by Rabindranath Tagore
Adhar Babu lives upon the interest of the capital left him by his father. Only the brokers, negotiating loans, come to his drawing room and smoke the silver-chased hookah, and the clerks from the attorney’s office discuss the terms of some mortgage or the amount of the stamp fees. He is so careful with his money that even the most dogged efforts of the boys from the local football club fail to make any impression on his pocket.
At the time this story opens a new guest came into his household. After a long period of despair, his wife, Nanibala, bore him a son.
The child resembled his mother,—large eyes, well-formed nose, and fair complexion. Ratikanta, Adharlal’s protégé, gave verdict,—”He is worthy of this noble house.” They named him Venugopal.
Never before had Adharlal’s wife expressed any opinion differing from her husband’s on household expenses. There had been a hot discussion now and then about the propriety of some necessary item and up to this time she had merely acknowledged defeat with silent contempt. But now Adharlal could no longer maintain his supremacy. He had to give way little by little when things for his son were in question.
As Venugopal grew up, his father gradually became accustomed to spending money on him. He obtained an old teacher, who had a considerable repute for his learning and also for his success in dragging impassable boys through their examinations. But such a training does not lead to the cultivation of amiability. This man tried his best to win the boy’s heart, but the little that was left in him of the natural milk of human kindness had turned sour, and the child repulsed his advances from the very beginning. The mother, in consequence, objected to him strongly, and complained that the very sight of him made her boy ill. So the teacher left.
Just then, Haralal made his appearance with a dirty dress and a torn pair of old canvas shoes. Haralal’s mother, who was a widow, had kept him with great difficulty at a District school out of the scanty earnings which she made by cooking in strange houses and husking rice. He managed to pass the Matriculation and determined to go to College. As a result of his half-starved condition, his pinched face tapered to a point in an unnatural manner,—like Cape Comorin in the map of India; and the only broad portion of it was his forehead, which resembled the ranges of the Himalayas.
The servant asked Haralal what he wanted, and he answered timidly that he wished to see the master.
The servant answered sharply: “You can’t see him.” Haralal was hesitating, at a loss what to do next, when Venugopal, who had finished his game in the garden, suddenly came to the door. The servant shouted at Haralal: “Get away.” Quite unaccountably Venugopal grew excited and cried: “No, he shan’t get away.” And he dragged the stranger to his father.
Adharlal had just risen from his mid-day sleep and was sitting quietly on the upper verandah in his cane chair, rocking his legs. Ratikanta was enjoying his hookah, seated in a chair next to him. He asked Haralal how far he had got in his reading. The young man bent his head and answered that he had passed the Matriculation. Ratikanta looked stern and expressed surprise that he should be so backward for his age. Haralal kept silence. It was Ratikanta’s special pleasure to torture his patron’s dependants, whether actual or potential.
Suddenly it struck Adharlal that he would be able to employ this youth as a tutor for his son on next to nothing. He agreed, there and then, to take him at a salary of five rupees a month with board and lodging free.
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, also, was glad to find a companion in Haralal. He was the only boy in the house. His two younger sisters were looked down upon, as unworthy of being his playmates. So his new tutor became his only companion, patiently bearing the undivided weight of the tyranny of his child friend.
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.
It was Haralal’s usual practice to begin his College study early before dawn. The child would come to him directly after he had washed himself. There was a small pool in the garden and they used to feed the fish in it with puffed rice. Venu was also engaged in building a miniature garden-house, at the corner of the garden, with its liliputian gates and hedges and gravel paths. When the sun became too hot they would go back into the house, and Venu would have his morning lesson from Haralal.
On the day in question Venu had risen earlier than usual, because he wished to hear the end of the story which Haralal had begun the evening before. But he found his teacher absent. When asked about him, the door-servant said that he had gone out. At lesson time Venu remained unnaturally quiet. He never even asked Haralal why he had gone out, but went on mechanically with his lessons. When the child was with his mother taking his breakfast, she asked him what had happened to make him so gloomy, and why he was not eating his food. Venu gave no answer. After his meal his mother caressed him and questioned him repeatedly. Venu burst out crying and said,—”Master Mashai.” His mother asked Venu,—”What about Master Mashai?” But Venu found it difficult to name the offence which his teacher had committed.
