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• 1 2026-07-23T16:02:24+00:00 Rabindranath Tagore, "The Babus of Nayanjore" (1895 / translated 1918) (Short Story) 2 Short Story by Rabindranath Tagore plain 2026-07-23T16:07:19+00:00 Published in Bengali as "Thakurda" (1895). Translated in English in Stories from Tagore (1918). Also published in English as "Grandfather" and "Thakurda." See the Detailed summary 
  
  Tags: Zemindars (Landlords), Faded glory, Delusions of grandeur, Theft, City vs. Country, Calcutta (Kolkata)
  
  
  
  THE BABUS OF NAYANJORE
  
  I
  
  Once upon a time the Babus at Nayanjore were famous landholders. They
  were noted for their princely extravagance. They would tear off the
  rough border of their Dacca muslin, because it rubbed against their
  delicate skin. They could spend many thousands of rupees over the
  wedding of a kitten. And on a certain grand occasion it is alleged that
  in order to turn night into day they lighted numberless lamps and
  showered silver threads from the sky to imitate sunlight.
  
  Those were the days before the flood. The flood came. The line of
  succession among these old-world Babus, with their lordly habits, could
  not continue for long. Like a lamp with too many wicks burning, the oil
  flared away quickly, and the light went out.
  
  Kailas Babu, our neighbour, is the last relic of this extinct
  magnificence. Before he grew up, his family had very nearly reached its
  lowest ebb. When his father died, there was one dazzling outburst of
  funeral extravagance, and then insolvency. The property was sold to
  liquidate the debt. What little ready money was left over was altogether
  insufficient to keep up the past ancestral splendours.
  
  Kailas Babu left Nayanjore and came to Calcutta. His son did not remain
  long in this world of faded glory. He died, leaving behind him an only
  daughter.
  
  In Calcutta we are Kailas Babu's neighbours. Curiously enough our own
  family history is just the opposite of his. My father got his money by
  his own exertions, and prided himself on never spending a penny more
  than was needed. His clothes were those of a working man, and his hands
  also. He never had any inclination to earn the title of Babu by
  extravagant display; and I myself, his only son, owe him gratitude for
  that. He gave me the very best education, and I was able to make my way
  in the world. I am not ashamed of the fact that I am a self-made man.
  Crisp bank-notes in my safe are dearer to me than a long pedigree in an
  empty family chest.
  
  I believe this was why I disliked seeing Kailas Babu drawing his heavy
  cheques on the public credit from the bankrupt bank of his ancient Babu
  reputation. I used to fancy that he looked down on me, because my father
  had earned money with his own hands.
  
  I ought to have noticed that no one showed any vexation towards Kailas
  Babu except myself. Indeed it would have been difficult to find an old
  man who did less harm than he. He was always ready with his kindly
  little acts of courtesy in times of sorrow and joy. He would join in all
  the ceremonies and religious observances of his neighbours. His familiar
  smile would greet young and old alike. His politeness in asking details
  about domestic affairs was untiring. The friends who met him in the
  street were perforce ready to be button-holed, while a long string of
  questions of this kind followed one another from his lips:
  
  "My dear friend, I am delighted to see you. Are you quite well? How is
  Shashi? And Dada--is he all right? Do you know, I've only just heard
  that Madhu's son has got fever. How is he? Have you heard? And Hari
  Charan Babu--I have not seen him for a long time--I hope he is not ill.
  What's the matter with Rakkhal? And er--er, how are the ladies of your
  family?"
  
  Kailas Babu was spotlessly neat in his dress on all occasions, though
  his supply of clothes was sorely limited. Every day he used to air his
  shirts and vests and coats and trousers carefully, and put them out in
  the sun, along with his bed-quilt, his pillowcase, and the small carpet
  on which he always sat. After airing them he would shake them, and
  brush them, and put them carefully away. His little bits of furniture
  made his small room decent, and hinted that there was more in reserve if
  needed. Very often, for want of a servant, he would shut up his house
  for a while. Then he would iron out his shirts and linen with his own
  hands, and do other little menial tasks. After this he would open his
  door and receive his friends again.
  
  Though Kailas Babu, as I have said, had lost all his landed property, he
  had still some family heirlooms left. There was a silver cruet for
  sprinkling scented water, a filigree box for otto-of-roses, a small gold
  salver, a costly ancient shawl, and the old-fashioned ceremonial dress
  and ancestral turban. These he had rescued with the greatest difficulty
  from the money-lenders' clutches. On every suitable occasion he would
  bring them out in state, and thus try to save the world-famed dignity of
  the Babus of Nayanjore. At heart the most modest of men, in his daily
  speech he regarded it as a sacred duty, owed to his rank, to give free
  play to his family pride. His friends would encourage this trait in his
  character with kindly good-humour, and it gave them great amusement.
  
