Textual lesson for (VSKUB) B. Com I semester students
The Cabuliwallah – Rabindranath Tagore
My five-year-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 like to stop her prattle, but I would
not. For Mini to be 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 door-keeper,
calls a kak a kauwa!
He doesn't know anything, does he?"
Before I could explain to her the difference between one language
and another in this world, she had 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, trying to think of
some reply to this: "Father! what relation is mother to you?"
With a grave face I contrived to say: "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, in which Pratap Singh, the
hero, has just caught Kanchanlata, the heroine, in his arms, and is about to
escape with her by the third storey window of the castle, when suddenly Mini
left her play, and ran to the window, crying: "A Cabuliwallah! A
Cabuliwallah!' And indeed, in the street below, there was a Cabuliwallah,
walking slowly along. He wore the loose, soiled clothing of his people, and a
tall turban; he carried a bag on his back, and boxes of grapes in his hand.
I cannot tell what my daughter's feelings were when she saw this
man, but she began to call him loudly. "Ah!" thought I, "he will
come in, and my seventeenth chapter will never be finished!" At that very
moment the Cabuliwallah turned, and looked up at the child. When she saw this,
she was overcome by terror, and running to her mother's protection 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 peddler meanwhile
entered my doorway and greeted me with a smile.
So precarious was the position of my hero and my heroine, that my
first impulse was to stop and buy something, since Mini had called the man to
the house. I made some small purchases, and we began to talk about Abdur
Rahman, the Russians, the English, and the Frontier Policy.
As he was about to leave, he asked: "And where is the little
girl, Sir?"
And then, thinking that Mini must get rid of her false fear, I had
her brought out.
She stood by my chair, and looked at the Cabuliwallah 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.
A few mornings later, however, 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 Cabuliwallah 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 piece, I handed it to him. The man accepted the money without demur,
and put 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 Cabuliwallah 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 piece?"
"The Cabuliwallah gave it to me!" said Mini cheerfully.
"The Cabuliwallah gave it to you!" cried her mother
greatly shocked, "O Mini! How could you take it from him?"
I entered at the moment, and saving her from impending disaster,
proceeded to make my own inquiries.
It was not the first or the second time, I found, that the two had
met. The Cabuliwallah had overcome the child's first terror by a judicious
bribe of nuts and almonds, and the two were now great friends.
They had many quaint jokes, which amused them greatly. Mini would
seat herself before him, look down on his gigantic frame in all her tiny
dignity, and with her face rippling with laughter would begin: "O
Cabuliwallah! Cabuliwallah: What have you got in your bag?"
And he would reply, in the nasal accent of the mountaineer:
"An elephant!" Not much cause for merriment, perhaps: but how they
both enjoyed the fun! And for me, this child's talk with a grown-up man had
always in it something strangely fascinating.
Then the Cabuliwallah, not to be behindhand, would take his turn:
"Well, little one, and when are you going to your father-in-law's
house?"
Now nearly every small Bengali maiden had heard long ago about her
father-in-law's house; but we were a little new-fangled, and had kept these
things from our child, so that 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 Cabuliwallah'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 peddler 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 without 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 land, with his cottage in their midst and
the free and independent life, or far away wilds. Perhaps scenes of travel are
conjured up before me and pass and re-pass in my imagination all the more
vividly, because I lead an existence so like a vegetable that a call to travel
would fall upon me like a thunder-bolt. In the presence of this Cabuliwallah, 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, some carrying their queer old firearms, and some their spears,
journeying downward towards the plains. I could see_. But at some such point
Mini's mother would intervene, and implore me to "beware of that
man."
Mini's mother is unfortunately very timid. 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. Even after all these years
of experience, she is not able to overcome her terror. So she was full of doubts
about the Cabuliwallah, and used to beg me to keep a watchful eye on him.
If I tried to laugh her fear gently away, she would turn round
seriously, and ask me solemn questions:
Were children never kidnapped?
Was it not true that there was slavery in Cabul?