His mother said to Venu: “Has your Master Mashai been saying anything to you against me?”
Venu could not understand the question and went away.
There was a theft in Adhar Babu’s house. The police were called in to investigate. Even Haralal’s trunks were searched. Ratikanta said with meaning: “The man who steals anything, does not keep his thefts in his own box.”
Adharlal called his son’s tutor and said to him: “It will not be convenient for me to keep any of you in my own house. From to-day you will have to take up your quarters outside, only coming in to teach my son at the proper time.”
Ratikanta said sagely, drawing at his hookah: “That is a good proposal,—good for both parties.”
Haralal did not utter a word, but he sent a letter saying that it would be no longer possible for him to remain as tutor to Venu.
When Venu came back from school, he found his tutor’s room empty. Even that broken steel trunk of his was absent. The rope was stretched across the corner, but there were no clothes or towel hanging on it. Only on the table, which formerly was strewn with books and papers, stood a bowl containing some gold-fish with a label on which was written the word “Venu” in Haralal’s hand-writing. The boy ran up at once to his father and asked him what had happened. His father told him that Haralal had resigned his post. Venu went to his room and flung himself down and began to cry. Adharlal did not know what to do with him.
The next day, when Haralal was sitting on his wooden bedstead in the Hostel, debating with himself whether he should attend his college lectures, suddenly he saw Adhar Babu’s servant coming into his room followed by Venu. Venu at once ran up to him and threw his arms round his neck asking him to come back to the house.
Haralal could not explain why it was absolutely impossible for him to go back, but the memory of those clinging arms and that pathetic request used to choke his breath with emotion long after.
Haralal found out, after this, that his mind was in an unsettled state, and that he had but a small chance of winning the scholarship, even if he could pass the examination. At the same time, he knew that, without the scholarship, he could not continue his studies. So he tried to get employment in some office.
Fortunately for him, an English Manager of a big merchant firm took a fancy to him at first sight. After only a brief exchange of words the Manager asked him if he had any experience, and could he bring any testimonial. Haralal could only answer “No”; nevertheless a post was offered him of twenty rupees a month and fifteen rupees were allowed him in advance to help him to come properly dressed to the office.
The Manager made Haralal work extremely hard. He had to stay on after office hours and sometimes go to his master’s house late in the evening. But, in this way, he learnt his work quicker than others, and his fellow clerks became jealous of him and tried to injure him, but without effect. He rented a small house in a narrow lane and brought his mother to live with him as soon as his salary was raised to forty rupees a month. Thus happiness came back to his mother after weary years of waiting.
Haralal’s mother used to express a desire to see Venugopal, of whom she had heard so much. She wished to prepare some dishes with her own hand and to ask him to come just once to dine with her son. Haralal avoided the subject by saying that his house was not big enough to invite him for that purpose.
The news reached Haralal that Venu’s mother had died. He could not wait a moment, but went at once to Adharlal’s house to see Venu. After that they began to see each other frequently.
But times had changed. Venu, stroking his budding moustache, had grown quite a young man of fashion. Friends, befitting his present condition, were numerous. That old dilapidated study chair and ink-stained desk had vanished, and the room now seemed to be bursting with pride at its new acquisitions,—its looking-glasses, oleographs, and other furniture. Venu had entered college, but showed no haste in crossing the boundary of the Intermediate examination.
Haralal remembered his mother’s request to invite Venu to dinner. After great hesitation, he did so. Venugopal, with his handsome face, at once won the mother’s heart. But as soon as ever the meal was over he became impatient to go, and looking at his gold watch he explained that he had pressing engagements elsewhere. Then he jumped into his carriage, which was waiting at the door, and drove away. Haralal with a sigh said to himself that he would never invite him again. VIII
One day, on returning from office, Haralal noticed the presence of a man in the dark room on the ground floor of his house. Possibly he would have passed him by, had not the heavy scent of some foreign perfume attracted his attention. Haralal asked who was there, and the answer came:
“It is I, Master Mashai.”
