Stories from Tagore
"When will you come back?"
"I am not coming back."
Ratan asked no other question. The postmaster, of his own accord, went
on to tell her that his application for a transfer had been rejected, so
he had resigned his post and was going home.
For a long time neither of them spoke another word. The lamp went on
dimly burning, and from a leak in one corner of the thatch water dripped
steadily into an earthen vessel on the floor beneath it.
After a while Ratan rose, and went off to the kitchen to prepare the
meal; but she was not so quick about it as on other days. Many new
things to think of had entered her little brain. When the postmaster had
finished his supper, the girl suddenly asked him: "Dada, will you take
me to your home?"
The postmaster laughed. "What an idea!" said he; but he did not think it
necessary to explain to the girl wherein lay the absurdity.
That whole night, in her waking and in her dreams, the postmaster's
laughing reply haunted her--"What an idea!"
On getting up in the morning, the postmaster found his bath ready. He
had stuck to his Calcutta habit of bathing in water drawn and kept in
pitchers, instead of taking a plunge in the river as was the custom of
the village. For some reason or other, the girl could not ask him about
the time of his departure, so she had fetched the water from the river
long before sunrise, that it should be ready as early as he might want
it. After the bath came a call for Ratan. She entered noiselessly, and
looked silently into her master's face for orders. The master said: "You
need not be anxious about my going away, Ratan; I shall tell my
successor to look after you." These words were kindly meant, no doubt:
but inscrutable are the ways of a woman's heart!
Ratan had borne many a scolding from her master without complaint, but
these kind words she could not bear. She burst out weeping, and said:
"No, no, you need not tell anybody anything at all about me; I don't
want to stay on here."
The postmaster was dumbfounded. He had never seen Ratan like this
before.
The new incumbent duly arrived, and the postmaster, having given over
charge, prepared to depart. Just before starting he called Ratan and
said: "Here is something for you; I hope it will keep you for some
little time." He brought out from his pocket the whole of his month's
salary, retaining only a trifle for his travelling expenses. Then Ratan
fell at his feet and cried: "Oh, Dada, I pray you, don't give me
anything, don't in any way trouble about me," and then she ran away out
of sight.
The postmaster heaved a sigh, took up his carpet bag, put his umbrella
over his shoulder, and, accompanied by a man carrying his many-coloured
tin trunk, he slowly made for the boat.
When he got in and the boat was under way, and the rain-swollen river,
like a stream of tears welling up from the earth, swirled and sobbed at
her bows, then he felt a pain at heart; the grief-stricken face of a
village girl seemed to represent for him the great unspoken pervading
grief of Mother Earth herself. At one time he had an impulse to go back,
and bring away along with him that lonesome waif, forsaken of the world.
But the wind had just filled the sails, the boat had got well into the
middle of the turbulent current, and already the village was left
behind, and its outlying burning-ground came in sight.
So the traveller, borne on the breast of the swift-flowing river,
consoled himself with philosophical reflections on the numberless
meetings and partings going on in the world--on death, the great
parting, from which none returns.
But Ratan had no philosophy. She was wandering about the post office in
a flood of tears. It may be that she had still a lurking hope in some
corner of her heart that her Dada would return, and that is why she
could not tear herself away. Alas for our foolish human nature! Its fond
mistakes are persistent. The dictates of reason take a long time to
assert their own sway. The surest proofs meanwhile are disbelieved.
False hope is clung to with all one's might and main, till a day comes
when it has sucked the heart dry and it forcibly breaks through its
bonds and departs. After that comes the misery of awakening, and then
once again the longing to get back into the maze of the same mistakes.
WORDS TO BE STUDIED
=indigo.= This word has a very interesting history. It means
"Indian." The celebrated dark-blue dye came from India. This dye
was first known to the Greeks who called it "Indikon," then to
the Latins who called it Indicum, then to the Italians and
Spaniards who called it Indigo. It was introduced into England
from Italy by artists and painters who kept the Italian word
"indigo" without change.
=genie.= There is a Latin word "genius," meaning originally a spirit
inhabiting a special place. It is from this word that our English
common noun "genius" is taken, meaning a specially gifted or
inspired person, e.g. "a man of genius." But in the Arabian Nights
a completely different Arabic word is found, viz. "jinn" with its
feminine form "jinni." This was written in English "genie" and was
confused with the word "genius." The plural of genie when used in
this sense is genii, which is really the plural of the Latin word
genius.
=macadamised.= This is quite a modern word in English. It comes from
the name of the inventor of this kind of road-paving, who was Mr.
J. L. Macadam. He discovered that different layers of small stone
rolled in, one after the other, can stand the wear and tear of
traffic. We have similar words from proper names. Compare,
_boycott_, _burke_, _lynch_, etc.
=allude.= From the Latin "ludere," to play. Compare _prelude_,
_interlude_, _delude_, _collusion_, _elude_, _elusive_,
_allusion_.