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 very improbable. But
this was not enough, and her dread persisted. But as it was a very vague dread,
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, Rahman, the Cabuliwallah,
used to return to his own 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 might have seemed to a stranger
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 suddenly to
surprise this tall, loose-garmented man laden with his bags, in the corner of a
dark room; but when Mini ran in smiling, with her "O Cabuliwallah!
Cabuliwallah" and the two friends, so far apart in age, subsided 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 proof-sheets in my study. The weather was chilly. Through the
window the rays of the sun touched my feet, and the slight warmth was very
welcome. It was nearly eight o'clock, and early pedestrians were returning home
with their heads covered. Suddenly I heard an uproar in the street, and looking
out saw Rahman being led away bound between two policemen, and behind them a
crowd of inquisitive boys. There were blood-stains on his clothes, and one of
the policemen carried a knife. I hurried out, and stopping them, inquired what
it all meant. Partly from one, partly from another, I gathered that a certain
neighbour had owed the peddler something for a Rampuri shawl, but had denied
buying it, and that in the course of the quarrel Rahman had struck him. Now, in
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 Cabuliwallah! Cabuliwallah!" Rahman's face lighted up
as he turned to her. He had no bag under his arm today, so that she could not
talk about the elephant with him. She therefore at once proceeded to the next
question: "Are you going to your father-in-law's house?" Rahman
laughed and said: "That is just where I am going, little one!" Then
seeing that the reply did not amuse the child, he held up his fettered hands,
"Ah!" he said, "I would have thrashed that old father-in-law,
but my hands are bound!"
On a charge of murderous assault, Rahman was sentenced to several
years' imprisonment.
Time passed, and he was forgotten. Our accustomed work in the
accustomed place went on, 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, indeed, did she
spend with them that she came no more, as she used to do, to her father's room,
so that I rarely had any opportunity of speaking to 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 would
depart to her husband's house, and leave her father's in shadow.
The morning was bright. After the rains, it seemed as though the
air had been washed clean and the rays of the sun looked like pure gold. So
bright were they, that they made even the sordid brick-walls of our Calcutta
lanes radiant. Since early dawn the wedding-pipes had been sounding, and at
each burst of sound my own heart throbbed. The wail of the tune, Bhairavi,
seemed to intensify the pain I felt at the approaching separation. My Mini was
to be married that night.
From early morning, noise and bustle had pervaded the house. In
the courtyard there was the canopy to be slung on its bamboo poles; there were
chandeliers with their tinkling sound to be hung in each room and verandah.
There was endless hurry and excitement. I was sitting in my study, looking
through the accounts, when someone entered, saluting respectfully, and stood
before me. It was Rahman, the Cabuliwallah. At first I did not recognise him.
He carried no bag, his long hair was cut short and his old vigour seemed to
have gone. But he smiled; and I knew him again.
"When did you come, Rahman?" I asked him.
"Last evening," he said, "I was released from
jail."
The words struck harshly upon my ears. I had never before talked
with one who had wounded his fellow-man, and my heart shrank within itself when
I realised this; for I felt that the day would have been better-omened had he
not appeared.
"There are ceremonies going on," I said, "and I am
busy. Perhaps you could come another day?"
He immediately 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 to do, calling. "O Cabuliwallah!
Cabuliwallah!" He had imagined too that they would laugh and talk
together, just as of old. Indeed, in memory of former days, he had brought,
carefully wrapped up in paper, a few almonds and raisins and grapes, obtained
somehow or other from a countryman; for what little money he had, had gone.
I repeated: "There is a ceremony in the house, and you will
not be able to see anyone today."
The man's face fell. He looked wistfully at me for a moment, then
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 and held out his
offerings with the words: "I have 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 memory. 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 this fruit 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. Unfolding it with great care, he
smoothened it out with both hands on my table. It bore the impression of a
little hand. Not a photograph. Not a drawing. Merely the impression of an
ink-smeared hand laid flat on the paper. This touch of the hand of his own
little daughter he had carried always next to 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 Cabuli
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 Parvati 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 swept them aside. Clad in the red silk of her
wedding-day, with sandal paste on her forehead, and adorned as a young bride,
Mini came, and stood modestly before me.
