The Lost Child -- Mulk Raj Anand
It
was the festival of spring. From the wintry shades of narrow lanes and alleys
emerged a gaily clad humanity. Some walked, some rode on horses, others sat,
being carried in bamboo and bullock carts. One little boy ran between his
father’s legs, brimming over with life and laughter. “Come, child, come,”
called his parents, as he lagged behind, fascinated by the toys in the shops
that lined the way.
He
hurried towards his parents, his feet obedient to their call, his eyes still
lingering on the receding toys. As he came to where they had stopped to wait
for him, he could not suppress the desire of his heart, even though he well
knew the old, cold stare of refusal in their eyes. “I want that toy,” he
pleaded. His father looked at him red-eyed, in his familiar tyrant’s way. His
mother, melted by the free spirit of the day was tender and, giving him her
finger to hold, said, “Look, child, what is before you!”
It
was a flowering mustard-field, pale like melting gold as it swept across miles
and miles of even land. A group of dragon-flies were bustling about on their
gaudy purple wings, intercepting the flight of a lone black bee or butterfly in
search of sweetness from the flowers. The child followed them in the air with
his gaze, till one of them would still its wings and rest, and he would try to
catch it. But it would go fluttering, flapping, up into the air, when he had
almost caught it in his hands. Then his mother gave a cautionary call: “Come,
child, come, come on to the footpath.”
He
ran towards his parents gaily and walked abreast of them for a while, being,
however, soon left behind, attracted by the little insects and worms along the
footpath that were teeming out from their hiding places to enjoy the sunshine.
“Come,
child, come!” his parents called from the shade of a grove where they had
seated themselves on the edge of a well. He ran towards them. A shower of young
flowers fell upon the child as he entered the grove, and, forgetting his
parents, he began to gather the raining petals in his hands. But lo! He heard
the cooing of doves and ran towards his parents, shouting, “The dove! The
dove!” The raining petals dropped from his forgotten hands.
“Come,
child, come!” they called to the child, who had now gone running in wild capers
round the banyan tree, and gathering him up they took the narrow, winding
footpath which led to the fair through the mustard fields. As they neared the
village the child could see many other footpaths full of throngs, converging to
the whirlpool of the fair, and felt at once repelled and fascinated by the
confusion of the world he was entering.
A
sweetmeat seller hawked, “gulab-jaman, rasagulla, burfi, jalebi,” at the corner
of the entrance and a crowd pressed round his counter at the foot of an
architecture of many coloured sweets, decorated with leaves of silver and gold.
The child stared open-eyed and his mouth watered for the burfi that was his
favourite sweet. “I want that burfi,” he slowly murmured. But he half knew as
he begged that his plea would not be heeded because his parents would say he
was greedy. So without waiting for an answer he moved on.
A
flower-seller hawked, “A garland of gulmohur, a garland of gulmohur !” The
child seemed irresistibly drawn. He went towards the basket where the flowers
lay heaped and half murmured, “I want that garland.” But he well knew his
parents would refuse to buy him those flowers because they would say that they
were cheap. So, without waiting for an answer, he moved on.
A
man stood holding a pole with yellow, red, green and purple balloons flying
from it. The child was simply carried away by the rainbow glory of their silken
colours and he was filled with an overwhelming desire to possess them all. But
he well knew his parents would never buy him the balloons because they would
say he was too old to play with such toys. So he walked on farther.
A
snake-charmer stood playing a flute to a snake which coiled itself in a basket,
its head raised in a graceful bend like the neck of a swan, while the music
stole into its invisible ears like the gentle rippling of an invisible
waterfall. The child went towards the snake-charmer. But, knowing his parents
had forbidden him to hear such coarse music as the snake- charmer played, he
proceeded farther.
There
was a roundabout in full swing. Men, women and children, carried away in a
whirling motion, shrieked and cried with dizzy laughter. The child watched them
intently and then he made a bold request: “I want to go on the roundabout,
please, Father, Mother.” There was no reply. He turned to look at his parents.
They were not there, ahead of him. He turned to look on either side. They were
not there. He looked behind. There was no sign of them.
A
full, deep cry rose within his dry throat and with a sudden jerk of his body he
ran from where he stood, crying in real fear, “Mother, Father.” Tears rolled
down from his eyes, hot and fierce; his flushed face was convulsed with fear.
Panic- stricken, he ran to one side first, then to the other, hither and
thither in all directions, knowing not where to go. “Mother, Father,” he
wailed. His yellow turban came untied and his clothes became muddy.
Having
run to and fro in a rage of running for a while, he stood defeated, his cries
suppressed into sobs. At little distances on the green grass he could see,
through his filmy eyes, men and women talking. He tried to look intently among
the patches of bright yellow clothes, but there was no sign of his father and
mother among these people, who seemed to laugh and talk just for the sake of
laughing and talking.
He
ran quickly again, this time to a shrine to which people seemed to be crowding.
Every little inch of space here was congested with men, but he ran through
people’s legs, his little sob lingering: “Mother, Father!” Near the entrance to
the temple, however, the crowd became very thick: men jostled each other, heavy
men, with flashing, murderous eyes and hefty shoulders. The poor child
struggled to thrust a way
between
their feet but, knocked to and fro by their brutal movements, he might have
been trampled underfoot, had he not shrieked at the highest pitch of his voice,
“Father, Mother!”
A
man in the surging crowd heard his cry and, stooping with great difficulty, lifted
him up in his arms. “How did you get here, child? Whose baby are you?” the man
asked as he steered clear of the mass. The child wept more bitterly than ever
now and only cried, “I want my mother, I want my father!”
The
man tried to soothe him by taking him to the roundabout. “Will you have a ride
on the horse?” he gently asked as he approached the ring. The child’s throat
tore into a thousand shrill sobs and he only shouted: “I want my mother, I want
my father!”
The
man headed towards the place where the snake- charmer still played on the flute
to the swaying cobra. “Listen to that nice music, child!” he pleaded. But the
child shut his ears with his fingers and shouted his double-pitched strain: “I
want my mother, I want my father!” The man took him near the balloons, thinking
the bright colours of the balloons would distract the child’s attention and
quieten him. “Would you like a rainbow-coloured balloon?” he persuasively
asked. The child turned his eyes from the flying balloons and just sobbed, “I
want my mother, I want my father!”
The
man, still trying to make the child happy, bore him to the gate where the
flower-seller sat. “Look! Can you smell those nice flowers, child! Would you
like a garland to put round your neck?” The child turned his nose away from the
basket and reiterated his sob: “I want my mother, I want my father!”
Thinking
to humour his disconsolate charge by a gift of sweets, the man took him to the
counter of the sweet shop. “What sweets would you like, child?” he asked. The child
turned his face from the sweet shop and only sobbed, “I want my mother, I want
my father!”
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edited. Mastanappa
