“KABULIWALA”
- Rabindranath Tagore
My five years' 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 stop her prattle, but I would not. To see Mini 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 doorkeeper calls a crow a krow! He doesn't know
anything, does he?"
Before I could explain to
her the differences of language in this world, she was 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 making ready some reply to this last saying,
"Father! what relation is Mother to you?"
"My dear little
sister in the law!" I murmured involuntarily to myself, but with a grave
face contrived to answer: "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, where Protrap Singh, the hero, had just caught Kanchanlata, the
heroine, in his arms, and was about to escape with her by the third story
window of the castle, when all of a sudden Mini left her play, and ran to the
window, crying, "A Kabuliwallah! a Kabuliwallah!" Sure enough in the
street below was a Kabuliwallah, passing slowly along. He wore the loose soiled
clothing of his people, with a tall turban; there was a bag on his back, and he
carried boxes of grapes in his hand.
I cannot tell what were
my daughter's feelings at the sight of this man, but she began to call him
loudly. "Ah!" I thought, "he will come in, and my seventeenth
chapter will never be finished!" At which exact moment the Kabuliwallah turned,
and looked up at the child. When she saw this, overcome by terror, she fled to
her mother's protection, and 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 smiling face.
So precarious was the
position of my hero and my heroine, that my first impulse was to stop and buy
something, since the man had been called. I made some small purchases, and a conversation
began about Abdurrahman, the Russians, the English, and the Frontier Policy.
As he was about to leave,
he asked: "And where is the little girl, sir?"
And I, thinking that Mini
must get rid of her false fear, had her brought out.
She stood by my chair,
and looked at the Kabuliwallah and his bag. He offered her nuts and raisins,
but she would not be tempted, and only clung the closer to me, with all her
doubts increased.
This was their first
meeting.
One morning, however, not
many days later, 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
Kabuliwallah 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
bit, I handed it to him. The man accepted the money without demur, and slipped
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 Kabuliwallah 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 bit? "
"The Kabuliwallah
gave it me," said Mini cheerfully.
"The Kabuliwallah
gave it you!" cried her mother much shocked. "Oh, Mini! how could you
take it from him?"
I, entering at the
moment, saved her from impending disaster, and proceeded to make my own
inquiries.
It was not the first or
second time, I found, that the two had met. The Kabuliwallah had overcome the
child's first terror by a judicious bribery of nuts and almonds, and the two
were now great friends.
They had many quaint
jokes, which afforded them much amusement. Seated in front of him, looking down
on his gigantic frame in all her tiny dignity, Mini would ripple her face with
laughter, and begin: "O Kabuliwallah, Kabuliwallah, 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 witticism! And for me,
this child's talk with a grown-up man had always in it something strangely fascinating.
Then the Kabuliwallah,
not to be behindhand, would take his turn: "Well, little one, and when are
you going to the father-in-law's house?"
Now most small Bengali
maidens have heard long ago about the father-in-law's house; but we, being a
little new-fangled, had kept these things from our child, and 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
Kabuliwallah's class, however, it is well known that the words father-in-law's
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. "Ah," 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, never 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 home, with his cottage in its setting, and the free and independent
life of far-away wilds.
Perhaps the scenes of
travel conjure themselves up before me, and pass and repass in my imagination
all the more vividly, because I lead such a vegetable existence, that a call to
travel would fall upon me like a thunderbolt.
In the presence of this
Kabuliwallah, 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, carrying some of their queer old firearms, and some of their
spears, journeying downward towards the plains. I could see--but at some such
point Mini's mother would intervene, imploring me to "beware of that
man."
Mini's mother is
unfortunately a very timid lady. Whenever she hears a noise in the street, 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, or an English sailor. Even after all these years
of experience, she is not able to overcome her terror. So she was full of
doubts about the Kabuliwallah, and used to beg me to keep a watchful eye on
him.
I tried to laugh her fear
gently away, but then she would turn round on me seriously, and ask me solemn
questions.
Were children never
kidnapped?
Was it, then, not true
that there was slavery in Kabul?
Was it so very absurd
that this big man should be able to carry off a tiny child?
I urged that, though not
impossible, it was highly improbable. But this was not enough, and her dread
persisted. As it was indefinite, however, 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 Rahmun, the Kabuliwallah, was in the habit of returning to his
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 would have seemed to an outsider 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, in the corner of a dark room, suddenly to
surprise this tall, loose-garmented, much bebagged man; but when Mini would run
in smiling, with her, "O! Kabuliwallah! Kabuliwallah!" and the two
friends, so far apart in age, would subside 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 my proof sheets in my
study. It was chilly weather. Through the window the rays of the sun touched my
feet, and the slight warmth was very welcome. It was almost eight o'clock, and
the early pedestrians were returning home, with their heads covered. All at
once, I heard an uproar in the street, and, looking out, saw Rahmun being led
away bound between two policemen, and behind them a crowd of curious boys.
There were blood-stains on the clothes of the Kabuliwallah, and one of the
policemen carried a knife.
Hurrying out, I stopped
them, and enquired 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 falsely denied having bought it, and that in the course of the
quarrel, Rahmun had struck him. Now in the heat of his excitement, the prisoner
began calling his enemy all sorts of names, when suddenly in a verandah of my
house appeared my little Mini, with her usual exclamation: "O
Kabuliwallah! Kabuliwallah!" Rahmun's face lighted up as he turned to her.