The Cabuliwallah seemed amazed 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 answer him as of old. She blushed
at the question, and stood before him with her head bowed down.
I remembered the day when the Cabuliwallah and my Mini had first
met, and I felt sad. When she had gone, Rahman sighed deeply and sat down on
the floor. The idea had suddenly come to him that his daughter too must have
grown up, while he had been away so long, and that he would have to make friends
anew with her also. Assuredly he would not find her as she was when he left
her. And besides, what might not have happened to her in these eight years?
The marriage-pipes sounded and the mild autumn sunlight streamed
round us. But Rahman, standing in our narrow Calcutta lane, saw in his mind's
eye the mountains of Afghanistan.
I took out a hundred rupee note, gave it to him, and said:
"Go back to your daughter, Rahman, 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 about it. But to me
the wedding feast was all the brighter for the thought that in a distant land a
long-lost father was going to meet again his only child.
****
The Summary of "The Cabuliwallah" – Rabindranath Tagore
The father of a five-year-old Mini narrates the well-knitted short
story ‘The Cabuliwallah’. The most innocent and prattling girl Mini and Abdur
Rahman, a street peddler of dry fruits from Kabul are the central characters of
the story.
On one sunny morning, Mini saw a street peddler through the window
of her house and called him “A Cabuliwallah! A Cabuliwallah!” A tall and gigantic
man with a turban on his head and huge sack slung over his shoulder has
answered to her call. As soon as he drew closer to the house to answer Mini’s
call, Mini ran away and hid herself in the folds of her mother’s sari. Mini’s
father bought some dry fruits for her, chatted with him, and came to know that
he was from Kabul and his family was at Kabul. Then he called Mini from her
hiding and introduced her to Abdur Rahman, The Cabuliwallah. In order to shed
her fears of the Cabuliwallah, Rahman took some dry fruits from his bag and bundled
them up on other free end of her sari like garment.
Later, Mini’s father found that his daughter Mini and the
Cabuliwallah had struck up in a happy friendly relationship and they met often
almost every day. The Cabuliwallah was a patient listener to Mini’s prattle and
gave her lavish amounts of nuts and raisins. The Cabuliwallah entertained her
with the fascinating stories of his motherland. However, the suspicious Mini’s mother was
always worrying at their friendship and frightened that he would take away her
daughter, Mini and sell her off as a slave to someone.
As it was going on, one day all of a sudden a disaster struck the
Cabuliwallah. He was arrested and sentenced him to several years of imprisonment
for stabbing one of his customers to death who owed him money.
After his release from the jail, the Cabuliwallah went to Mini’s
house to see her. To his surprise, he found that Mini had grown up, and it was
her wedding day. Mini’s father was not happy to see him on that day and
considered it inauspicious to let him to see Mini. He persuaded him to go away.
Before going away, the Cabuliwallah left a few grapes and raisins wrapped in a
piece of paper for Mini. He then showed Mini’s father an old and shriveled piece
of paper with a black impression of a small tiny hand of his daughter. Filled
with pity for the Cabuliwallah, Mini’s father called his daughter. When the
Cabuliwallah saw Mini in her wedding dress, he was surprised to find a young
woman that he could not recognize. Mini embarrassed when she thought of their
long-forgotten companionship. The Cabuliwallah found extremely difficult to reconcile
with the reality. Seeing the predicament
of the Cabuliwallah, Mini’s father offered him one hundred rupees enough to
return to his native place, Kabul to see his own daughter there. He gave him
the money by cutting down some the expensive wedding celebrations to meet the
expenses of a distressed father. Mini’s father is contended with his humanistic
gesture to help someone who is in distress and helpless and he wanted see his
own daughter after a long time.
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