When my father wastes such heaps of paper,mother,you don't seem to mind at all.
But if I take only one sheet to make a boat with,you say,“Child,how troublesome you are!”
What do you think of father's spoiling sheets and sheets of paper with black marks all over on both sides?
The Wicked Postman
Why do you sit there on the floor so quiet and silent,tell me,mother dear?
The rain is coming in through the open window,making you all wet,and you don't mind it.
Do you hear the gong striking four?It is time for my brother to come home from school.
What has happened to you that you look so strange?
Haven't you got a letter from father today?
I saw the postman bringing letters in his bag for almost everybody in the town.
Only,father's letters he keeps to read himself.I am sure the postman is a wicked man.
But don't be unhappy about that,mother dear.
To-morrow is market day in the next village.You ask your maid to buy some pens and papers.
I myself will write all father's letters;you will not find a single mistake.
I shall write from A right up to K.
But,mother,why do you smile?
You don't believe that I can write as nicely as father does!
But I shall rule my paper carefully,and write all the letters beautifully big.
When I finish my writing,do you think I shall be so foolish as father and drop it into the horrid postman's bag?
I shall bring it to you myself without waiting,and letter by letter help you to read my writing.
I know the postman does not like to give you the really nice letters.
The Hero
Mother,let us imagine we are travelling and passing through a strange and dangerous country.
You are riding in a palanquin and I am trotting by you on a red horse.
It is evening and the sun goes down.The waste of Joradighi lies wan and grey before us.The land is desolate and barren.
You are frightened and thinking—“I know not where we have come to.”
I say to you,“Mother,do not be afraid.”
The meadow is prickly with spiky grass,and through it runs a narrow broken path.
There are no cattle to be seen in the wide field;they have gone to their village stalls.
It grows dark and dim on the land and sky,and we cannot tell where we are going.
Suddenly you call me and ask me in a whisper,“What light is that near the bank?”
Just then there bursts out a fearful yell,and figures come running towards us.
You sit crouched in your palanquin and repeat the names of the gods in prayer.
The bearers,shaking in terror,hide themselves in the thorny bush.
I shout to you,“Don't be afraid,mother,I am here.”
With long sticks in their hands and hair all wild about their heads,they come nearer and nearer.
I shout,“Have a care!You villains!One step more and you are dead men.”
They give another terrible yell and rush forward.
You clutch my hand and say,“Dear boy,for heaven's sake,keep away from them.”
I say,“Mother,just you watch me.”
Then I spur my horse for a wild gallop,and my sword and buckler clash against each other.
The fight becomes so fearful,mother,that it would give you a cold shudder could you see it from your palanquin.
Many of them fly,and a great number are cut to pieces.
I know you are thinking,sitting all by yourself,that your boy must be dead by this time.
But I come to you all stained with blood,and say,“Mother,the fight is over now.”
You come out and kiss me,pressing me to your heart,and you say to yourself,
“I don't know what I should do if I hadn't my boy to escort me.”
A thousand useless things happen day after day,and why couldn't such a thing come true by chance?
It would be like a story in a book.
My brother would say,“Is it possible?I always thought he was so delicate!”
Our village people would all say in amazement,“Was it not lucky that the boy was with his mother?”
The End
It is time for me to go,mother;I am going.
When in the paling darkness of the lonely dawn you stretch out your arms for your baby in the bed,I shall say,“Baby is not there!”—mother,I am going.
I shall become a delicate draught of air and caress you;and I shall be ripples in the water when you bathe,and kiss you and kiss you again.
In the gusty night when the rain patters on the leaves you will hear my whisper in your bed,and my laughter will flash with the lightning through the open window into your room.
If you lie awake,thinking of your baby till late into the night,I shall sing to you from the stars,“Sleep,mother,sleep.”
On the straying moonbeams I shall steal over your bed,and lie upon your bosom while you sleep.
I shall become a dream,and through the little opening of your eyelids I shall slip into the depths of your sleep,and when you wake up and look round startled,like a twinkling firefly I shall flit out into the darkness.
When,on the great festival of puja,the neighbours’children come and play about the house,I shall melt into the music of the flute and throb in your heart all day.
Dear auntie will come with puja-presents and will ask,“Where is our baby,sister?”Mother,you will tell her softly,“He is in the pupils of my eyes,he is in my body and in my soul.”
The Recall
The night was dark when she went away,and they slept.
The night is dark now,and I call for her,“Come back,my darling;the world is asleep;and no one would know,if you came for a moment while stars are gazing at stars.”
She went away when the trees were in bud and the spring was young.
Now the flowers are in high bloom and I call,“Come back,my darling.The children gather and scatter flowers in reckless sport.And if you come and take one little blossom no one will miss it.”
Those that used to play are playing still,so spendthrift is life.