He had no bag under his arm today, so she could not discuss the elephant with
him. She at once therefore proceeded to the next question: "Are you going
to the father-in-law's house?" Rahmun laughed and said: "Just where I
am going, little one!" Then seeing that the reply did not amuse the child,
he held up his fettered hands. " Ali," he said, " I would have
thrashed that old father-in-law, but my hands are bound!"
On a charge of murderous
assault, Rahmun was sentenced to some years' imprisonment.
Time passed away, and he
was not remembered. The accustomed work in the accustomed place was ours, 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 time indeed did she spend with them that
she came no more, as she used to do, to her father's room. I was scarcely on
speaking terms with 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 was to depart to her husband's house, and leave her
father's in the shadow.
The morning was bright.
After the rains, there was a sense of ablution in the air, and the sun-rays
looked like pure gold. So bright were they that they gave a beautiful radiance even
to the sordid brick walls of our Calcutta lanes. Since early dawn to-day the
wedding-pipes had been sounding, and at each beat my own heart throbbed. The
wail of the tune, Bhairavi, seemed to intensify my pain at the approaching
separation. My Mini was to be married to-night.
From early morning noise
and bustle had pervaded the house. In the courtyard the canopy had to be slung
on its bamboo poles; the chandeliers with their tinkling sound must be hung in
each room and verandah. There was no end of hurry and excitement. I was sitting
in my study, looking through the accounts, when some one entered, saluting
respectfully, and stood before me. It was Rahmun the Kabuliwallah. At first I
did not recognise him. He had no bag, nor the long hair, nor the same vigour
that he used to have. But he smiled, and I knew him again.
"When did you come,
Rahmun?" I asked him.
"Last evening,"
he said, "I was released from jail."
The words struck harsh
upon my ears. I had never before talked with one who had wounded his fellow,
and my heart shrank within itself, when I realised this, for I felt that the
day would have been better-omened had he not turned up.
"There are
ceremonies going on," I said, "and I am busy. Could you perhaps come
another day?"
At once he turned to go;
but as he reached the door he hesitated, and said: "May I not see the
little one, sir, for a moment?" It was his belief that Mini was still the
same. He had pictured her running to him as she used, calling "O
Kabuliwallah! Kabuliwallah!" He had imagined too that they would laugh and
talk together, just as of old. In fact, in memory of former days he had
brought, carefully wrapped up in paper, a few almonds and raisins and grapes,
obtained somehow from a countryman, for his own little fund was dispersed.
I said again: "There
is a ceremony in the house, and you will not be able to see any one
to-day."
The man's face fell. He
looked wistfully at me for a moment, said "Good morning," and went
out. I felt a little sorry, and would have called him back, but I found he was
returning of his own accord. He came close up to me holding out his offerings
and said: "I brought these few things, sir, for the little one. Will you
give them to her?"
I took them and was going
to pay him, but he caught my hand and said: "You are very kind, sir! Keep
me in your recollection. Do not offer me money!--You have a little girl, I too
have one like her in my own home. I think of her, and bring fruits to your
child, not to make a profit for myself."
Saying this, he put his
hand inside his big loose robe, and brought out a small and dirty piece of
paper. With great care he unfolded this, and smoothed it out with both hands on
my table. It bore the impression of a little band. Not a photograph. Not a
drawing. The impression of an ink-smeared hand laid flat on the paper. This
touch of his own little daughter had been always on his heart, as he had come
year after year to Calcutta, to sell his wares in the streets.
Tears came to my eyes. I
forgot that he was a poor Kabuli fruit-seller, while I was--but no, what was I
more than he? He also was a father. That impression of the hand of his little
Parbati in her distant mountain home reminded me of my own little Mini.
I sent for Mini
immediately from the inner apartment. Many difficulties were raised, but I
would not listen. Clad in the red silk of her wedding-day, with the sandal
paste on her forehead, and adorned as a young bride, Mini came, and stood
bashfully before me.
The Kabuliwallah looked a
little staggered at the apparition. He could not revive their old friendship.
At last he smiled and said: "Little one, are you going to your
father-in-law's house?"
But Mini now understood
the meaning of the word "father-in-law," and she could not reply to
him as of old. She flushed up at the question, and stood before him with her
bride-like face turned down.
I remembered the day when
the Kabuliwallah and my Mini had first met, and I felt sad. When she had gone,
Rahmun heaved a deep sigh, and sat down on the floor. The idea had suddenly
come to him that his daughter too must have grown in this long time, and that
he would have to make friends with her anew. Assuredly he would not find her,
as he used to know her. And besides, what might not have happened to her in
these eight years?
The marriage-pipes sounded,
and the mild autumn sun streamed round us. But Rahmun sat in the little
Calcutta lane, and saw before him the barren mountains of Afghanistan.
I took out a bank-note,
and gave it to him, saying: "Go back to your own daughter, Rahmun, in your
own country, and may the happiness of your meeting bring good fortune to my
child!"
Having made this present,
I had to curtail some of the festivities. I could not have the electric lights
I had intended, nor the military band, and the ladies of the house were despondent
at it. But to me the wedding feast was all the brighter for the thought that in
a distant land a long-lost father met again with his only child.
The End
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