“What is the matter, Venu?” said Haralal. “When did you arrive?”
“I came hours ago,” said Venu. “I did not know that you returned so late.”
They went upstairs together and Haralal lighted the lamp and asked Venu whether all was well. Venu replied that his college classes were becoming a fearful bore, and his father did not realize how dreadfully hard it was for him to go on in the same class, year after year, with students much younger than himself. Haralal asked him what he wished to do. Venu then told him that he wanted to go to England and become a barrister. He gave an instance of a student, much less advanced than himself, who was getting ready to go. Haralal asked him if he had received his father’s permission. Venu replied that his father would not hear a word of it until he had passed the Intermediate, and that was an impossibility in his present frame of mind. Haralal suggested that he himself should go and try to talk over his father.
“No,” said Venu, “I can never allow that!”
Haralal asked Venu to stay for dinner and while they were waiting he gently placed his hand on Venu’s shoulder and said:
“Venu, you should not quarrel with your father, or leave home.”
Venu jumped up angrily and said that if he was not welcome, he could go elsewhere. Haralal caught him by the hand and implored him not to go away without taking his food. But Venu snatched away his hand and was just leaving the room when Haralal’s mother brought the food in on a tray. On seeing Venu about to leave she pressed him to remain and he did so with bad grace.
While he was eating the sound of a carriage stopping at the door was heard. First a servant entered the room with creaking shoes and then Adhar Babu himself. Venu’s face became pale. The mother left the room as soon as she saw strangers enter. Adhar Babu called out to Haralal in a voice thick with anger:
“Ratikanta gave me full warning, but I could not believe that you had such devilish cunning hidden in you. So, you think you’re going to live upon Venu? This is sheer kidnapping, and I shall prosecute you in the Police Court.”
Venu silently followed his father and went out of the house.
The firm to which Haralal belonged began to buy up large quantities of rice and dhal from the country districts. To pay for this, Haralal had to take the cash every Saturday morning by the early train and disburse it. There were special centres where the brokers and middlemen would come with their receipts and accounts for settlement. Some discussion had taken place in the office about Haralal being entrusted with this work, without any security, but the Manager undertook all the responsibility and said that a security was not needed. This special work used to go on from the middle of December to the middle of April. Haralal would get back from it very late at night.
One day, after his return, he was told by his mother that Venu had called and that she had persuaded him to take his dinner at their house. This happened more than once. The mother said that it was because Venu missed his own mother, and the tears came into her eyes as she spoke about it.
One day Venu waited for Haralal to return and had a long talk with him.
“Master Mashai!” he said. “Father has become so cantankerous of late that I cannot live with him any longer. And, besides, I know that he is getting ready to marry again. Ratikanta is seeking a suitable match, and they are always conspiring about it. There used to be a time when my father would get anxious, if I were absent from home even for a few hours. Now, if I am away for more than a week, he takes no notice,—indeed he is greatly relieved. If this marriage takes place, I feel that I cannot live in the house any longer. You must show me a way out of this. I want to become independent.”
Haralal felt deeply pained, but he did not know how to help his former pupil. Venu said that he was determined to go to England and become a barrister. Somehow or other he must get the passage money out of his father: he could borrow it on a note of hand and his father would have to pay when the creditors filed a suit. With this borrowed money he would get away, and when he was in England his father was certain to remit his expenses.
“But who is there,” Haralal asked, “who would advance you the money?”
“You!” said Venu.
“I!” exclaimed Haralal in amazement.
“Yes,” said Venu, “I’ve seen the servant bringing heaps of money here in bags.”
“The servant and the money belong to someone else.”
Haralal explained why the money came to his house at night, like birds to their nest, to be scattered next morning.
“But can’t the Manager advance the sum?” Venu asked.
“He may do so,” said Haralal, “if your father stands security.”
The discussion ended at this point.
