Rabindranath Tagore, "The Gap" [or "The Divide"] (1891 / Translated 2026) (Short Story)
This is a translation made in 2026 with generative AI, and edited and verified by humans. Where there might be ambiguity as to how a phrase might be translated, we have put in the original Bengali phrases for readers to check themselves. Both Sana Asifriyaz and Amardeep Singh contributed to the process.
Tags: Property, Queer and Homoerotic Themes, Unconventional Friendships
The Gap [ব্যবধান]
If one were to trace the family relationship carefully, Banamali and Himanshu turned out to be cousins through both their maternal and paternal lines—a connection that could be established only after considerable genealogical reckoning. But their two families had been neighbors for a long time, separated only by a single garden. Therefore, though their kinship was not particularly close, there was no lack of intimacy between them.
Banamali was much older than Himanshu. When Himanshu had not yet cut his teeth or learned to speak, Banamali used to carry him in his arms through the garden morning and evening for fresh air. He played with him, soothed his cries, lulled him to sleep, and, to amuse the child, never failed to perform all those extravagant and age-inappropriate antics that sensible grown men must sometimes resort to for an infant's delight—vigorous shaking of the head, loud streams of nonsensical babble, and other such exuberant displays.
Banamali had never pursued much formal education. His passions in life were his garden and this little younger cousin. He nurtured the boy with all the affection of his heart as though tending a rare and priceless vine. And when that vine gradually spread, twining itself around his whole inner and outer being, Banamali counted himself fortunate.
Such a disposition is not often seen, but there are people who can surrender themselves completely to some little fancy, or to a small child, or even to an ungrateful friend. In this vast world, they are content to invest the entire capital of their lives in the single small enterprise of affection. Thereafter they may live out their days in perfect satisfaction on the meager returns from that investment; or perhaps, one morning without warning, they sell off all that they possess, become destitute, and go forth to stand upon the road as beggars.
When Himanshu grew a little older, despite the great difference in both their ages and their degree of kinship, a bond of friendship seemed to arise between him and Banamali. Between the two of them there was scarcely any sense of elder and younger.
There was, in fact, some reason for this. Himanshu was devoted to his studies, and by nature possessed an intense thirst for knowledge. Whatever book came into his hands, he would immediately sit down to read. True, this led him to read a great many worthless books as well, but in one way or another his mind matured in every direction. Banamali listened to him with a certain reverence, sought his advice, discussed with him matters great and small, and never dismissed him as a mere boy in any matter. One whom a man has nurtured from infancy with the very first outpouring of his heart's affection, if in later years that person becomes worthy of respect through intelligence, learning, and nobility of character, there can scarcely be anything dearer in the world.
Himanshu, too, had a passion for gardening. But here the two friends differed. Banamali's love of gardening sprang from the heart, while Himanshu's arose from the intellect. These tender plants of the earth—this mute world of unconscious life—which ask for no care and yet, when tended, grow like the children of one's own household; these beings who are even more childlike than human children—Banamali had a natural instinct to nurture and raise them with loving care. Himanshu, on the other hand, regarded plants with the curiosity of an inquiring mind. The sprouting of a seed, the appearance of the first leaves, the formation of buds, the blossoming of flowers—all these held his attention completely.
Questions of sowing seeds, grafting, manuring, preparing seedbeds, and every other aspect of cultivation continually gave rise to new ideas in Himanshu's mind, and Banamali accepted them with the greatest delight. Together they experimented with every possible combination and variation of form and nature within that little stretch of garden.
In front of the house, overlooking the garden, there was a paved platform like a low altar. Every day, as soon as the clock struck four, Banamali would put on a light shirt [পাতলা জামা], throw a neatly folded shawl over his shoulder, take up his hookah [গুড়গুড়ি], and go sit there in the shade. He had no companions to keep him company, no book or newspaper in his hand. He would simply sit, leisurely drawing upon his hookah, while casting absent-minded glances now toward the south, now toward the left. In this manner the hours drifted away—lightly and slowly, like the curling spirals of smoke from his hookah—floating upward, dissolving, vanishing without leaving the slightest trace behind.
At last, when Himanshu returned from school, had his refreshment, washed his hands and face, and finally appeared, Banamali would hastily lay aside the stem of his hookah and rise to his feet. Only then did it become evident from his eagerness for whom he had been waiting so patiently all that while.
Thereafter the two would stroll through the garden, talking as they walked. When darkness began to fall, they would sit together on a bench. Sometimes the southern breeze would pass through the trees, making their leaves murmur softly; on other evenings no wind stirred at all, and the trees stood motionless like figures in a painting, while above them the sky glowed with countless stars.
Himanshu did the talking; Banamali listened in silence. Even what he did not understand delighted him. Things that might have seemed unbearably tedious if heard from anyone else became endlessly engaging when spoken by Himanshu. Having found such a respectful elder as his audience, Himanshu relished the opportunity to explore his own powers of speech, memory, and imagination [বক্তৃতাশক্তি স্মৃতিশক্তি কল্পনাশক্তির সবিশেষ পরিতৃপ্তি লাভ হইত]. Some of what he said came from his reading, some from his own reflections, and some he improvised on the spot. More than once he concealed the gaps in his knowledge with the help of his imagination. He said many things that were true, and many that were not, but Banamali listened gravely throughout. Occasionally he would ask a question or make a remark; Himanshu would object and explain matters in his own way, and Banamali would accept his explanation. The next day, sitting once again in the shade, leisurely drawing on his hookah, he would spend long hours pondering those conversations with quiet wonder.
