The Cabuliwallah (Tags: Childhood, Cultural differences, Parenting, Returning home)

Mini is a talkative five-year-old girl who forms an unlikely bond with Rahmun, a fruit-seller known as the Cabuliwallah. Her father, a novelist, watches their interaction with fascination, while her mother harbors deep, timid fears that the giant man might kidnap their daughter. Though initially terrified that Rahmun carries stolen children in his bag, Mini is won over by his patient listening and gifts of nuts and raisins. They develop a friendship centered on recurring jokes about an "elephant in the clouds" blowing water and visits to the "father-in-law's house," a phrase Rahmun uses as a euphemism for jail: 

They had many quaint jokes, which afforded them much amusement. Seated in front of him, looking down on his gigantic frame in all her tiny dignity, Mini would ripple her face with laughter and begin: "O Cabuliwallah! Cabuliwallah! what have you got in your bag?"And he would reply, in the nasal accents 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 the father-in-law's house?"

Now most small Bengali maidens have heard long ago about the father-in-law's house; but we, being a little new-fangled, had kept these things from our child, and 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 pedlar 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.

 This friendship is abruptly interrupted when Rahmun is imprisoned for several years after stabbing a neighbor during a dispute over a shawl debt. On the day of Mini's wedding, Rahmun returns, hoping to revive their old jokes. He is staggered to see her dressed as a bride, realizing his own daughter in Afghanistan must also have grown up. The narrator is profoundly moved when Rahmun reveals a dirty piece of paper bearing the ink-smeared handprint of his own child, realizing they share a universal bond of fatherhood regardless of social status. To help Rahmun return home, the narrator gives him a bank-note, sacrificing wedding luxuries like electric lights and a military band to prioritize a father's reunion with his child.

The Home-Coming (Tags: Country vs. City, Evils of formal education, illness/malaria)

Phatik Chakravorti is a fourteen-year-old village boy and "ringleader" who thrives on mischief, such as rolling a heavy mast-log away to anger its owner. He frequently clashes with his mother and his younger brother, Makhan, leading his mother to view him as a perpetual nuisance. When his uncle Bishamber offers to take him to Calcutta for an education, Phatik eagerly gifts his belongings to Makhan and departs, hoping for freedom. However, he becomes an "unwelcome guest" in his aunt's home, where he is despised as a "clumsy, country lout". The oppressive city atmosphere and the lack of open meadows lead Phatik to suffer from an intense, animal-like longing for his village and his mother.

It was anguish to Phatik to be the unwelcome guest in his aunt's house, despised by this elderly woman and slighted on every occasion. If ever she asked him to do anything for her, he would be so overjoyed that he would overdo it; and then she would tell him not to be so stupid, but to get on with his lessons.The cramped atmosphere of neglect oppressed Phatik so much that he felt that he could hardly breathe. He wanted to go out into the open country and fill his lungs with fresh air.

But there was no open country to go to. Surrounded on all sides by Calcutta houses and walls, he would dream night after night of his village home and long to be back there. He remembered the glorious meadow where he used to fly his kite all day long; the broad river-banks where he would wander about the live-long day singing and shouting for joy; the narrow brook where he could go and dive and swim at any time he liked.

He thought of his band of boy companions over whom he was despot; and, above all, the memory of that tyrant mother of his, who had such a prejudice against him, occupied him day and night. A kind of physical love like that of animals, a longing to be in the presence of the one who is loved, an inexpressible wistfulness during absence, a silent cry of the inmost heart for the mother, like the lowing of a calf in the twilight,--this love, which was almost an animal instinct, agitated the shy, nervous, lean, uncouth and ugly boy. No one could understand it, but it preyed upon his mind continually.

He struggles in school, where he is caned unmercifully, and eventually falls into despair after losing his lesson books. After attempting to run away during a torrential storm, he is brought back by police, shivering with a severe malarial fever. In his delirious state, he calls out for his mother and imagines he is plumbing the depths of a sea using a sailor's "mark". As he reaches the end of his life, his mother finally arrives at his bedside after being sent for by his uncle. Phatik’s final words, "Mother, the holidays have come," signify his ultimate release and spiritual return home.

