Kabuliwala

My five-years' old daughter Mini cannot live without chattering. I really believe that in all her life she has not wasted a minute in silence. Her mother is often vexed at this, and would stop her prattle, but I would not. To see Mini quiet is unnatural, and I cannot bear it long. And so my own talk with her is always lively.

One morning, for instance, when I was in the midst of the seventeenth chapter of my new novel, my little Mini stole into the room, and putting her hand into mine, said: 'Father! Ramdayal the doorkeeper calls a crow a krow! He doesn't know anything, does he?'

Before I could explain to her the differences of language in this world, she was embarked on the full tide of another subject. 'What do you think, Father? Bhola says there is an elephant in the clouds, blowing water out of his trunk, and that is why it rains!'

And then, darting off anew, while I was still preparing to reply: 'Father! what relation is Mother to you?'

'My dear little sister in law!' I murmured to myself, but with a grave face contrived to answer: 'Go and play with Bhola, Mini! I am busy!'

The window of my study looks out on the road. The child had seated herself at my feet near my table, and was playing softly, drumming on her knees. I was hard at work on my seventeenth chapter, where Pratap Singh, the hero, had just caught Kanchanlata, the heroine, in his arms, and was about to escape with her by the third-story window of the castle, when all of a sudden Mini left her play, and ran to the window, crying, 'A Kabuliwala! a Kabuliwala!' And indeed, in the street below, was a Kabuliwala, passing slowly along. He wore the loose, soiled clothing of his people, with a tall turban; there was a bag on his back, and he carried boxes of grapes in his hand.

I cannot tell what were my daughter's feelings at the sight of this man, but she began to call him loudly. 'Ah!' I thought, 'he will come in, and my seventeenth chapter will never be finished!' At which exact moment the Kabuliwala turned, and looked up at the child. When she saw this, she was overcome by terror, and fled to her mother's protection, and disappeared. She had a blind belief that inside the bag, which the big man carried, there were perhaps two or three other children like herself. The pedlar, meanwhile, entered my doorway, and greeted me with a smiling face.

So precarious was the position of my hero and my heroine, that my first impulse was to stop and buy something, since the man had been called. I made some small purchases, and a conversation began about Abdurrahman, the Russians, the English, and the Frontier Policy.

As he was about to leave, he asked: 'And where is the little girl, sir?'

And I, thinking that Mini must get rid of her false fear, had her brought out.

She stood by my chair, and looked at the Kabuliwala and his bag. He offered her nuts and raisins, but she would not be tempted, and only clung the closer to me, with all her doubts increased.

This was their first meeting.

One morning, however, not many days later, as I was leaving the house, I was startled to find Mini, seated on a bench near the door, laughing and talking, with the great Kabuliwala at her feet. In all her life, it appeared, my small daughter had never found so patient a listener, except her father. And already the corner of her little sari was stuffed with almonds and raisins, the gift of her visitor. 'Why did you give her those?' I said, and taking out an eight-anna bit, I handed it to him. The man accepted the money without demur, and slipped it into his pocket.

Alas, on my return an hour later, I found the unfortunate coin had made twice its own worth of trouble! For the Kabuliwala had given it to Mini; and her mother, catching sight of the bright round object, had pounced on the child with: 'Where did you get that eight-anna bit?'

'The Kabuliwala gave it me,' said Mini cheerfully.

'The Kabuliwala gave it you!' cried her mother much shocked. 'O Mini! how could you take it from him?'

I, entering at the moment, saved her from impending disaster, and proceeded to make my own inquiries.

I found that this was not the first or second time the two had met. The Kabuliwala had overcome the child's first terror by a judicious bribery of nuts and almonds, and the two were now great friends.

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 Kabuliwala, Kabuliwala, 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 Kabuliwala, 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 instant composure replied: 'Are you going there?'

Amongst men of the Kabuliwala'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.

These were autumn mornings, the very time of year when kings of old went forth to conquest; and I, never stirring from my little corner in Calcutta, would let my mind wander over the whole world. At the very name of another country, my heart would go out to it, and at the sight of a foreigner in the streets, I would fall to weaving a network of dreams, —the mountains, the glens, and the forests of his distant home, with his cottage in its setting, and the free and independent life of far-away wilds.

My wife is of a very timid nature, and she was full of doubts about the Kabuliwala. She was afraid that he might steal her. She would beg me to keep a watchful eye on him.

I tried to laugh her fear gently away, but then she would turn round on me seriously, and ask me solemn questions.

'Were children never stolen?'

'Was it not true that there was slavery in Kabul?'

'Was it so very absurd that this big man should be able to carry off a tiny child?'

I urged that, though not impossible, it was highly improbable. But this was not enough, and her dread persisted. But as it was a very vain fear, I did not think it right to forbid the man the house, and the intimacy went on unchecked.

Once a year, in the middle of January, Rahamat, the Kabuliwala, was in the habit of returning to his country, and as the time approached he would be very busy, going from house to house collecting his debts. This year, however, he could always find time to come and see Mini. It would have seemed to him that he was cheating himself if he had not done so.

