftily; or if one does, people are very critical. I’d probably have to slave away in some factory or bank or parliament. Just as the city streets there are hard and paved, so that horses and vehicles can pass and trade can go on, so the mind and character have to be solidly constructed so as to be suitable for business – with not the tiniest place for soft grass or a superfluous creeper to lodge. A stiff, durable sort of mind, clipped and hammered into shape by strict laws. Truly, I don’t see this impractical, self-absorbed, free-roving mind of mine, with its love of Imagination, as anything to be ashamed of. As I lie in the dinghy, I don’t consider myself less important than all the more practical people in the world. On the contrary, if I rolled up my sleeves and worked like them, then I would consider myself inferior – inferior to all those big, stereotyped, regimented people! But does this make a besotted young man like me, lying in a dinghy, greater than, say, Rammohan Roy?1

  7. chinnapatrābalī, Letter No. 102, Shelidah, 3 July 1893, to Indira Devi

  All last night a fierce wind was howling like a street-dog – and the rain too was incessant. Water from the fields was rushing and gurgling towards the river from all sides in little streams. As they brought the cut paddy back from the sandbank opposite, crossing over in the rain-sodden ferry-boat, some of the farmers wore large straw hats, others held kacu-leaves over their heads. The helmsman was soaked as he sat on the loaded boat, rudder in hand, while sopping boatmen heaved sacks on to the shore. Even in such terrible weather the world’s work has to go on. Birds huddle in their nests, but men and boys have to go out. In front of my boat there were two herd-boys: the cows they were grazing made a crunching sound as they filled their mouths with fresh, rain-washed, juicy green grass; their eyes were calm and tender as they swished the flies off their backs with their tails. Rain fell on their backs continuously, and the sticks of the herd-boys too: both were completely uncalled-for and unjust and unnecessary, yet they bore both without complaint or question, and went on munching. The gaze of these cows was so loving and deep and calm and mournful. Why should human burdens be piled on the backs of these splendid animals, through no wish of their own?

  The river is rising higher every day. Almost eve
rything that could be seen only from the roof of the boat the day before yesterday can now be seen if I sit at the window. Every morning I get up and see that the shore of the river has receded further. For a long time I saw only the tops of the distant village trees, like a leafy green cloud; now I see the whole of them. Bank and water have gradually edged towards each other like two shy lovers: the line that modesty draws has become so indistinct that they have almost melted into each other. I shall enjoy sailing along this rain-swelled overflowing river – I’m eager to untie the rope and set off.

  8. cithipatra, Vol. V, Letter No. 12A, Sajadpur, 23 July 1893, to Pramatha Chaudhuri

  Bhāi Pramatha,

  I’m gradually getting cut off from friends and acquaintances. I can’t say why. It’s certainly my own fault. My nature is perhaps getting more and more shy and self-absorbed: I’m coming to believe that instead of being swung all the time by the interest and sympathy of others, I would rather find stability – if not pleasure – in remaining alone and immersed in my own self. But when all’s said and done, man is not just a work-machine; contact with others is highly desirable, and in the absence of warm companionship my enthusiasm for work has greatly diminished. One can’t take on for long the task of patching the world’s torn coat – especially if one has to do this on one’s own, and if one’s fate is to receive more abuse than praise for this unpaid work. It’s best to admit as much: my skin is not like a rhino’s – slander and discouragement hurt me, perhaps, more than the average man. I need smiles, kind comments, a little bit of praise and encouragement to strengthen and nourish my mind! I have for the present abandoned hope of alms from my master, and am eager to escape from his service. Your humble servant is taking a break from his efforts to improve the world! I have a longing to take the oil with which I have been anointing the feet of that ungrateful animal called the ‘public’, and sniff it myself to send me to sleep for a while. Then, perhaps, I shall wake again and return to massaging its feet. I tell you frankly: I set out expecting to be successful. I did not have any doubt on that score, or think myself unfit – but I’ve had to admit defeat. You are so far away from the battlefield that my victories and defeats, hope and disappointments must seem insignificant to you – I don’t mind if you laugh at them.

  I gather you are all now in the mountains. I sometimes feel like accepting your hospitality, but there are one or two obstacles: above all, after a month away from my family, I miss them, and to turn north instead of south from Kaligram would be hard for me. If I go home for a while, it will be easier to travel after that. But at the moment my financial circumstances are so bad that even the small expense of going to Darjeeling will be difficult. I hear that Loken1 will join you in a week or so’s time. So you are fixed there for some time yet. But when will you come down from the mountains?

  Yes, I’ve noticed that kakṣa meaning ‘house’ is used in several places in Kādambarī2 and in a couple of other Sanskrit texts. I’m progressing slowly with Kādambarī. I’ve got through a couple of hundred pages – there are as many pages left. It’s very late and I’ve burbled on to you for too long, so goodbye now.