Once There Was a King

On a rainy evening in Calcutta, the narrator recalls his seven-year-old self praying for rain to prevent his tutor from arriving. When the tutor appears anyway, the boy feigns a headache to escape his lessons and instead convinces his grandmother to tell him a story. The narrator reflects on how modern readers use the "searchlight of science" to criticize fairy tales, whereas children only care for the "Crystal Palace of Truth". The grandmother tells of a King who practices forest austerities for twelve years to obtain a son, leaving behind a daughter. Upon his return, the King impulsively decrees his daughter shall marry the first man he sees, which happens to be a seven-year-old Brahman boy gathering sticks. The Princess takes her young husband to a palace with seven wings, raising him with great care until he becomes impatient to know her identity. She promises to tell him after supper, but he is tragically bitten by a serpent hidden in the flowers on their golden bed. The narrator, deeply invested in the tale, is distraught by the boy's death. However, the grandmother restores the boy to life by floating his body on a river to be revived by a magician's incantations. The story emphasizes the child's faith that refuses to admit defeat, viewing death merely as a "deep slumber" before a new morning.

The Child's Return (Tags: Class/ status, property, inheritance, Padma River, Calcutta)

Raicharan, a devoted servant of the same caste as his master, serves Anukul from childhood into his career as a magistrate. When Anukul has a son, Raicharan becomes the child’s inseparable nurse, viewing the baby's early steps and words as major milestones in human history. Tragedy strikes during a walk by the river when the boy, seeking a "pitty fow," disappears into the flooding Padma River and drowns. Suspected by Anukul’s wife of kidnapping the child for his gold ornaments, a heartbroken Raicharan is dismissed and returns to his village. Shortly after, Raicharan’s own wife dies giving birth to a son, Phailna. Initially resentful, Raicharan becomes convinced that Phailna is his "little Master" reborn, citing the boy’s physical resemblances and behavior as proof. He dedicates his life to raising Phailna as a gentleman, exhausting his resources and working as a servant in Calcutta to provide the boy with a high-quality education. Years later, realizing he can no longer support the boy’s lifestyle, Raicharan brings Phailna to Anukul’s house. He falsely confesses to kidnapping the child years ago, intending to "return" the boy to his rightful station. While Anukul’s wife joyfully accepts Phailna, Anukul’s "magisterial conscience" cannot forgive the perceived treachery. Phailna, now identifying as a wealthy heir, suggests a pension for the old man, but Raicharan refuses any compensation, bows one last time, and vanishes into the world, leaving Phailna to a life of wealth while he remains anonymous.

Master Mashai (Tags: Student/teacher bonds, betrayal, the desire to study in England, city vs. country, Calcutta)

Haralal, a destitute student, is hired by the miserly Adhar Babu to tutor his son, Venugopal (Venu), for a meager wage. Despite Adhar’s stinginess, Haralal and Venu develop a deep emotional bond, with Haralal finding a rare outlet for his "hidden stores of love".

This time the post of tutor remained occupied longer than before. From the very beginning of their acquaintance Haralal and his pupil became great friends. Never before did Haralal have such an opportunity of loving any young human creature. His mother had been so poor and dependent, that he had never had the privilege of playing with the children where she was employed at work. He had not hitherto suspected the hidden stores of love which lay all the while accumulating in his own heart.
[...] 
Venu was now eleven. Haralal had passed his Intermediate, winning a scholarship. He was working hard for his B.A. degree. After College lectures were over, he would take Venu out into the public park and tell him stories about the heroes from Greek History and Victor Hugo's romances. The child used to get quite impatient to run to Haralal, after school hours, in spite of his mother's attempts to keep him by her side.

