by Tagore
Exit
Enter Thakurda
Madhabdatta:Oh no, here comes Thakurda.
Thakurda:Why? Why are you afraid of me?
Madhabdatta:Because you are a great one for inciting young boys.
Thakurda:But you are not a young boy, nor are there any boys in your house—besides, you are past the age for incitement—so what are you worried about?
Madhabdatta:Because I have brought a boy into the house.
Thakurda:How’s that?
Madhabdatta:Because my wife was desperate to adopt a son.
Thakurda:I have been hearing that for a long time, but you were reluctant to accept a foster son, after all.
Madhabdatta:You know, I have made some money with great difficulty. I would feel depressed at the very thought of someone else’s son arriving here from somewhere and idly frittering away my hard-earned wealth. But how this boy has wormed his way into my heart . . .
Thakurda:So, the more you spend on him, the more you feel convinced that the money is fortunate to be spent this way.
Madhabdatta:Formerly, when I earned money, it was merely like an addiction—I could not abstain from making money. But now my earnings bring me great pleasure, from the knowledge that this boy will inherit all the money I make.
Thakurda:Good, good. Bhai, where did you find this boy, may I ask?
Madhabdatta:He is my wife’s bhaipo, her brother’s son as village connections go. Motherless since infancy, the poor lad . . . . And then, just the other day, he lost his father too.
Thakurda:Aha, poor boy! Then he needs me.
Madhabdatta:The Kobiraj says, given the joint inflammation of vata, pitta and shleshma—bile, rheum and phlegm—in that frail little body of his, there is not much hope for him. Now the only way is to somehow protect him from the sun and air this sharat season, by keeping him locked up indoors. It’s your old-age pastime to get all the boys outdoors—that’s why I fear you.
Thakurda:What you say is not untrue—I have become downright dangerous, just like the sharat sun and air. But bhai, I also know some games that would keep people indoors. Let me attend to a few personal tasks, and then I’ll make friends with this boy.
Exit
Enter Amalgupta
Amal:Pishemoshai!
Madhabdatta:What is it, Amal?
Amal:Can’t I even step out into that courtyard?
Madhabdatta:No, baba!
Amal:There, where Pishima my aunt cracks lentils with her janta—look there, don’t you see the squirrel sitting on its tail, snatching the scraps of broken dal with both paws to nibble at them? Can’t I go there?
Madhabdatta:No, baba!
Amal:If I were a squirrel, how nice it would be. But Pishemoshai, why will you not let me go out?
Madhabdatta:Because the Kobiraj has said you will fall sick if you go out.
Amal:How does the Kobiraj know?
Madhabdatta:How can you say that Amal! Wouldn’t the Kobiraj know? He has studied so many great big tomes!
Amal:Can he know everything just by studying tomes?
Madhabdatta:Well! As if you don’t know that!
Amal(sighing): I haven’t read any tomes after all—that’s why I don’t know.
Madhabdatta:Look, those great pundits are just like you—they don’t go outdoors, after all.
Amal:Don’t they?
Madhabdatta:No. When can they go out, tell me? They just sit and read those tomes, and don’t have eyes for anything else . . . Amalbabu, you too will be a pundit when you grow up; you’ll sit there reading all those great big books—everybody will marvel at the sight.
Amal:No, no, Pishemoshai, I fall at your feet and beseech you, I won’t become a pundit—Pishemoshai, I won’t be a pundit.
Madhabdatta:How can you say that, Amal! If I could have become a pundit, I would have been saved!
Amal:As for me, I’ll observe everything that exists—I’ll just wander about, gazing at everything.
Madhabdatta:Just listen to his words! What will you see? What’s there to be seen anyway?
Amal:That faraway mountain we can see from our window, I really wish I could cross that mountain and go further beyond.
Madhabdatta:What a crazy thing to say! To cross the mountain, for no rhyme or reason! There’s no saying what he’ll say next. With the mountain rearing its head like an enormous fence, we should realize after all that crossing it is forbidden—else what was the need to assemble so many huge boulders and create such a giant obstacle?
Amal:Pishemoshai, do you find the mountain forbidding? I feel exactly as if the earth, because it cannot speak, is raising its arms to call out to the sky in that fashion. All those faraway people who remain indoors, even they can hear that call when they sit alone by the window in the afternoon. Don’t the pundits hear it too?
Madhabdatta:They’re not crazy like you, after all—and they don’t want to hear it either!
Amal:Yesterday I saw someone as crazy as me.
Madhabdatta:Really? Tell me how.
Amal:He had a bamboo stave on his shoulder, with a bundle tied to one end. And in his left hand he carried a small pot, a ghoti. Wearing a pair of old, pointed nagra shoes, he was walking on the path across this field, heading for that very mountain. I called to him and asked, ‘Where are you going?’ He replied, ‘I don’t know, wherever.’ ‘Why are you going there?’ I enquired. ‘In search of work,’ he answered . . . Achchha Pishemoshai, does work have to be searched for?
