Cabuliwallah ~ Rabindranath Tagore
Introduction
Kabuliwala is a Bengali short story written by
Rabindranath Tagore in 1892.
Rabindranath
Tagore, Bengali Rabīndranāth
Ṭhākur,
(born May 7, 1861, Calcutta [now Kolkata],
India—died August 7, 1941, Calcutta), Bengali poet, short-story
writer, song composer, playwright, essayist, and painter
The
story is of a merchant from Kabul, who comes to Calcutta (present day Kolkata),
India each year for selling dry-fruits and while living in India he becomes
friends with a five-year-old girl Mini from a middle-class aristocratic family.
Theme
The main
theme of this story is filial love—the deep love that fathers have for their
children. In the story we encounter three examples of filial love—the author
and his daughter Mini; the Kabuliwala and his own daughter in Afghanistan; and
the Kabuliwala and Mini. In this story Kabuliwali comes to India every year to
sell dry-fruits and to meet this girl named Mini.
Cabuliwallah
My five-year-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 like to stop her prattle, but I would not. For Mini to be 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 door-keeper, calls a kaka kauwa!
He doesn't know anything, does he?"
Before I could explain to her the
difference between one language and another in this world, she had 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 sat still, trying to think of some reply to this:
"Father! what relation is mother to you?" With a grave face I contrived to say:
"Go and play with Bhola, Mini! I am busy!"
The window of my room overlooks
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, in which Pratap Singh, the hero, has just caught Kanchanlata, the
heroine, in his arms, and is about to escape with her by the third storey
window of the castle, when suddenly Mini left her play, and ran to the window,
crying: "A Cabuliwallah! A Cabuliwallah!' And indeed, in the street below,
there was a Cabuliwallah, walking slowly along. He wore the loose, soiled
clothing of his people, and a tall turban; he carried a bag on his back, and
boxes of grapes in his hand.
I cannot tell what my daughter's
feelings were when she saw this man, but she began to call him loudly.
"Ah!"
thought I, "he will come in, and my seventeenth
chapter will never be finished!" At that very moment the Cabuliwallah
turned, and looked up at the child. When she saw this, she was overcome by
terror, and running to her mother's protection 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 peddler meanwhile entered my doorway
and greeted me with a smile.
So precarious was the position of
my hero and my heroine, that my first impulse was to stop and buy something,
since Mini had called the man to the house. I made some small purchases, and we
began to talk about Abdur Rahman, the Russians, the English, and the Frontier
Policy.
As he was about to leave, he
asked: "And where is the little girl, Sir?"
And then, thinking that Mini must
get rid of her false fear, I had her brought out.
She stood by my chair, and looked
at the Cabuliwallah 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.
A few mornings later, however, 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 Cabuliwallah at her feet. In all
her life, it appeared, my small daughter had never found so patient a listener,
save 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 piece, I handed it to him. The man
accepted the money without demur, and put 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 Cabuliwallah 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 piece?"
"The Cabuliwallah gave it to
me!" said Mini cheerfully.
"The Cabuliwallah gave it to
you!" cried her mother greatly shocked, "O Mini! How could you take
it from him?"
I entered at the moment, and
saving her from impending disaster, proceeded to make my own inquiries.
It was not the first or the
second time, I found, that the two had met. The Cabuliwallah had overcome the
child's first terror by a judicious bribe of nuts and almonds, and the two were
now great friends.
They had many quaint jokes, which
amused them greatly. Mini would seat herself before him, look down on his
gigantic frame in all her tiny dignity, and with her face rippling with
laughter would begin: "O Cabuliwallah! Cabuliwallah: What have you got in
your bag?"
And he would reply, in the nasal
accent 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 Cabuliwallah, not to be
behindhand, would take his turn: "Well, little one, and when are you going
to your father-in-law's house?"
Now nearly every small Bengali
maiden had heard long ago about her father-in-law's house; but we were a little
new-fangled, and had kept these things from our child, so that Mini at this
question must have been a trifle bewildered. But she would not show it, and
with ready tact replied: "Are you going there?"