  The neighbourhood soon learnt to call him their Thakur Dada. They would
  flock to his house and sit with him for hours together. To prevent his
  incurring any expense, one or other of his friends would bring him
  tobacco and say: "Thakur Dada, this morning some tobacco was sent to me
  from Gaya. Do take it and see how you like it."
  
  Thakur Dada would take it and say it was excellent. He would then go on
  to tell of a certain exquisite tobacco which they once smoked in the old
  days of Nayanjore at the cost of a guinea an ounce.
  
  "I wonder," he used to say, "if any one would like to try it now. I have
  some left, and can get it at once."
  
  Every one knew that, if they asked for it, then somehow or other the key
  of the cupboard would be missing; or else Ganesh, his old family
  servant, had put it away somewhere.
  
  "You never can be sure," he would add, "where things go to when servants
  are about. Now, this Ganesh of mine,--I can't tell you what a fool he
  is, but I haven't the heart to dismiss him."
  
  Ganesh, for the credit of the family, was quite ready to bear all the
  blame without a word.
  
  One of the company usually said at this point: "Never mind, Thakur Dada.
  Please don't trouble to look for it. This tobacco we're smoking will do
  quite well. The other would be too strong."
  
  Then Thakur Dada would be relieved and settle down again, and the talk
  would go on.
  
  When his guests got up to go away, Thakur Dada would accompany them to
  the door and say to them on the door-step: "Oh, by the way, when are you
  all coming to dine with me?"
  
  One or other of us would answer: "Not just yet, Thakur Dada, not just
  yet. We'll fix a day later."
  
  "Quite right," he would answer. "Quite right. We had much better wait
  till the rains come. It's too hot now. And a grand rich dinner such as I
  should want to give you would upset us in weather like this."
  
  But when the rains did come, every one was very careful not to remind
  him of his promise. If the subject was brought up, some friend would
  suggest gently that it was very inconvenient to get about when the rains
  were so severe, and therefore it would be much better to wait till they
  were over. Thus the game went on.
  
  Thakur Dada's poor lodging was much too small for his position, and we
  used to condole with him about it. His friends would assure him they
  quite understood his difficulties: it was next to impossible to get a
  decent house in Calcutta. Indeed, they had all been looking out for
  years for a house to suit him. But, I need hardly add, no friend had
  been foolish enough to find one. Thakur Dada used to say, with a sigh of
  resignation: "Well, well, I suppose I shall have to put up with this
  house after all." Then he would add with a genial smile: "But, you know,
  I could never bear to be away from my friends. I must be near you. That
  really compensates for everything."
  
  Somehow I felt all this very deeply indeed. I suppose the real reason
  was, that when a man is young, stupidity appears to him the worst of
  crimes. Kailas Babu was not really stupid. In ordinary business matters
  every one was ready to consult him. But with regard to Nayanjore his
  utterances were certainly void of common sense. Because, out of amused
  affection for him, no one contradicted his impossible statements, he
  refused to keep them in bounds. When people recounted in his hearing the
  glorious history of Nayanjore with absurd exaggerations, he would accept
  all they said with the utmost gravity, and never doubted, even in his
  dreams, that any one could disbelieve it.
  
  II
  
  When I sit down and try to analyse the thoughts and feelings that I had
  towards Kailas Babu, I see that there was a still deeper reason for my
  dislike. I will now explain.
  
  Though I am the son of a rich man, and might have wasted time at
  college, my industry was such that I took my M.A. degree in Calcutta
  University when quite young. My moral character was flawless. In
  addition, my outward appearance was so handsome, that if I were to call
  myself beautiful, it might be thought a mark of self-estimation, but
  could not be considered an untruth.
  
  There could be no question that among the young men of Bengal I was
  regarded by parents generally as a very eligible match. I was myself
  quite clear on the point and had determined to obtain my full value in
  the marriage market. When I pictured my choice, I had before my mind's
  eye a wealthy father's only daughter, extremely beautiful and highly
  educated. Proposals came pouring in to me from far and near; large sums
  in cash were offered. I weighed these offers with rigid impartiality in
  the delicate scales of my own estimation. But there was no one fit to be
  my partner. I became convinced, with the poet Bhabavuti, that,
  
      In this world's endless time and boundless space
      One _may_ be born at last to match my sovereign grace.
  
  But in this puny modern age, and this contracted space of modern
  Bengal, it was doubtful if the peerless creature existed as yet.
  
  Meanwhile my praises were sung in many tunes, and in different metres,
  by designing parents.
  