Madhabdatta:Indeed it does. So many people go about in search of work.
Amal:Fine. I too shall wander about in search of work.
Madhabdatta:And if you don’t find any?
Amal:If I don’t find any, I’ll search again . . . . And then that man in the nagra shoes went away. I stood at the door, watching him. Over there, where the waterfall descends in a stream beneath the fig tree, he put down his lathi, his bamboo stave, and gently washed his feet in the stream—then, opening his bundle, he took out some chhatu, mashed the dried grain with water and began to eat it. Having eaten, he retied the bundle and heaved it on to his shoulder. Rolling the edge of his loincloth above his ankles, he stepped into the stream and waded across so comfortably . . . . I’ve told Pishima I’ll go and have chhatu beside that waterfall one day.
Madhabdatta:What did Pishima say?
Amal:Pishima said, get well first, then I’ll take you to the waterfall’s edge and feed you some chhatu . . . . When will I get well?
Madhabdatta:It won’t take long now, baba!
Amal:Not long? But as soon as I am well, I shall go away.
Madhabdatta:Where will you go?
Amal:Away I’ll go, wading through so many winding streams, crossing each waterfall in turn—in the afternoon, when everyone is asleep behind closed doors, I’ll be off somewhere, so far away, just wandering about, searching for work.
Madhabdatta:Achchha, get well first, then you . . .
Amal:Then don’t ask me to become a pundit, Pishemoshai!
Madabdatta:Tell me, what do you want to become?
Amal:I can’t think of anything now. Achchha, let me think about it first, and then I’ll tell you.
Madhabdatta:But you must not call out to alien strangers and chat with them, as you did.
Amal:I feel very attracted to strangers from other lands.
Madhabdatta:What if the man had kidnapped you?
Amal:Then it would have been fun. But nobody kidnaps me, after all—everyone just keeps me confined.
Madhabdatta:I have work to do; I’ll be off . . . . But look here baba, don’t go out at all.
Amal:I shan’t. But Pishemoshai, I’ll remain in this room overlooking the street.
2
Enter Dahiwala
Dahiwala:Dahi—dahi—delicious dahi!
Amal:Dahiwala, Dahiwala, O Dahiwala!
Dahiwala:Why do you call? Will you buy some yogurt?
Amal:How can I? I have no money.
Dahiwala:What a strange little boy! If you won’t
buy, why waste my time?
Amal:I’d go away with you, if I could.
Dahiwala:With me!
Amal:Yes. Hearing your faraway call as you pass by, I feel a yearning in my heart.
Dahiwala(setting down the bankh for carrying dahi): Baba, why are you sitting here?
Amal:The Kobiraj has forbidden me to step out, so I sit here all day.
Dahiwala:Aha, my child, what is the matter with you?
Amal:I don’t know. I have no education at all, so I don’t know what’s wrong with me . . . Dahiwala, where do you come from?
Dahiwala:From my village.
Amal:Your village? Is your village v-e-r-y far away?
Dahiwala:Our village is way away, beneath the five-peaked mountain, on the edge of the river Shamoli.
Amal:The five-peaked mountain . . . river Shamoli . . . who knows, maybe I’ve seen your village . . . but I can’t remember when.
Dahiwala:You’ve seen it? Did you ever visit that place beneath the mountain, then?
Amal:No, I have never been there. But I feel I have seen it. Your village lies beneath some very old, very tall trees . . . beside a red-earth path. Isn’t it?
Dahiwala:You’re quite right, baba!
Amal:There, on the mountain slope, all the cows are grazing.
Dahiwala:How extraordinary! Quite right. Indeed our village has grazing cows, many of them.
Amal:The women fetch water from the river, carrying it in pots on their heads . . . They wear red saris.
Dahiwala:Wah! Wah! Absolutely true! All the women from the cowherds’ colony fetch water from the river, indeed. Not that all of them wear red saris, though . . . But baba, you must have gone there for an outing sometime.
Amal:Truly, Dahiwala, I haven’t been there even once. The day the Kobiraj allows me out, will you take me to your village?
Dahiwala:Indeed I will baba, I’ll certainly take you there.
Amal:Teach me how to sell dahi like you. Like that, with the bankh on my shoulder . . . travelling down faraway roads, just like you.
Dahiwala:Good grief! Why should you take to selling dahi, baba! You’ll read a great many books, and become a learned pundit.
Amal:No, no, I shall never become a pundit. From the cowherds’ colony beside your red-earth path beneath your ancient banyan tree, I shall fetch dahi and go about selling it in far-off places, from village to village. The way you call out: ‘Dahi, dahi, dahi—delicious dahi!’—please teach me that tune.
Dahiwala:Hai! Is that a tune worth learning?
Amal:No, no, I love hearing it. Just as I grow wistful when I hear birds call from the far corners of the sky . . . so when your call reached my ears from beyond that bend in the road, through that row of trees, I felt . . . I wonder what I felt!