One Friday night a carriage and pair stopped before Haralal’s lodging house. When Venu was announced Haralal was counting money in his bedroom, seated on the floor. Venu entered the room dressed in a strange manner. He had discarded his Bengali dress and was wearing a Parsee coat and trousers and had a cap on his head. Rings were prominent on almost all the fingers of both hands, and a thick gold chain was hanging round his neck: there was a gold-watch in his pocket, and diamond studs could be seen peeping from his shirt sleeves. Haralal at once asked him what was the matter and why he was wearing that dress.
“My father’s marriage,” said Venu, “comes off to-morrow. He tried hard to keep it from me, but I found it out. I asked him to allow me to go to our garden-house at Barrackpur for a few days, and he was only too glad to get rid of me so easily. I am going there, and I wish to God I had never to come back.”
Haralal looked pointedly at the rings on his fingers. Venu explained that they had belonged to his mother. Haralal then asked him if he had already had his dinner. He answered, “Yes, haven’t you had yours?”
“No,” said Haralal, “I cannot leave this room until I have all the money safely locked up in this iron chest.”
“Go and take your dinner,” said Venu, “while I keep guard here: your mother will be waiting for you.”
For a moment Haralal hesitated, and then he went out and had his dinner. In a short time he came back with his mother and the three of them sat among the bags of money talking together. When it was about midnight, Venu took out his watch and looked at it and jumped up saying that he would miss his train. Then he asked Haralal to keep all his rings and his watch and chain until he asked for them again. Haralal put them all together in a leather bag and laid it in the iron safe. Venu went out.
The canvas bags containing the currency notes had already been placed in the safe: only the loose coins remained to be counted over and put away with the rest.
Haralal lay down on the floor of the same room, with the key under his pillow, and went to sleep. He dreamt that Venu’s mother was loudly reproaching him from behind the curtain. Her words were indistinct, but rays of different colours from the jewels on her body kept piercing the curtain like needles and violently vibrating. Haralal struggled to call Venu, but his voice seemed to forsake him. At last, with a noise, the curtain fell down. Haralal started up from his sleep and found darkness piled up round about him. A sudden gust of wind had flung open the window and put out the light. Haralal’s whole body was wet with perspiration. He relighted the lamp and saw, by the clock, that it was four in the morning. There was no time to sleep again; for he had to get ready to start.
After Haralal had washed his face and hands his mother called from her own room,—”Baba, why are you up so soon?”
It was the habit of Haralal to see his mother’s face the first thing in the morning in order to bring a blessing upon the day. His mother said to him: “I was dreaming that you were going out to bring back a bride for yourself.” Haralal went to his own bedroom and began to take out the bags containing the silver and the currency notes.
Suddenly his heart stopped beating. Three of the bags appeared to be empty. He knocked them against the iron safe, but this only proved his fear to be true. He opened them and shook them with all his might. Two letters from Venu dropped out from one of the bags. One was addressed to his father and one to Haralal.
Haralal tore open his own letter and began reading. The words seemed to run into one another. He trimmed the lamp, but felt as if he could not understand what he read. Yet the purport of the letter was clear. Venu had taken three thousand rupees, in currency notes, and had started for England. The steamer was to sail before day-break that very morning. The letter ended with the words: “I am explaining everything in a letter to my father. He will pay off the debt; and then, again, my mother’s ornaments, which I have left in your care, will more than cover the amount I have taken.”
Haralal locked up his room and hired a carriage and went with all haste to the jetty. But he did not know even the name of the steamer which Venu had taken. He ran the whole length of the wharves from Prinsep’s Ghat to Metiaburuj. He found that two steamers had started on their voyage to England early that morning. It was impossible for him to know which of them carried Venu, or how to reach him.
When Haralal got home, the sun was strong and the whole of Calcutta was awake. Everything before his eyes seemed blurred. He felt as if he were pushing against a fearful obstacle which was bodiless and without pity. His mother came on the verandah to ask him anxiously where he had gone. With a dry laugh he said to her,—”To bring home a bride for myself,” and then he fainted away.
