Rabindranath Tagore, "The Editor" (1893/ Translated 1925) (Short Story)
Tags: Single dad, Masculinity, Men dressed up as “dolls”, Queer and homoerotic themes, Raising children, Illness, Print culture
THE EDITOR
As long as my wife was alive, I did not pay much attention to Probha.
As a matter of fact, I thought a great deal more about Probha's mother
than I did of the child herself.
At that time my dealing with her was superficial, limited to a little
petting, listening to her lisping chatter, and occasionally watching
her laugh and play. As long as it was agreeable to me I used to fondle
her, but as soon as it threatened to become tiresome I would surrender
her to her mother with the greatest readiness.
At last, on the untimely death of my wife, the child dropped from her
mother's arms into mine, and I took her to my heart.
But it is difficult to say whether it was I who considered it my duty
to bring up the motherless child with twofold care, or my daughter who
thought it her duty to take care of her wifeless father with a
superfluity of attention. At any rate, it is a fact that from the age
of six she began to assume the rele of housekeeper. It was quite clear
that this little girl constituted herself the sole guardian of her
father.
I smiled inwardly but surrendered myself completely to her hands. I
soon saw that the more inefficient and helpless I was the better
pleased she became. I found that even if I took down my own clothes
from the peg, or went to get my own umbrella, she put on such an air
of offended dignity that it was clear that she thought I had usurped
her right. Never before had she possessed such a perfect doll as she
now had in her father, and so she took the keenest pleasure in feeding
him, dressing him, and even putting him to bed. Only when I was
teaching her the elements of arithmetic or the First Reader had I the
opportunity of summoning up my parental authority.
Every now and then the thought troubled me as to where I should be
able to get enough money to provide her with a dowry for a suitable
bridegroom. I was giving her a good education, but what would happen
if she fell into the hands of an ignorant fool?
I made up my mind to earn money. I was too old to get employment in a
Government office, and I had not the influence to get work in a
private one. After a good deal of thought I decided that I would write
books.
If you make holes in a bamboo tube, it will no longer hold either oil
or water, in fact its power of receptivity is lost; but if you blow
through it, then, without any expenditure it may produce music. I felt
quite sure that the man who is not useful can be ornamental, and he
who is not productive in other fields can at least produce literature.
Encouraged by this thought, I wrote a farce. People said it was good,
and it was even acted on the stage.
Once having tasted of fame, I found myself unable to stop pursuing it
farther. Days and days together I went on writing farces with an agony
of determination.
Probha would come with her smile, and remind me gently: 'Father, it is
time for you to take your bath.'
And I would growl out at her: 'Go away, go away; can't you see that I
am busy now? Don't vex me.'
The poor child would leave me, unnoticed, with a face dark like a lamp
whose light has been suddenly blown out.
I drove the maid-servants away, and beat the men-servants, and when
beggars came and sang at my door I would get up and run after them
with a stick. My room being by the side of the street, passers-by
would stop and ask me to tell them the way, but I would request them
to go to Jericho. Alas, no one took it into serious consideration
that I was engaged in writing a screaming farce.
Yet I never got money in the measure that I got fun and fame. But that
did not trouble me, although in the meantime all the potential
bridegrooms were growing up for other brides whose parents did not
write farces.
But just then an excellent opportunity came my way. The landlord of a
certain village, Jahirgram, started a newspaper, and sent a request
that I would become its editor. I agreed to take the post.
For the first few days I wrote with such fire and zest that people
used to point at me when I went out into the street, and I began to
feel a brilliant halo about my forehead.
Next to Jahirgram was the village of Ahirgram. Between the landlords
of these two villages there was a constant rivalry and feud. There had
been a time when they came to blows not infrequently. But now, since
the magistrate had bound them both over to keep the peace, I took the
place of the hired ruffians who used to act for one of the rivals.
Every one said that I lived up to the dignity of my position.
My writings were so strong and fiery that Ahirgram could no longer
hold up its head. I blackened with my ink the whole of their ancient
clan and family.
All this time I had the comfortable feeling of being pleased with
myself. I even became fat. My face beamed with the exhilaration of a
successful man of genius. I admired my own delightful ingenuity of
insinuation, when at some excruciating satire of mine, directed
against the ancestry of Ahirgram, the whole of Jahirgram would burst
its sides with laughter like an over-ripe melon. I enjoyed myself
thoroughly.