  Whether I was pleased with their daughters or not, this worship which
  they offered was never unpleasing. I used to regard it as my proper due,
  because I was so good. We are told that when the gods withhold their
  boons from mortals they still expect their worshippers to pay them
  fervent honour and are angry if it is withheld. I had that divine
  expectance strongly developed in myself.
  
  I have already mentioned that Thakur Dada had an only grand-daughter. I
  had seen her many times, but had never mistaken her for beautiful. No
  thought had ever entered my mind that she would be a possible partner
  for myself. All the same, it seemed quite certain to me that some day or
  other Kailas Babu would offer her, with all due worship, as an oblation
  at my shrine. Indeed--this was the inner secret of my dislike--I was
  thoroughly annoyed that he had not done so already.
  
  I heard that Thakur Dada had told his friends that the Babus of
  Nayanjore never craved a boon. Even if the girl remained unmarried, he
  would not break the family tradition. It was this arrogance of his that
  made me angry. My indignation smouldered for some time. But I remained
  perfectly silent and bore it with the utmost patience, because I was so
  good.
  
  As lightning accompanies thunder, so in my character a flash of humour
  was mingled with the mutterings of my wrath. It was, of course,
  impossible for me to punish the old man merely to give vent to my rage;
  and for a long time I did nothing at all. But suddenly one day such an
  amusing plan came into my head, that I could not resist the temptation
  of carrying it into effect.
  
  I have already said that many of Kailas Babu's friends used to flatter
  the old man's vanity to the full. One, who was a retired Government
  servant, had told him that whenever he saw the Chota LAct Sahib he always
  asked for the latest news about the Babus of Nayanjore, and the Chota
  LAct had been heard to say that in all Bengal the only really respectable
  families were those of the Maharaja of Cossipore and the Babus of
  Nayanjore. When this monstrous falsehood was told to Kailas Babu he was
  extremely gratified and often repeated the story. And wherever after
  that he met this Government servant in company he would ask, along with
  other questions:
  
  "Oh! er--by the way, how is the Chota LAct Sahib? Quite well, did you
  say? Ah, yes, I am so delighted to hear it! And the dear Mem Sahib, is
  she quite well too? Ah, yes! and the little children--are they quite
  well also? Ah, yes! that's very good news! Be sure and give them my
  compliments when you see them."
  
  Kailas Babu would constantly express his intention of going some day and
  paying a visit to the Lord Sahib. But it may be taken for granted that
  many Chota LActs and Burra LActs also would come and go, and much water
  would pass down the Hoogly, before the family coach of Nayanjore would
  be furbished up to pay a visit to Government House.
  
  One day I took Kailas Babu aside and told him in a whisper: "Thakur
  Dada, I was at the Levee yesterday, and the Chota LAct Sahib happened to
  mention the Babus of Nayanjore. I told him that Kailas Babu had come to
  town. Do you know, he was terribly hurt because you hadn't called. He
  told me he was going to put etiquette on one side and pay you a private
  visit himself this very afternoon."
  
  Anybody else could have seen through this plot of mine in a moment. And,
  if it had been directed against another person, Kailas Babu would have
  understood the joke. But after all that he had heard from his friend the
  Government servant, and after all his own exaggerations, a visit from
  the Lieutenant-Governor seemed the most natural thing in the world. He
  became highly nervous and excited at my news. Each detail of the coming
  visit exercised him greatly,--most of all his own ignorance of English.
  How on earth was that difficulty to be met? I told him there was no
  difficulty at all: it was aristocratic not to know English: and,
  besides, the Lieutenant-Governor always brought an interpreter with him,
  and he had expressly mentioned that this visit was to be private.
  
  About midday, when most of our neighbours are at work, and the rest are
  asleep, a carriage and pair stopped before the lodging of Kailas Babu.
  Two flunkeys in livery came up the stairs, and announced in a loud
  voice, "The Chota LAct Sahib has arrived!" Kailas Babu was ready, waiting
  for him, in his old-fashioned ceremonial robes and ancestral turban, and
  Ganesh was by his side, dressed in his master's best suit of clothes for
  the occasion.
  
  When the Chota LAct Sahib was announced, Kailas Babu ran panting and
  puffing and trembling to the door, and led in a friend of mine, in
  disguise, with repeated salaams, bowing low at each step and walking
  backward as best he could. He had his old family shawl spread over a
  hard wooden chair and he asked the LAct Sahib to be seated. He then made
  a high-flown speech in Urdu, the ancient Court language of the Sahibs,
  and presented on the golden salver a string of gold _mohurs_, the last
  relics of his broken fortune. The old family servant Ganesh, with an
  expression of awe bordering on terror, stood behind with the
  scent-sprinkler, drenching the LAct Sahib, and touched him gingerly from
  time to time with the otto-of-roses from the filigree box.
  