This displeased Nanibala. She thought that it was a deep-laid plot of Haralal's to captivate her boy, in order to prolong his own appointment. One day she talked to him from behind the purdah: "It is your duty to teach my son only for an hour or two in the morning and evening. But why are you always with him? The child has nearly forgotten his own parents. You must understand that a man of your position is no fit companion for a boy belonging to this house."

Haralal's voice choked a little as he answered that for the future he would merely be Venu's teacher and would keep away from him at other times.

However, following a theft in the household and the family’s growing suspicion of his influence, Haralal is forced to resign. He eventually finds success at a merchant firm, supporting his elderly mother through diligent work. Years later, Venu reappears as a fashionable, spendthrift young man. Desperate to study in England against his father’s wishes, Venu visits Haralal on a night when Haralal is guarding a large sum of office cash. Seizing the opportunity while Haralal eats dinner, Venu steals three thousand rupees and flees for England, leaving behind his mother’s jewelry as supposed collateral. Haralal tries to return the jewelry to Adhar Babu to cover the debt, but the furious father accuses Haralal of kidnapping and extortion. Rejected by his old patron and facing professional ruin, Haralal is given twenty-four hours by his manager to return the funds. Dazed and heartbroken by Venu’s betrayal, Haralal wanders the streets of Calcutta in despair.

"What can I do? What can I do?" Haralal repeated to himself, as he walked along like one dazed, the sun's heat pouring down upon him. At last his mind ceased to think at all about what could be done, but the mechanical walk went on without ceasing.

This city of Calcutta, which offered its shelter to thousands and thousands of men had become like a steel trap. He could see no way out. The whole body of people were conspiring to surround and hold him captive--this most insignificant of men, whom no one knew. Nobody had any special grudge against him, yet everybody was his enemy. 

He eventually hires a carriage to seek "fresh air" on the Maidan, where he experiences a spiritual deliverance before passing away in the night, his heart finally finding peace in the infinite darkness.

Subha (Tags: Disability, City vs. Country)

Subha is the youngest daughter of Banikantha, born dumb into a family where her older sisters have "sweetly speaking" names. While her father loves her, her mother views her as a "curse" and a personal "deformity". Isolated from other children, Subha finds a "lonely grandeur" in nature, developing a silent language with the village river and the family’s two cows, Sarbbashi and Panguli. Her only human friend is Pratap, an idle youth who values her as a silent companion during his fishing trips. As she reaches marriageable age, her parents face social pressure and move to Calcutta to arrange a match while hiding her disability. Subha is devastated to leave her village, clinging to the earth in a silent plea to stay.

It was settled that on the morrow they should go to Calcutta. Subha went to the cow-shed to bid farewell to her childhood's comrades. She fed them with her hand; she clasped their necks; she looked into their faces, and tears fell fast from the eyes which spoke for her. That night was the tenth of the moon. Subha left her room, and flung herself down on her grassy couch beside her dear river. It was as if she threw her arms about Earth, her strong silent mother, and tried to say: "Do not let me leave you, mother. Put your arms about me, as I have put mine about you, and hold me fast."

One day in a house in Calcutta, Subha's mother dressed her up with great care. She imprisoned her hair, knotting it up in laces, she hung her about with ornaments, and did her best to kill her natural beauty. Subha's eyes filled with tears. Her mother, fearing they would grow swollen with weeping, scolded her harshly, but the tears disregarded the scolding.

In Calcutta, she is adorned in jewelry to mask her natural self for a potential groom. The groom and his party mistake her constant tears for a "tender heart", which they believe increases her value, and the marriage proceeds on an "auspicious day". Following the wedding, her parents return home, satisfied that their social status and safety in the next world are preserved. However, within ten days, her new family discovers her condition. The story concludes with Subha’s "endless, voiceless weeping" as she finds herself in a strange environment where no one understands her silent language, highlighting the tragic disconnect between her inner world and society’s rigid expectations.