But at last Ahirgram started a newspaper. What it published was
starkly naked, without a shred of literary urbanity. The language it
used was of such undiluted colloquialism that every letter seemed to
scream in one's face. The consequence was that the inhabitants of both
villages clearly understood its meaning.
But as I was hampered in my style by my sense of decency, my subtlety
of sarcasm very often made but a feeble impression upon the power of
understanding of both my friends and my enemies.
The result was that even when I won decidedly in this war of infamy my
readers were not aware of my victory. At last in desperation I wrote a
sermon on the necessity of good taste in literature, but found that I
had made a fatal mistake. For things that are solemn offer more
surface for ridicule than things that are truly ridiculous. And
therefore my effort at the moral betterment of my fellow-beings had
the opposite effect to that which I had intended.
My employer ceased to show me such attention as he had done. The
honour to which I had grown accustomed dwindled in its quantity, and
its quality became poor. When I walked in the street people did not go
out of their way to carry off the memory of a word with me. They even
went so far as to be frivolously familiar in their behaviour towards
me--such as slapping my shoulders with a laugh and giving me
nicknames.
In the meantime my admirers had quite forgotten the farces which had
made me famous. I felt as if I was a burnt-out match, charred to its
very end.
My mind became so depressed that, no matter how I racked my brains, I
was unable to write one line. I seemed to have lost all zest for life.
Probha had now grown afraid of me. She would not venture to approach
me unless summoned. She had come to understand that a commonplace
doll is a far better companion than a genius of a father who writes
comic pieces.
One day I saw that the Ahirgram newspaper, leaving my employer alone
for once, had directed its attack on me. Some very ugly imputations
had been made against myself. One by one all my friends and
acquaintances came and read to me the spiciest bits, laughing
heartily. Some of them said that however one might disagree with the
subject-matter, it could not be denied that it was cleverly written.
In the course of the day at least twenty people came and said the same
thing, with slight variations to break its monotony.
In front of my house there is a small garden. I was walking there in
the evening with a mind distracted with pain. When the birds had
returned to their nests, and surrendered themselves to the peace of
the evening, I understood quite clearly that amongst the birds at any
rate there were no writers of journalism, nor did they hold
discussions on good taste. I was thinking only of one thing, namely,
what answer I could make. The disadvantage of politeness is that it is
not intelligible to all classes of people. So I had decided that my
answer must be given in the same strain as the attack. I was not going
to allow myself to acknowledge defeat.
Just as I had come to this conclusion, a well-known voice came softly
through the darkness of the evening, and immediately afterwards I felt
a soft warm touch in the palm of my hand. I was so distracted and
absent-minded that even though that voice and touch were familiar to
me, I did not realise that I knew them.
But the next moment, when they had left me, the voice sounded in my
ear, and the memory of the touch became living. My child had slowly
come near to me once more, and had whispered in my ear, 'Father,' but
not getting any answer she had lifted my right hand, and with it had
gently stroked her forehead, and then silently gone back into the
house.
For a long time Probha had not called me like that, nor caressed me
with such freedom. Therefore it was that to-day at the touch of her
love my heart suddenly began to yearn for her. Going back to the
house a little later, I saw that Probha was lying on her bed. Her eyes
were half closed, and she seemed to be in pain. She lay like a flower
which has dropped on the dust at the end of the day.
Putting my hand on her forehead, I found that she was feverish. Her
breath was hot, and her pulse was throbbing.
I realised that the poor child, feeling the first symptoms of fever,
had come with her thirsty heart to get her father's love and caresses,
while he was trying to think of some stinging reply to send to the
newspaper.
I sat beside her. The child, without speaking a word, took my hand
between her two fever-heated palms, and laid it upon her forehead,
lying quite still.
All the numbers of the Jahirgram and Ahirgram papers which I had in
the house I burnt to ashes. I wrote no answer to the attack. Never
had I felt such joy as I did, when I thus acknowledged defeat.
I had taken the child to my arms when her mother had died, and now,
having cremated this rival of her mother, again I took her to my
heart.
This page has paths:
- Short Stories by Rabindranath Tagore Amardeep Singh