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.