  Kailas Babu repeatedly expressed his regret at not being able to receive
  His Honour Bahadur with all the ancestral magnificence of his own family
  estate at Nayanjore. There he could have welcomed him properly with due
  ceremonial. But in Calcutta he was a mere stranger and sojourner,--in
  fact a fish out of water.
  
  My friend, with his tall silk hat on, very gravely nodded. I need hardly
  say that according to English custom the hat ought to have been removed
  inside the room. But my friend did not dare to take it off for fear of
  detection: and Kailas Babu and his old servant Ganesh were sublimely
  unconscious of the breach of etiquette.
  
  After a ten minutes' interview, which consisted chiefly of nodding the
  head, my friend rose to his feet to depart. The two flunkeys in livery,
  as had been planned beforehand, carried off in state the string of gold
  _mohurs_, the gold salver, the old ancestral shawl, the silver
  scent-sprinkler, and the otto-of-roses filigree box; they placed them
  ceremoniously in the carriage. Kailas Babu regarded this as the usual
  habit of Chota LAct Sahibs.
  
  I was watching all the while from the next room. My sides were aching
  with suppressed laughter. When I could hold myself in no longer, I
  rushed into a further room, suddenly to discover, in a corner, a young
  girl sobbing as if her heart would break. When she saw my uproarious
  laughter she stood upright in passion, flashing the lightning of her big
  dark eyes in mine, and said with a tear-choked voice: "Tell me! What
  harm has my grandfather done to you? Why have you come to deceive him?
  Why have you come here? Why----"
  
  She could say no more. She covered her face with her hands and broke
  into sobs.
  
  My laughter vanished in a moment. It had never occurred to me that there
  was anything but a supremely funny joke in this act of mine, and here I
  discovered that I had given the cruellest pain to this tenderest little
  heart. All the ugliness of my cruelty rose up to condemn me. I slunk out
  of the room in silence, like a kicked dog.
  
  Hitherto I had only looked upon Kusum, the grand-daughter of Kailas
  Babu, as a somewhat worthless commodity in the marriage market, waiting
  in vain to attract a husband. But now I found, with a shock of
  surprise, that in the corner of that room a human heart was beating.
  
  The whole night through I had very little sleep. My mind was in a
  tumult. On the next day, very early in the morning, I took all those
  stolen goods back to Kailas Babu's lodgings, wishing to hand them over
  in secret to the servant Ganesh. I waited outside the door, and, not
  finding any one, went upstairs to Kailas Babu's room. I heard from the
  passage Kusum asking her grandfather in the most winning voice: "Dada,
  dearest, do tell me all that the Chota LAct Sahib said to you yesterday.
  Don't leave out a single word. I am dying to hear it all over again."
  
  And Dada needed no encouragement. His face beamed over with pride as he
  related all manner of praises which the LAct Sahib had been good enough
  to utter concerning the ancient families of Nayanjore. The girl was
  seated before him, looking up into his face, and listening with rapt
  attention. She was determined, out of love for the old man, to play her
  part to the full.
  
  My heart was deeply touched, and tears came to my eyes. I stood there in
  silence in the passage, while Thakur Dada finished all his
  embellishments of the Chota LAct Sahib's wonderful visit. When he left
  the room at last, I took the stolen goods and laid them at the feet of
  the girl and came away without a word.
  
  Later in the day I called again to see Kailas Babu himself. According to
  our ugly modern custom, I had been in the habit of making no greeting at
  all to this old man when I came into the room. But on this day I made a
  low bow and touched his feet. I am convinced the old man thought that
  the coming of the Chota LAct Sahib to his house was the cause of my new
  politeness. He was highly gratified by it, and an air of benign serenity
  shone from his eyes. His friends had looked in, and he had already begun
  to tell again at full length the story of the Lieutenant-Governor's
  visit with still further adornments of a most fantastic kind. The
  interview was already becoming an epic, both in quality and in length.
  
  When the other visitors had taken their leave, I made my proposal to the
  old man in a humble manner. I told him that, "though I could never for a
  moment hope to be worthy of marriage connection with such an illustrious
  family, yet ... etc. etc."
  
  When I made clear my proposal of marriage, the old man embraced me and
  broke out in a tumult of joy: "I am a poor man, and could never have
  expected such great good fortune."
  
  That was the first and last time in his life that Kailas Babu confessed
  to being poor. It was also the first and last time in his life that he
  forgot, if only for a single moment, the ancestral dignity that belongs
  to the Babus of Nayanjore.