=guava.= This word came into English from the Spanish. It is of great
interest to trace the names of the fruits in English back to
their sources, e.g. _currant_, comes from Corinth; _mango_ from
the Portuguese _manga_ (from the Tamil "mankay" _fruit-tree_);
_orange_ from the Arabic "narang" and Hindustani "narangi";
_apricot_ from Arabic al-burquq; _date_ from the Greek "daktulos,"
meaning "finger."
=alphabet.= The two first letters in the Greek language are called
"alpha" and "beta." Then the whole series of letters was named an
alphabeta or alphabet.
=consonants.= From the Latin "sonare," meaning to sound. Consonants
are letters which "sound with" the vowels. Compare _dissonant_,
_assonance_, _sonant_, _sonorous_, _sonata_.
=canal.= This is one example of a word taken into English from the
Latin, through the French, having a companion word in English. The
companion word in this case is _channel_. Compare _cavalry_ and
_chivalry_, _legal_ and _loyal_, _guard_ and _ward_.
=dumbfounded.= This word has come into the English language from
common speech. It is a mixture of the English word dumb, and the
Latin "fundere," "to pour" which we find in _confound_,
_profound_, _confusion_. It is not often that we get such hybrid
words in earlier English, though to-day they are becoming common
in the case of new words such as _motorcar_, _speedometer_,
_airplane_, _waterplane_, _automobile_, etc. The old rule used to
be that a compound word in English should have _both_ its parts
from the same language (e.g. both parts Latin, or Greek, or Saxon,
etc.). But this rule is rapidly breaking down in common practice
as new words rush into the English language to express all the new
discoveries of science. We have English and Greek roots mixed
(such as _airplane_), and Latin and Greek roots mixed (such as
_oleograph_).
THE CASTAWAY
VIII
THE CASTAWAY
Towards evening the storm was at its height. From the terrific downpour
of rain, the crash of thunder, and the repeated flashes of lightning,
you might think that a battle of the gods and demons was raging in the
skies. Black clouds waved like the Flags of Doom. The Ganges was lashed
into a fury, and the trees of the gardens on either bank swayed from
side to side with sighs and groans.
In a closed room of one of the riverside houses at Chandernagore, a
husband and his wife were seated on a bed spread on the floor, intently
discussing. An earthen lamp burned beside them.
The husband, Sharat, was saying: "I wish you would stay on a few days
more; you would then be able to return home quite strong again."
The wife, Kiran, was saying: "I have quite recovered already. It will
not, cannot possibly, do me any harm to go home now."
Every married person will at once understand that the conversation was
not quite so brief as I have reported it. The matter was not difficult,
but the arguments for and against did not advance it towards a solution.
Like a rudderless boat, the discussion kept turning round and round the
same point; and at last threatened to be overwhelmed in a flood of
tears.
Sharat said: "The doctor thinks you should stop here a few days longer."
Kiran replied: "Your doctor knows everything!"
"Well," said Sharat, "you know that just now all sorts of illnesses are
abroad. You would do well to stop here a month or two more."
"And at this moment I suppose every one in this place is perfectly
well!"
What had happened was this: Kiran was a universal favourite with her
family and neighbours, so that, when she fell seriously ill, they were
all anxious. The village wiseacres thought it shameless for her husband
to make so much fuss about a mere wife and even to suggest a change of
air, and asked if Sharat supposed that no woman had ever been ill
before, or whether he had found out that the folk of the place to which
he meant to take her were immortal. Did he imagine that the writ of Fate
did not run there? But Sharat and his mother turned a deaf ear to them,
thinking that the little life of their darling was of greater
importance than the united wisdom of a village. People are wont to
reason thus when danger threatens their loved ones. So Sharat went to
Chandernagore, and Kiran recovered, though she was still very weak.
There was a pinched look on her face which filled the beholder with
pity, and made his heart tremble, as he thought how narrowly she had
escaped death.
Kiran was fond of society and amusement; the loneliness of her riverside
villa did not suit her at all. There was nothing to do, there were no
interesting neighbours, and she hated to be busy all day with medicine
and dieting. There was no fun in measuring doses and making
fomentations. Such was the subject discussed in their closed room on
this stormy evening.
So long as Kiran deigned to argue, there was a chance of a fair fight.
When she ceased to reply, and with a toss of her head disconsolately
looked the other way, the poor man was disarmed. He was on the point of
surrendering unconditionally when a servant shouted a message through
the shut door.
Sharat got up and on opening the door learnt that a boat had been upset
in the storm, and that one of the occupants, a young Brahmin boy, had
succeeded in swimming ashore at their garden.
Kiran was at once her own sweet self and set to work to get out some dry
clothes for the boy. She then warmed a cup of milk and invited him to
her room.
The boy had long curly hair, big expressive eyes, and no sign yet of
hair on the face. Kiran, after getting him to drink some milk asked him
all about himself.
He told her that his name was Nilkanta, and that he belonged to a
theatrical troupe. They were coming to play in a neighbouring villa when