Rabindranath
Tagore was an educator, social reformer, poet, playwright, novelist and short
story writer. His poetical collection Gitanjali was awarded the Nobel
Prize for Literature. The Home Coming
is the tale of a 14 year old boy who was a nuisance to his mother, was sent
away for studying and died there unloved, longing for his home.
Phatik Chakravarthi was a
fourteen year old Bengali boy whose father died very early. He grew up lazy,
wild and disobedient. His younger brother Makhan Chakravarthi was quiet, good
and fond of reading. Phatik thought about doing new mischiefs each day. One day
he and his retinue of boys pushed into the river a wooden log meant to be
shaped as the mast of a boat. Makhan, objecting to this and sitting firmly on
the log, was thrown to water along with the log. At home, when he was
questioned about this, he beat not only his brother, but his mother also. It
was then that his uncle from the far off Calcutta City arrived. He agreed to
take the boy along with him to Calcutta to be educated there. The boy was only
glad to leave, but the mother was only half- relieved and half- sad.
Phatik's
uncle had three sons of his own and his aunt did not like the new addition to
the family. A fourteen year old boy will have his own problems too. He was fast
growing up. He was neither a child nor a man. He had missed the meadow,
mountain and river of his native village. Therefore it was no wonder he became
a failure at school. He answered no questions, was beaten badly daily at school
and ridiculed by all including his cousins. He grew impatient about returning
to home and began asking always, when the holidays would come.
One day
Phatik lost his lesson book and was scolded and abused much by his aunt. It was
the last hurt to break him. On a rainy afternoon after school, feeling fever
and headache, he sought shelter somewhere and did not return home. He did not
want to trouble his aunt any more. Police help was sought the next day. They
brought him home, shivering and fallen into a delirious state. He talked about
things in his native village, asked his mother not to beat him anymore and
called out fathom- marks which the steamer- sailors in his native village river
did. He moved restlessly, his hands beating up and down. His condition seemed
critical to the doctor and his mother in the village was sent for. When his
mother arrived moaning and crying, and calling his names, he was nearing his
eternal home which is Heaven. His last words were: Mother, the holidays have
come.
The
question is, how we treat our children. Children are the flowers of humanity.
Yet, we do not see the grief in those tiny hearts. Up to four years, a child is
said to be in the hands of the God, but since then they are the World's. A bit
of love, a soft touch of solace or a tiny word of comfort would be enough for
them, but we do not spare them. Millions of children are worn out for want of
care, nursing, assistance. Tagore's was one of the first glances into the grief
and sorrow of a little mind. Another of its kind is Coventry Patmore's poem, Toys.
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