Dahiwala:Baba, here’s a small earthen pot of dahi for you to taste.
Amal:But I have no money.
Dahiwala:No, no, no, no—don’t talk of money. If you taste a bit of my dahi how happy I shall feel!
Amal:Are you getting very late?
Dahiwala:I’m not late at all, baba; I’ve suffered no losses. I have learned from you the joy of selling dahi.
Exit
Amal(in a sing-song voice): Dahi, dahi, dahi, delicious dahi! Dahi from the cowherds’ home beneath that faraway five-peak mountain, on the edge of river Shamoli. At dawn they milk the cows beneath the trees, and at dusk the women set the dahi. That’s the dahi I sell . . . . Dahi, dahi-i-i delicious dahi! Here’s the Prahari marching up and down the street. Prahari! O watchman, come and listen to me just once!
Enter Prahari
Prahari:Why do you call out so loudly? Aren’t you scared of me?
Amal:Why? Why should I be scared of you?
Prahari:What if I catch you and take you away?
Amal:Where would you take me if you took me captive? Somewhere very far away? Beyond that mountain?
Prahari:What if I take you straight to the king?
Amal:To the king? Please take me there. But the Kobiraj has forbidden me to go out. Nobody can capture me and take me away—here I must remain, day and night, in this very place.
Prahari:The Kobiraj has forbidden you? Aha, true indeed, poor boy—your face looks pale. There are shadows under your eyes. The veins on your hands can be seen.
Amal:Prahari, won’t you ring the bell?
Prahari:It is not yet time.
Amal:Some say ‘time is flying,’ others say ‘it is not yet time’. Achchha, you just have to ring the bell and it will be time, won’t it?
Prahari:How is that possible! I ring the bell only when it is time.
Amal:I rather like your bell—I love the sound of it. In the afternoon, after everyone has eaten, Pishemoshai goes out somewhere to work, Pishima nods off while reading the Ramayana, and our little puppy, face tucked into its tail, goes to sleep in the shade at that corner of the courtyard. Then that bell of yours begins to ring—ding-dong ding-dong ding-dong. Why does your bell ring?
Prahari:The bell announces to everyone that time does not stand still; time is always moving on.
Amal:Where is it going? To which land?
Prahari:Nobody knows.
Amal:Has no one visited that land? I really wish I could go along with time—to that far-off land no one knows about.
Prahari:Everyone must go to that land, baba.
Amal:Me too?
Prahari:Yes, indeed.
Amal:But Kobiraj has forbidden me to go out.
Prahari:Someday the Kobiraj himself might lead you there by the hand.
Amal:No no, you don’t know him. He only keeps people confined.
Prahari:There is an even better Kobiraj. He comes to set people free.
Amal:When will that better Kobiraj come for me? I don’t enjoy sitting idle any more.
Prahari:You mustn’t say such things, baba!
Amal:No . . . I’m still sitting here—I haven’t stepped out of the place where they have made me sit—but when that bell of yours rings, ding-dong ding-dong, I feel a yearning in my heart. Achchha, Prahari, tell me!
Prahari:What is it, baba?
Amal:Achchha, that big building across the road where they’ve hung up a sign, where all the people are constantly coming and going—what’s happening there?
Prahari:They have opened a new post office there.
Amal:Post office? Whose post office?
Prahari:Who else would own a post office? It’s the king’s post office . . . . This boy is very entertaining.
Amal:Does the king’s post office receive lots of letters from the king?
Prahari:Yes, indeed. Wait and see, one day there will be a letter in your name, too.
Amal:A letter in my name, too? But I’m very tiny, after all.
Prahari:The king writes tiny little letters to tiny people.
Amal:That will be nice. When will I receive my letter? How do you know he’ll write to me as well?
Prahari:Otherwise why would he put up such a large golden sign and open a post office right in front of this open window of yours . . . I rather like this boy.
Amal:Achchha, when I receive mail from the king, who will bring it to me?
Prahari:The king has many postmen after all—haven’t you seen them roaming about with round golden badges on their chests?
Amal:Achchha, where do they roam?
Prahari:From house to house, region to region . . . This boy’s questions make me want to laugh.
Amal:When I grow up I’ll become a royal postman.
Prahari:Ha ha ha ha! A postman! A great profession! Rain or shine, rich or poor, to go about distributing letters to every house—an important job, indeed!
Amal:Why do you laugh? That’s the job I like best of all. No, no, your job is fine, too. When the sun shines brightly in the afternoon, the bell rings ding-dong ding-dong—and some nights, I suddenly wake up in bed to find that the lamp has gone out, and from some unknown darkness outside I hear the bell ring, ding-dong ding-dong.
Prahari:There comes
the Morol, our headman—I’ll run along now. If he sees me chatting with you, he’ll make a fuss.
Amal:Where is the Morol? Where, where is he?