One morning I was sitting in my study, when I heard an uproar in the street. Looking out, I saw Rahamat being led away by two policemen, and behind them a crowd of curious boys. There were blood-stains on the clothes of the Kabuliwala, and one of the policemen carried a knife. I hurried out and stopped them, and inquired what it all meant. Partly from one, partly from another, I gathered that a certain neighbour had owed the pedlar something for a Rampuri shawl, but had falsely denied having bought it, and that in the course of the quarrel Rahamat had struck him. Now, in the heat of his excitement, the prisoner began calling his enemy all sorts of names.

Suddenly, from a verandah of my house, my little Mini, with her usual exclamation: 'O Kabuliwala! Kabuliwala!' Rahamat's face lighted up as he turned to her. He had no bag under his arm today, so she could not discuss the elephant with him. She at once therefore proceeded to the next question: 'Are you going to the father-in-law's house?' Rahamat laughed and said: 'Just where I am going, little one!' Then seeing that the reply did not amuse the child, he held up his fettered hands. 'Ah!' he said, 'I would have thrashed that old father-in-law, but my hands are bound!'

On a charge of murderous assault, Rahamat was sentenced to some years' imprisonment.

Time passed away, and he was not remembered. The accustomed work in the accustomed place was ours, and the thought of the once-free mountaineer spending his years in prison seldom or never occurred to us. Even my daughter, I am ashamed to say, forgot her old friend.

Many years had passed. It was autumn once more, and we had made arrangements for our Mini's marriage; it was to take place during the Puja holidays. With the coming of the goddess, light and peace seemed to fill the house. There was music and feasting, and the house was full of joy. It was the morning of the wedding, and the house was in a bustle. I was sitting in my study, looking through the accounts, when someone entered, and saluting respectfully, stood before me. It was Rahamat the Kabuliwala. At first I did not recognise him.

He had no bag, nor the long hair, nor the same vigour that he used to have. But he smiled, and I knew him again. 'When did you come, Rahamat?' I asked him.

'Last evening,' he said, 'I was released from jail.'

The words struck harsh upon my ears. I had never before talked with one who had been in jail, and my heart shrank within me. I felt that his coming was a bad omen. 'There are ceremonies going on,' I said, 'and I am busy. You had better go now.'

At my words he was about to go, but as he reached the door he hesitated, and said: 'May I not see the little one, sir, for a moment?' His belief was that Mini was still the same. He had pictured her running to him as she used to do, calling 'O Kabuliwala! Kabuliwala!' He had treasured up for her, as he used to do, a few grapes and raisins in a piece of paper.

I said again: 'There is a ceremony in the house, and you will not be able to see any one.'

The man's face fell. He looked at me for a moment with a sad face, and then he went out.

I felt a little sorry, and was about to call him back, when I saw that he was coming of his own accord. He came close up to me and held out his offerings with the words: 'I brought these few things, sir, for the little one. Will you give them to her?'

I took them and was going to pay him, but he caught my hand and said: 'You are very kind, sir! Keep me in your recollection. Do not offer me money! You have a little girl, I too have one like her in my own home. I think of her, and bring fruits to your child, not to make a profit for myself.'

Saying this, he put his hand inside his big loose robe, and brought out a small and dirty piece of paper. With great care he unfolded this, and spread it out with both hands on my table. It bore the impression of a little, ink-smeared hand. The impression of his own little daughter's hand, who was in the far-off mountains, and whom he had not seen for all these years.

My eyes filled with tears. I forgot that he was a poor Kabuliwala, a fruit-seller, while I was—but no, what was I more than he? He also was a father.

This realization of our common humanity was so strong that I at once sent for Mini. She came, and stood before me, clothed in the red silk of her wedding-day, with the sandal paste on her forehead, and adorned as a young bride. The Kabuliwala looked a little staggered at the apparition. He could not revive their old friendship. At last he smiled and said: 'Little one, are you going to your father-in-law's house?'

But Mini now understood the meaning of the word 'father-in-law's house,' and she could not answer him as of old. She flushed up at the question, and stood before him with her bride-like face turned down.

I remembered the day when the Kabuliwala and my Mini had first met, and I felt sad. When she had gone, Rahamat heaved a deep sigh, and sat down on the floor. The idea had suddenly come to him that his daughter too must have grown in all this time, and that he would have to make friends with her anew. Assuredly he would not find her as he had left her, and besides her, what might have happened to his wife and his home?

The marriage-pipes sounded, and the mild autumn sun streamed in. But Rahamat sat in the little Calcutta lane, and saw before him the barren mountains of Afghanistan.

I took out a bank-note, and gave it to him, saying: 'Go back to your own daughter, Rahamat, in your own country, and may the happiness of your meeting bring good fortune to my child!'

Having made this present, I had to curtail some of the festivities. I could not have the electric lights I had intended, nor the military band, and the ladies of the family were disappointed. But to me the wedding-feast was all the brighter for the thought that in a distant land a long-lost father met again with his only child.