On opening his eyes after a while, Haralal asked his mother to leave him. Entering his room he shut the door from the inside while his mother remained seated on the floor of the verandah in the fierce glare of the sun. She kept calling to him fitfully, almost mechanically,—”Baba, Baba!”
The servant came from the Manager’s office and knocked at the door, saying that they would miss the train if they did not start out at once. Haralal called from inside, “It will not be possible for me to start this morning.”
“Then where are we to go, Sir?”
“I will tell you later on.”
The servant went downstairs with a gesture of impatience.
Suddenly Haralal thought of the ornaments which Venu had left behind. Up till now he had completely forgotten about them, but with the thought came instant relief. He took the leather bag containing them, and also Venu’s letter to his father, and left the house.
Before he reached Adharlal’s house he could hear the bands playing for the wedding, yet on entering he could feel that there had been some disturbance. Haralal was told that there had been a theft the night before and one or two servants were suspected. Adhar Babu was sitting in the upper verandah flushed with anger and Ratikanta was smoking his hookah. Haralal said to Adhar Babu, “I have something private to tell you.” Adharlal flared up, “I have no time now!” He was afraid that Haralal had come to borrow money or to ask his help. Ratikanta suggested that if there was any delicacy in making the request in his presence he would leave the place. Adharlal told him angrily to sit where he was. Then Haralal handed over the bag which Venu had left behind. Adharlal asked what was inside it and Haralal opened it and gave the contents into his hands.
Then Adhar Babu said with a sneer: “It’s a paying business that you two have started—you and your former pupil! You were certain that the stolen property would be traced, and so you come along with it to me to claim a reward!”
Haralal presented the letter which Venu had written to his father. This only made Adharlal all the more furious.
“What’s all this?” he shouted, “I’ll call for the police! My son has not yet come of age,—and you have smuggled him out of the country! I’ll bet my soul you’ve lent him a few hundred rupees, and then taken a note of hand for three thousand! But I am not going to be bound by this!”
“I never advanced him any money at all,” said Haralal.
“Then how did he find it?” said Adharlal, “Do you mean to tell me he broke open your safe and stole it?”
Haralal stood silent.
Ratikanta sarcastically remarked: “I don’t believe this fellow ever set hands on as much as three thousand rupees in his life.”
When Haralal left the house he seemed to have lost the power of dreading anything, or even of being anxious. His mind seemed to refuse to work. Directly he entered the lane he saw a carriage waiting before his own lodging. For a moment he felt certain that it was Venu’s. It was impossible to believe that his calamity could be so hopelessly final.
Haralal went up quickly, but found an English assistant from the firm sitting inside the carriage. The man came out when he saw Haralal and took him by the hand and asked him: “Why didn’t you go out by train this morning?” The servant had told the Manager his suspicions and he had sent this man to find out.
Haralal answered: “Notes to the amount of three thousand rupees are missing.”
The man asked how that could have happened.
Haralal remained silent.
The man said to Haralal: “Let us go upstairs together and see where you keep your money.” They went up to the room and counted the money and made a thorough search of the house.
When the mother saw this she could not contain herself any longer. She came out before the stranger and said: “Baba, what has happened?” He answered in broken Hindustani that some money had been stolen.
“Stolen!” the mother cried, “Why! How could it be stolen? Who could do such a dastardly thing?” Haralal said to her: “Mother, don’t say a word.”
The man collected the remainder of the money and told Haralal to come with him to the Manager. The mother barred the way and said:
“Sir, where are you taking my son? I have brought him up, starving and straining to do honest work. My son would never touch money belonging to others.”
The Englishman, not knowing Bengali, said, “Achcha! Achcha!” Haralal told his mother not to be anxious; he would explain it all to the Manager and soon be back again. The mother entreated him, with a distressed voice,
“Baba, you haven’t taken a morsel of food all morning.” Haralal stepped into the carriage and drove away, and the mother sank to the ground in the anguish of her heart.
The Manager said to Haralal: “Tell me the truth. What did happen?”