 

The Postmaster (cross-class friendship, education of girls, country vs. city, displacement)

A city-bred young man from Calcutta is assigned to a remote post office in the village of Ulapur, where he feels like a "fish out of water". His only regular companion is Ratan, an orphan girl who performs odd jobs for him. To pass the time, the postmaster shares stories of his family in Calcutta, and Ratan, in turn, vividly imagines his mother and sister as if they were her own. He eventually begins teaching Ratan the alphabet, a task that brings them closer as she progresses toward double consonants. When the postmaster falls ill during the monsoon, Ratan steps into a maternal role, nursing him with "tender nursing" and staying by his pillow all night. Desperate to leave the lonely village, the postmaster resigns after his transfer request is denied. Ratan piteously asks to accompany him home, but he dismisses the idea as "absurd," leaving her heartbroken.

After a while Ratan rose, and went off to the kitchen to prepare the meal; but she was not so quick about it as on other days. Many new things to think of had entered her little brain. When the postmaster had finished his supper, the girl suddenly asked him: "Dada, will you take me to your home?"

The postmaster laughed. "What an idea!" said he; but he did not think it necessary to explain to the girl wherein lay the absurdity.That whole night, in her waking and in her dreams, the postmaster's laughing reply haunted her--"What an idea!"

On getting up in the morning, the postmaster found his bath ready. He had stuck to his Calcutta habit of bathing in water drawn and kept in pitchers, instead of taking a plunge in the river as was the custom of the village. For some reason or other, the girl could not ask him about the time of his departure, so she had fetched the water from the river long before sunrise, that it should be ready as early as he might want it. After the bath came a call for Ratan. She entered noiselessly, and looked silently into her master's face for orders. The master said: "You need not be anxious about my going away, Ratan; I shall tell my successor to look after you." These words were kindly meant, no doubt: but inscrutable are the ways of a woman's heart!

Ratan had borne many a scolding from her master without complaint, but these kind words she could not bear. She burst out weeping, and said: "No, no, you need not tell anybody anything at all about me; I don't want to stay on here."

As he departs on a boat, he offers her his salary as a gift, which she tearfully refuses before running away. While the postmaster consoles himself with philosophical reflections on the inevitability of partings and deaths, Ratan is left wandering near the post office, clinging to a "false hope" that her "Dada" might someday return. The story highlights the tragic gap between the postmaster’s detached urban sentimentality and the orphan girl’s deep, unlettered devotion.

When he got in and the boat was under way, and the rain-swollen river, like a stream of tears welling up from the earth, swirled and sobbed at her bows, then he felt a pain at heart; the grief-stricken face of a village girl seemed to represent for him the great unspoken pervading grief of Mother Earth herself. At one time he had an impulse to go back, and bring away along with him that lonesome waif, forsaken of the world. But the wind had just filled the sails, the boat had got well into the middle of the turbulent current, and already the village was left behind, and its outlying burning-ground came in sight.

So the traveller, borne on the breast of the swift-flowing river, consoled himself with philosophical reflections on the numberless meetings and partings going on in the world--on death, the great parting, from which none returns.

But Ratan had no philosophy. She was wandering about the post office in a flood of tears. It may be that she had still a lurking hope in some corner of her heart that her Dada would return, and that is why she could not tear herself away. 

The Castaway (Tags: Queer/trans characters, theater/perfomance)

Following a fierce storm in Chandernagore, Sharat and his wife Kiran take in Nilkanta, a young Brahmin boy from a theatrical troupe whose boat foundered in the Ganges. Kiran, who was bored and recovering from illness, finds great amusement in Nilkanta, pampering him with clothes and attention despite Sharat's growing "cordial dislike" for the boy. Nilkanta is a strange figure—a youth of uncertain age who may be a midget or little person. He had often played female parts in his theatrical troupe:

The fact was that, joining the theatrical band when very young, he had played the parts of Radhika, Damayanti, and Sita, and a thoughtful Providence so arranged things that he grew to the exact stature that his manager required, and then growth ceased.

