The Land of Cards: Stories, Poems and Plays for Children

by Tagore

  Rabindranath Tagore

  The Land of Cards

  Stories, Poems and Plays for Children

  Translated from the Bengali by Radha Chakravarty

  Introduction by Mahasweta Devi

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  Contents

  Introduction

  POEMS

  I Wish

  Hero

  Odd Rhymes

  The Invention of Shoes

  The Little River

  Madho

  The Wise One

  The Supreme Gift

  Two Bighas of Land

  The Boy

  Sparks

  PLAYS

  The Post Office

  A Poetic Mood and Lack of Food

  The Land of Cards

  STORIES

  Hungry Stone

  Kabuliwala

  The Parrot’s Tale

  The Horse

  A True Fairy

  Bolai

  Shiburam

  A Feast for Rats

  Translator’s Note

  Classic Plus

  Read More

  Copyright

  Introduction

  I am delighted to see this collection of Rabindranath Tagore’s poems, plays and stories for children. For in English translations of Tagore’s writings, I feel that not enough attention has been paid, perhaps, to works that are suitable for infants and older children.

  I have read the translations with great care. To offer young readers an anthology of Tagore’s writings in English translation is indeed a laudable effort. In most regions of India, children do not study Bengali, except in the homes of some Bengali families living outside their home state. A time has come when we find children even in West Bengal studying in English-medium schools and for that reason, many children in Bengal also need to read Tagore in English translation. With the publication of this book, young boys and girls may now get a chance to acquaint themselves with Tagore’s works, if their parents choose to take this matter seriously.

  The minds of children are like fertile soil. Reading a fine literary anthology at this age can cultivate their literary taste. I studied in Shantiniketan from 1936 to 1938, from the age of ten to twelve. Tagore was not only alive, he was very active then. He was composing the dance dramas ‘Chitrangada’, ‘Tasher Desh’ (The Land of Cards) and ‘Shyama’. Now, reading the translation of ‘Bolai’, I am reminded of a day in 1937 when Tagore took our Bengali class. That day, the poet taught us the story ‘Bolai’ in the original Bengali. I had felt deeply touched by that story. We were taught in our school at Shantiniketan that every animal, every cat, every bird, had a right to live. From childhood, we were taught to care for nature, not to break a single leaf or flower from a tree. Today, when the planet Earth is endangered, Tagore’s teachings are doubly relevant. Infancy and childhood are indeed the ideal stages in life for a love of reading to be instilled in one’s heart, and to nurture a taste for literature.

  The selections in this volume are very good, and the translations extremely well done. ‘The Post Office’ and ‘Kabuliwala’ are excellent choices. One could of course think of minor alterations, and of adding to or substituting some of the items included here. The story ‘Anadhikar Prabesh’ (‘Unlawful Entry’), for instance, would be highly appropriate for these times. The central message of this story concerns a Brahmin widow who ignores the question of untouchability and caste purity, to shelter a terrified pig inside a temple, because the animal is in mortal fear. The collection called Shishu also contains several pieces by Tagore that would be suitable for young readers who are ten to twelve years old. But those are matters of personal preference. The selections in the present anthology are very well chosen. I am sure that they will touch the pulse of today’s children, and enhance their reading habits.

  This collection is a good and positive effort. I am convinced that this book will also contribute greatly to the process of developing the literary taste of young readers.

  November 2009

  Mahasweta Devi

  Poems

  I Wish

  The flower thought, just imagine the fun

  If I could fly to any place under the sun!

  Determined, it spread its wings one day,

  Became a butterfly and fluttered away.

  The lamp, it wondered, day after day,

  How nice if I could simply fly away!

  Undaunted, its very own wings it grew,

  Became a firefly, and away it flew.

  Alas! thought the pond: how still I lie.

  While all the birds can happily fly!

  And so, on wings of mist, one day,

  It became a cloud and floated away.

  If I were a horse, through fields I’d gallop free,

  If I were a fish, I would swim in the sea,

  As a bird, I’d soar in the sky, so blue.

  Will none of my wishes ever come true?

  Hero

  Imagine, if I travel to distant lands, far and wide,

  Taking Ma along with me, on a long, long ride.

  Ma, inside the palanquin you would be,

  Door open just a crack, for you to see.

  And astride the chestnut horse, that’s me,

  Galloping along by your palanquin’s side.

  The flying horsehooves strike the ground,

  Raising clouds of brown dust, all around.

  Imagine, as the sun sets at the end of the day,

  Through the Field of Twin Lakes we make our way.

  Wherever we look, the land is bare;

  Not a human soul in sight, anywhere!

  The lonely landscape gives you a scare.