Haralal said to him, “I haven’t taken any money.”
“I fully believe it,” said the Manager, “but surely you know who has taken it.”
Haralal looked on the ground and remained silent.
“Somebody,” said the Manager, “must have taken it away with your connivance.”
“Nobody,” replied Haralal, “could take it away with my knowledge without taking first my life.”
“Look here, Haralal,” said the Manager, “I trusted you completely. I took no security. I employed you in a post of great responsibility. Every one in the office was against me for doing so. The three thousand rupees is a small matter, but the shame of all this to me is a great matter. I will do one thing. I will give you the whole day to bring back this money. If you do so, I shall say nothing about it and I will keep you on in your post.”
It was now eleven o’clock. Haralal with bent head went out of the office. The clerks began to discuss the affair with exultation.
“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. The crowd passed by, brushing against him: the clerks of the offices were eating their lunch on the road side from their plates made of leaves: a tired wayfarer on the Maidan, under the shade of a tree, was lying with one hand beneath his head and one leg upraised over the other: The up-country women, crowded into hackney carriages, were wending their way to the temple: a chuprassie came up with a letter and asked him the address on the envelope,—so the afternoon went by.
Then came the time when the offices were all about to close. Carriages started off in all directions, carrying people back to their homes. The clerks, packed tightly on the seats of the trams, looked at the theatre advertisements as they returned to their lodgings. From to-day, Haralal had neither his work in the office, nor release from work in the evening. He had no need to hurry to catch the tram to take him to his home. All the busy occupations of the city—the buildings—the horses and carriages—the incessant traffic—seemed, now at one time, to swell into dreadful reality, and at another time, to subside into the shadowy unreal.
Haralal had taken neither food, nor rest, nor shelter all that day.
The street lamps were lighted from one road to another and it seemed to him that a watchful darkness, like some demon, was keeping its eyes wide open to guard every movement of its victim. Haralal did not even have the energy to enquire how late it was. The veins on his forehead throbbed, and he felt as if his head would burst. Through the paroxysms of pain, which alternated with the apathy of dejection, only one thought came again and again to his mind; among the innumerable multitudes in that vast city, only one name found its way through his dry throat,—”Mother!”
He said to himself, “At the deep of night, when no one is awake to capture me—me, who am the least of all men,—I will silently creep to my mother’s arms and fall asleep, and may I never wake again!”
Haralal’s one trouble was lest some police officer should molest him in the presence of his mother, and this kept him back from going home. When it became impossible for him at last to bear the weight of his own body, he hailed a carriage. The driver asked him where he wanted to go. He said: “Nowhere, I want to drive across the Maidan to get the fresh air.” The man at first did not believe him and was about to drive on, when Haralal put a rupee into his hand as an advance payment. Thereupon the driver crossed, and then re-crossed, the Maidan from one side to the other, traversing the different roads.
Haralal laid his throbbing head on the side of the open window of the carriage and closed his eyes. Slowly all the pain abated. His body became cool. A deep and intense peace filled his heart and a supreme deliverance seemed to embrace him on every side. It was not true,—the day’s despair which threatened him with its grip of utter helplessness. It was not true, it was false. He knew now that it was only an empty fear of the mind. Deliverance was in the infinite sky and there was no end to peace. No king or emperor in the world had the power to keep captive this nonentity, this Haralal. In the sky, surrounding his emancipated heart on every side, he felt the presence of his mother, that one poor woman. She seemed to grow and grow till she filled the infinity of darkness. All the roads and buildings and shops of Calcutta gradually became enveloped by her. In her presence vanished all the aching pains and thoughts and consciousness of Haralal. It burst,—that bubble filled with the hot vapour of pain. And now there was neither darkness nor light, but only one tense fulness.
The Cathedral clock struck one. The driver called out impatiently: “Babu, my horse can’t go on any longer. Where do you want to go?”
There came no answer.
The driver came down and shook Haralal and asked him again where he wanted to go.
There came no answer.
And the answer was never received from Haralal, where he wanted to go.