Since every one saw how small Nilkanta was, and he himself felt small, he did not receive due respect for his years. Causes, natural and artificial, combined to make him sometimes seem immature for seventeen years, and at other times a mere lad of fourteen but far too knowing even for seventeen. And as no sign of hair appeared on his face, the confusion became greater. Either because he smoked or because he used language beyond his years, his lips puckered into lines that showed him to be old and hard; but innocence and youth shone in his large eyes. I fancy that his heart remained young, but the hot glare of publicity had been a forcing-house that ripened untimely his outward aspect.

In the quiet villa, he begins to "overpass" his unnatural youth, developing a deep, silent attachment to Kiran:

In the quiet shelter of Sharat's house and garden at Chandernagore, Nature had leisure to work her way unimpeded. Nilkanta had lingered in a kind of unnatural youth, but now he silently and swiftly overpassed that stage. His seventeen or eighteen years came to adequate revelation. No one observed the change, and its first sign was this, that when Kiran treated him like a boy, he felt ashamed. When the gay Kiran one day proposed that he should play the part of lady's companion, the idea of woman's dress hurt him, though he could not say why. So now, when she called for him to act over again his old characters, he disappeared.

It never occurred to Nilkanta that he was even now not much more than a lad-of-all-work in a strolling company. He even made up his mind to pick up a little education from Sharat's factor. But, because he was the pet of his master's wife, the factor could not endure the sight of him. 

This peace is shattered by the arrival of Sharat’s younger brother, Satish, who becomes Kiran's new favorite companion for games and quarrels. Consumed by "all the fervour of his hate," a jealous Nilkanta begins mistreating his pet dog and followers, feeling neglected by Kiran. In a desperate act of revenge, he steals Satish’s prized mother-of-pearl inkstand. When the theft is discovered, Satish accuses him of being a thief, but Kiran staunchly defends his innocence. However, while secretly placing gifts in Nilkanta's box, Kiran discovers the stolen inkstand. Devastated that Kiran saw his crime, Nilkanta vanishes without a trace. To protect his memory, Kiran silently throws the inkstand into the river, leaving only Nilkanta's abandoned, whining mongrel behind on the river-bank.

The Son of Rashmani (Tags: Country vs. city, student life, property/inheritance)

Bhavani Charan, the simple-hearted descendant of the once-wealthy house of Saniari, lives in poverty after his nephew, Tarapada, used a stolen will to seize the family estate. While Bhavani piously dreams of recovering the will, his pragmatic wife, Rashmani, manages their meager resources with "harsh economy" to provide for their son, Kalipada. Rashmani raises Kalipada with strict discipline, ensuring he understands that nothing is gained without suffering. Kalipada eventually moves to Calcutta to study, living in a damp, poorly ventilated room and enduring the cruel "rowdiness" of wealthy students living upstairs.

Kalipada was fortunate enough to secure a place of study in a students' lodging house near his college. The proprietor allowed him to occupy a small room on the ground floor which was absolutely useless for other lodgers. In exchange for this and his board, he had to coach the son of the owner of the house. The one great advantage was that there would be no chance of any fellow lodger ever sharing his quarters. So, although ventilation was lacking, his studies were uninterrupted.

Those of the students who paid their rent and lived in the upper story had no concern with Kalipada; but soon it became painfully evident that those who are up above have the power to hurl missiles at those below with all the more deadly force because of their distance. The leader of those above was Sailen.

Their leader, Sailen, views Kalipada’s poverty-stricken pride as an impertinence. As a "joke," Sailen’s friends steal a fifty-rupee note from Kalipada’s trunk—a gift from his mother that he cherished as a sacred amulet. The shock of the loss and the students' mockery drive a sickly Kalipada into a fatal "paroxysm of pain" and fever. Sailen, discovering through letters that Kalipada is actually his relative, is overcome with remorse and moves the boy to a better house for care. Though they form a brief, happy bond during his convalescence, Kalipada tragically dies just as Rashmani arrives. In the aftermath, a mysterious young man—likely a repentant Sailen—leaves the original lost will at Bhavani’s window. Realizing the document is worthless now that his son is gone, Bhavani tears the will to pieces, rejecting the wealth that came too late.