  ‘Where are we?’ you wonder, in secret dread.

  ‘Have no fear, my dearest Ma,’ I say:

  ‘There you can see the dried-up river bed.’

  Through a wide expanse of thorny grass,

  Along a winding track, suppose we pass.

  No cows and calves in sight; they’ve gone away,

  Back to their own village, at the end of day.

  Where you and I are heading, who can say?

  In the dark, it’s really very hard to see.

  ‘What’s that light? Out there, beside the lake?’

  Supposing that I hear you call to me.

  Ha re re re re re! A cry we suddenly hear.

  Who are those hordes, yelling as they draw near?

  You cower inside the palki, terrified,

  Praying to all the gods to take your side.

  The bearers drop the palki and they hide,

  Trembling, in the thorn-woods somewhere near.

  Supposing, then, I call to you: ‘No fear!

  Ma, why should you be scared when I am here?’

  The armed bandits shake their shaggy hair;

  Behind their ears, hibiscus flowers they wear.

  I shout at them: ‘I warn you! Stop right there!

  Not one step closer! If any of you dare,

  You’ll meet a deadly fate, for I declare,

  I’ll slash you all to bits with my bare sword!’

  At this, the bandits leapt up in the air

  Ha re re re re re! they all roared.

  ‘O Khoka, don’t go there!’ you plead with me.

  ‘Be calm,’ I answer you, ‘just wait and see!’

  I storm into their midst upon my steed,

  Flashing sword and shield, I make them bleed.

  O Ma, it was a fearsome fight, indeed!

  Your flesh will surely creep when you are told

  Of all the bandits who ran off in fright,

  An
d of the many bandit-heads that rolled.

  After fighting so many dangerous men,

  Khoka must be dead, you think. And then,

  All smeared in sweat and blood, I reappear,

  ‘The battle’s done. It’s over!’ I declare.

  You now step out into the open air,

  To kiss and hold me tight, in a close embrace.

  ‘What luck my Khoka was with me!’ you sigh.

  ‘Or else, what dire dangers I would face!’

  Every day, such dull things come to pass.

  Why can’t this tale come true as well, alas?

  For like a made-up yarn it would have sounded.

  And all who heard it would be left dumbfounded.

  ‘How can this be?’ Dada would ask, astounded,

  ‘Can Khoka be so strong? My little brother?’

  But our neighbours would insist, ‘It was a blessing

  That Khoka was right there, beside his mother!’

  Odd rhymes

  Said Baba Giraffe,

  ‘O Khoka, the quaint

  Shape of your body

  Makes my love grow faint.

  With hind legs so short

  And forelegs so tall,

  I wonder you’re able

  To walk at all!’

  Said Baby Giraffe,

  ‘See your own shape too.

  No one can fathom

  Why Ma loves you.’

  ***

  So freezing was the winter air,

  He longed for a pair of gloves to wear.

  But when to the market he went, to buy

  Some gloves, their price was much too high.

  Instead, a pair of socks he chose

  At a lower price, and went home with those.

  But on his hands they would not fit!

  He had been wrong, he had to admit.

  ***

  The cat said when he met the fish,

  ‘O listen to me, you tasty dish!

  Come into my mouth, so rosy,

  There you will be safe and cosy,

  For that is your Maker’s constant wish.

  The scheming kingfisher lies in wait

  By the pond’s steep shore; it’s tempting fate

  To catch your enemy’s evil eye,

  For then it’s certain that you would die!’

  ***

  ‘Three fours make ninety,’

  Wrote Bholanath.

  He scored a zero

  When tested in math.

  ‘Three fours make twelve!’

  The schoolmaster cried.

  ‘My figure was greater,’

  Said Bhola with pride.

  ***

  A hundred million

  Years from now,

  If a heavenly boon

  Should suddenly allow

  The water creatures

  To find their voice,

  The sea would resound

  With all sorts of noise!

  The whales would roar

  And the lobsters bleat,

  And the hilsa would practise

  Ragas so sweet!

  In the southern breeze

  The conch-shells would trill,

  And the porpoise band

  Play a military drill.

  The Invention of Shoes

  ‘O Minister Gobu!’ King Hobu declared,

  ‘Do you hear? I stayed up all night,

  Wondering why my feet should be smeared

  With dust when I walk? It’s not right!

  The money you earn is your sole concern;

  As for serving the king, no one cares.

  For my feet to be soiled by the land I govern—

  What a terrible state of affairs!

  You must do something about it fast,

  Or this very day shall be your last!’

  Worried to death, Gobu started to sweat,

  For the king’s words had given him a fright.

  All the pundits paled at this royal threat,

  And the courtiers were sleepless all night.