Meanwhile, a quarrel arose.
Between Banamali's garden and Himanshu's house ran a drainage channel carrying away rainwater. At one spot beside the channel stood a lime tree [পাতিনেবুর গাছ]. Whenever it bore fruit, the servants from Banamali's household would try to pluck the limes, while the servants from Himanshu's household would try to prevent them. The torrent of abuse that the two sides hurled at each other was so copious that, had it possessed any material substance, it would have filled the entire channel.
From this trivial beginning a serious dispute broke out between Banamali's father, Harchandra, and Himanshu's father, Gokulchandra. The question of who possessed the legal right to that stretch of the channel brought both parties into court.
All the great champions among the lawyers and barristers enlisted themselves on one side or the other and launched into a prolonged battle of words. The money spent by the two litigants was so immense that even the floods of the month of Bhadra had never carried as much water through that little channel.
In the end, Harchandra won the case. It was legally established that the drainage channel belonged to him alone, and that no one else had any claim whatsoever to the lime tree. An appeal was filed, but the channel and the lime tree remained Harchandra's.
Throughout the duration of the lawsuit, the friendship between the two young men had suffered no interruption. Indeed, fearing that even the shadow of the quarrel might fall between them, Banamali clung to Himanshu with twice his former affection, striving to hold him even closer to his heart. Himanshu, too, showed not the slightest sign of estrangement.
But on the day the court delivered its verdict in Harchandra's favor, the household—especially the women's quarters—was filled with rejoicing. Banamali alone could find no sleep. The following afternoon he went and sat upon the garden platform with such a dejected face that it seemed as though no one else in the world had suffered any loss, and that he alone had sustained some irreparable defeat.
The hours passed. Six o'clock came, yet Himanshu did not appear. Banamali let out a long, heavy sigh and looked toward Himanshu's house. Through an open window he could see Himanshu's school clothes hanging from a rack. From that and many other familiar signs he concluded that Himanshu was at home. Laying aside the stem of his hookah, he wandered about with a sorrowful face, glancing toward that window a hundred times over. But Himanshu did not come into the garden.
When the evening lamps were lit, Banamali slowly made his way to Himanshu's house.
Gokulchandra was sitting by the doorway, fanning his feverish body with the evening air. He called out,
"Who's there?"
Banamali started, as though he had been caught in the act of stealing. In a trembling voice he replied,
"Uncle... it's me."
His uncle said,
"Whom have you come looking for? There's no one at home."
Banamali returned to the garden and sat down in silence.
As the night deepened, Banamali watched the windows of Himanshu's house being closed one by one. The streaks of lamplight that had been visible through the cracks of the doors gradually disappeared as one lamp after another was extinguished. In the darkness of the night, it seemed to Banamali that every door of Himanshu's house had been shut against him [হিমাংশুদের বাড়ির সমুদয় দ্বার তাহারই নিকট রুদ্ধ হইয়া গেল], leaving him alone outside in the darkness.
The next day he came once more and sat in the garden, thinking that perhaps Himanshu might come today. One who had come every day for so many years—Banamali simply could not believe that he would fail to come even for a single day. Never had it entered his mind that such a bond could ever be broken. He had lived in such complete security that he had scarcely realized when all the joys and sorrows of his life had become bound up in that friendship. Now, all at once, he learned that the bond had been severed. Yet he could not bring himself to believe, with his whole heart, that in a single moment his world had been laid waste.
Every day, at the accustomed hour, he took his place in the garden, hoping that perhaps by some chance Himanshu would come. But such was his ill fortune that what had once happened unfailingly every day did not happen even once by chance.
On Sunday he thought, As always, Himanshu will come to our house for breakfast this morning. It was not that he truly believed it, yet he could not abandon hope. Morning came, but Himanshu did not.
Then Banamali said to himself, "Perhaps he will come after breakfast."
He did not come after breakfast.
Banamali thought again, "Perhaps he has gone to sleep after eating. As soon as he wakes, he will come."
When he awoke, who could tell? But he did not come.
Once more evening descended. Night arrived. One by one the doors of Himanshu's house were shut, and one by one the lamps went out.
Thus, from Monday through Sunday, when all seven days of the week had been snatched from him by cruel fate, when not a single day remained on which hope could find refuge, Banamali lifted his tear-filled, yearning eyes toward the great house with its closed doors. Into that silent dwelling he seemed to send a wordless reproach, piercing in its sorrow. Then, gathering all the grief of his life into a single cry of anguish, he uttered: "O Merciful One!" ["দয়াময়!"].
This translation was made with generative AI in 2026, and checked by human readers to confirm accuracy. Where there are ambiguities, we have put in Bengali phrases.
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- Short Stories by Rabindranath Tagore: A Collection Amardeep Singh