  9. chinnapatrābalī, Letter No. 149, Sajadpur, 5 September 1894, to Indira Devi

  After sitting in the boat for so long it’s good to arrive at the Sajadpur house. There are big windows and doors: light and air can come in unimpeded from all sides. I’m looking out at the green branches of trees and listening to the sound of bird-song. As soon as you go out on to the southern verandah the scent of kāminī-flowers hits you, filling every pore. I suddenly realize how hungry I was for wide open space, now that I am here and can take my fill of it. I am the sole occupant of four huge rooms – I sit with all the doors open. Here my mood for writing and desire to write are like nowhere else. A living influence from the world outside opens all doors and enters freely: light and sky and air and sounds and scents and the green ripple of the trees and my rapturous mood – all combine to create many stories. At midday, especially, there is something deeply magical about this place. The warmth of the sun, the stillness, the emptiness, the calls of the birds (especially the crows), and long and delightful leisure together make me detached yet keenly sensitive. I feel, somehow, that in this golden noon sunshine an Arab tale could be made: a Persian or Arab landscape – Damascus, Samarkand, or Bokhara; bunches of grapes, rose-gardens, nightingales singing, wine from Shiraz, desert paths, lines of camels, horsemen and travellers, clear fountains shaded by date-palms; towns, with narrow streets shaded by awnings, shopkeepers in turbans and loose robes lining the roads and selling melons and pomegranates; huge palaces, with the scent of incense inside and enormous cushions and embroidered silks by the windows; ladies of the harem dressed in gold-embroidered slippers and billowy pyjamas, curling hubble-bubble pipes snaking round their feet; Negro eunuchs in gorgeous robes keeping guard at the door; and in that mysterious, unknown, distant land, in those opulent, marvellous, beautiful yet awesome palaces, thousands of probable and improbable stories made from human hopes and fears and laughter and tears!

  My noons at Sajadpur are the best time for writing stories. I remember at exactly this time, sitting at this table, I thought up and then wrote ‘The Postmaster’. I wrote, and the light and air all around, and the murmurings of the leaves, added their own language. There are few pleasures as great as that of composing something exactly as one wishes, submerging oneself completely in the scene all around. This morning I was writing a piece about nursery-rhymes – chaṛā – I got completely absorbed in it: a great joy.1 chaṛā belong to their own separate realm in which there are no rules or laws – a misty realm. Unfortunately the material world, in which rules and laws have much greater influence, is always creeping up behind me. While I was writing, there was a sudden uproar from the office, and my misty realm was blown away – and all my time up till lunch was taken up.

  There is nothing more calculated to induce inertia than a heavy meal at midday: our imaginative powers and higher aspirations are completely killed by it. Because Bengalis eat so much at midday, they cannot enjoy the intense beauty of that hour: instead they shut the door and smoke, or chew pān and complacently settle down for a nap – and become extremely glossy and fat as a result. But a peaceful, secluded afternoon amidst the boundless, monotonous, flat, wheat-fields of Bengal conveys a greater and deeper stillness than is found anywhere else. Even in my childhood, the afternoon moved me especially. I would sit reading on my own, on a curved settee, with the warm breeze blowing through the open door, and no one on the roof outside. I filled those long hours with so many dreams, so many unspoken yearnings!

  10. chinnapatrāalī, Letter No. 153, ‘on the boat to Dighapatiya’,1 20 September 1894, to Indira Devi

  Over the far side of the river the water-level has been going down, but on this side it’s still rising.2 I’m getting to know it better wherever I go. Huge trees, their trunks under water, stand with branches drooping into the water. Right in the midst of the shady gloom of banyan and banana trees, boats are moored and villagers bathe. Huts are dotted around in the streaming water, their yards completely submerged. No sign of the fields – just the tips of rice-plants poking out of the water. I’ve lost count of all the lakes, ditches, rivers and canals I’ve sailed through. After swishing through a paddy-field the boat suddenly entered a village pond, where there was no more paddy, but patches of lotus with white flowers blooming and black cormorants diving for fish. Next, we were in a small river: paddy-fields on one bank, and on the other a village surrounded by dense bushes, with fast streams of water snaking through them. Water enters wherever it’s convenient: you’ve never seen land so utterly vanquished. Villagers move by sitting in large earthenware bowls, using pieces of split bamboo as oars – there are no banks or paths at all. If the water rises any more it will enter their homes – then they’ll have to fix up a scaffold and live on their roofs. The cattle will die after standing knee-deep in water all the time, with no grass left for them to eat. Snakes will deser
t their flooded holes and seek refuge on the roofs of houses, and all the beetles and bugs and reptiles of the area, too, will look for human company. The villages here are shaded all round by jungle – its leaves and creepers and bushes go rotten in the water. Refuse from houses and cowsheds floats about; rotten, stinking jute turns the water blue; naked sickly children with swollen bellies and skinny legs jump and splash and wallow in the water and mud; clouds of mosquitoes buzz over fetid, stagnant water. Altogether the villages here become so unhealthy and uncomfortable during the monsoon that it makes one feel ill even to pass them. It’s awful to see the womenfolk in their sopping saris rolled up to their knees, wading through water like patient beasts in the chilly monsoon air and pouring rain. I can’t imagine how people can keep going at all in such difficult and wretched conditions. In every household people are plagued by rheumatism; their legs swell up; they catch colds and fevers; sick children howl and wail incessantly – nothing can save them, and one by one they die. Such neglect and unhealthiness and squalor and poverty and barbarism in human habitations are terrible to see. The villagers are victims of every kind of oppression: they have to endure the ravages of Nature and of landlords – and no one dares to question the age-old processes that create such unbearable misery. They ought to flee this kind of existence completely – there is no pleasure or beauty or advantage in it at all.