  No stoves were lit, no food prepared

  In their homes, for they wept instead.

  With tears flowing down his greying beard,

  Gobu fell at Hobu’s feet, and said:

  ‘If we get rid of dust, what blessings sweet

  Shall we obtain, when we bow at your feet?’

  At this, King Hobu rocked to and fro

  In thought, then said: ‘That’s spoken truly.

  But first the wretched dirt must go,

  Then think about my blessings, duly.

  If blessings are lost for lack of dust,

  You are not worthy of your wages.

  Why then should I place my trust

  In all these scientists, all these sages?

  First things first; once that is done,

  All other battles will be won.’

  Reeling at the king’s commands,

  The minister hunted everywhere

  For learned men and expert hands

  From every land, both far and near.

  They donned their glasses, all those men,

  Took nineteen kegs of snuff in vain,

  And having pondered, said, ‘But then

  No soil means we can grow no grain!’

  ‘If that is so,’ the king enquired,

  ‘Why have all these men been hired?’

  A million brooms were now purchased,

  In a plan to make the world dirt-free.

  Such clouds of dust their sweeping raised,

  It choked the king, this cleaning spree.

  For dust, they couldn’t see clearly enough;

  The sun was lost in a dusty cloud;

  The dust made people sneeze and cough;

  The town was wrapped in a dusty shroud.

  Said Hobu, ‘In trying to end the curse

  Of dust, you’ve made things even worse.’

  With water bags, the bhishtis rush

  In hordes, to make the dust subside.

  With lakes and rivers turned to slush,

  No boat could float in the muddy tide.

  For water, water-creatures pined,

  While land-beasts tried to swim, in vain

  In depths of slime all trade declined,

  And fever plagued the whole terrain.

  Fumed the king, ‘What foolishness!

  To make my land a sodden mess!’

  Again came the wise men from far and wide,

  To talk about what could be done.

  They grew dizzy-brained and bleary-eyed,

  But the war against dust could not be won.

  ‘Let’s cover the earth with mats,’ they said,

  ‘We’ll smother the soil with carpeting.’

  Some said, ‘An airtight room, instead,

  Is a good place to lock up the king.

  If he treads not on the filthy floor,

  His feet will grow dusty no more.’

  Said Hobu, ‘The plan would work, I trust,

  But there might be a price to pay:

  This land will be ruined for fear of dust,

  If I stay locked up night and day.’

  ‘Then send for a leather-smith!’ everyone cried,

  Let’s wrap the earth in a leather pall,

  In a bag the filthy world we’ll hide.

  Let the great king’s feat be known to all!’

  ‘That’s easily done,’ they all agreed,

  ‘A suitable leather-smith is all we need.’

  Here and there the king’s men raced,

  To their other tasks they paid no heed.

  But no capable leather-smith could be traced,

  Nor hides enough to match their need.

  The aged master leather-smith now

  Came forth, and smiling, said, ‘O Sire,

  If you kindly allow, I can tell you how

  To easily gain your heart’s desire.

  Just cover your feet, and it will be found

  That there is
no need to cover the ground.’

  ‘How simple!’ said Hobu. ‘But this is absurd,

  When the entire country has tried and failed!’

  Cried Gobu, ‘This man’s a wretch, by my word!

  Let him be speared! Then let him be jailed!’

  The leather-smith knelt at the feet of the king,

  And wrapped them in hide from heel to toe.

  Said Gobu, ‘I’d already thought of this thing!

  I wonder how this man got to know?’

  So that is how footwear had its birth:

  Gobu was spared, and so was the earth!

  The Little River

  Our little river, it meanders along;

  In summer, the water is only knee-deep,

  And cows and carts can cross it with ease,

  For the banks, though high, are not too steep.

  No sign of slime, the sands shine bright,

  On one shore, kash fields blossom white.

  Chirping mynahs throng that site,

  The jackal’s howl is heard there at night.

  Across lie groves of mango and palm;

  The village priests dwell in their cool shade.

  Girls and boys bathe close to the bank,

  Splashing with their gamchhas as they wade.

  At dusk and dawn, once their bath is done,

  They dip washcloths to trap small fish.

  To their household tasks the wives return,

  Having used river-sand to scour each dish.

  In Ashadh, clouds gather, the waters rise;

  The river’s in spate, the current grows strong.

  The air is rife with babbling sounds,

  As the muddy torrent swirls along.

  The woods onshore stir to life again,

  And our village wakens to celebrate the rain.

  Madho

  Jagannath the jeweller was a master of his trade.

  For landlord Kishanlal’s family, fine ornaments he made.

  To teach his son these skills, so he too would make good,

  He would catch hold of the little boy, whenever he could,