Amongst men of the Cabuliwallah'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 peddler 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 without
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
land, with his cottage in their midst and the free and independent life, or far
away wilds. Perhaps scenes of travel are conjured up before me and pass and
re-pass in my imagination all the more vividly, because I lead an existence so
like a vegetable that a call to travel would fall upon me like a thunder-bolt.
In the presence of this
Cabuliwallah, I was immediately transported to the foot of arid mountain peaks,
with narrow little defiles twisting in and out amongst their towering heights.
I could see the string of camels bearing the merchandise, and the company of
turbaned merchants, some carrying their queer old firearms, and some their
spears, journeying downward towards the plains. I could see.... But at some
such point Mini's mother would intervene, and implore me to "beware of
that man."
Mini's mother is unfortunately
very timid. Whenever she hears a noise in the street, or sees people coming
towards the house, she always jumps to the conclusion that they are either
thieves, or drunkards, or snakes, or tigers, or malaria, or cockroaches, or
caterpillars. Even after all these years of experience, she is not able to
overcome her terror. So she was full of doubts about the Cabuliwallah, and used
to beg me to keep a watchful eye on him.
If I tried to laugh her fear
gently away, she would turn round seriously, and ask me solemn questions:
Were children never kidnapped?
Was it not true that there was
slavery in Cabul?
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 very improbable. But this was not enough, and her dread
persisted. But as it was a very vague dread, it did not seem right to forbid
the man the house, and the intimacy went on unchecked.
Once a year, in the middle of
January, Rahman, the Cabuliwallah, used to return to his own 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 might have seemed to a stranger that there was some conspiracy
between the two, for when he could not come in the morning, he would appear in
the evening.
Even to me it was a little
startling now and then suddenly to surprise this tall, loose-garmented man
laden with his bags, in the corner of a dark room; but when Mini ran in
smiling, with her "O Cabuliwallah! Cabuliwallah" and the two friends,
so far apart in age, subsided into their old laughter and their old jokes, I
felt reassured.
One morning, a few days before he
had made up his mind to go, I was correcting proof-sheets in my study. The
weather was chilly. Through the window the rays of the sun touched my feet, and
the slight warmth was very welcome. It was nearly eight o'clock, and early
pedestrians were returning home with their heads covered.
Suddenly I heard uproar in the
street, and looking out saw Rahman being led away bound between two policemen,
and behind them a crowd of inquisitive boys. There were blood-stains on his
clothes, and one of the policemen carried a knife. I hurried out, and stopping
them, inquired what it all meant. Partly from one, partly from another, I
gathered that a certain neighbour had owed the peddler something for a Rampuri
shawl, but had denied buying it, and that in the course of the quarrel Rahman
had struck him.
Now, in his excitement, the prisoner began
calling his enemy all sorts of names, when suddenly in a verandah of my house
appeared my little Mini, with her usual exclamation: "O Cabuliwallah!
Cabuliwallah!" Rahman's face lighted up as he turned to her. He had no bag
under his arm today, so that she could not talk about the elephant with him.
She therefore at once proceeded to the next question: "Are you going to
your father-in-law's house?" Rahman laughed and said: "That is 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,
Rahman was sentenced to several years' imprisonment.
Time passed, and he was
forgotten. Our accustomed work in the accustomed place went on, and the thought
of the once free mountaineer spending his years in prison seldom or never
occurred to us. Even my light-hearted Mini, I am ashamed to say, forgot her old
friend. New companions filled her life. As she grew older, she spent more of
her time with girls. So much, indeed, did she spend with them that she came no
more, as she used to do, to her father's room, so that I rarely had any
opportunity of speaking to her.
Years had passed away. It
was once more autumn, and we had made arrangements for our Mini's marriage. It
was to take place during the Puja Holidays. With Durga returning to Kailas, the
light of our home also would depart to her husband's house, and leave her
father's in shadow.
The morning was bright. After the
rains, it seemed as though the air had been washed clean and the rays of the
sun looked like pure gold. So bright were they,
that they made even the sordid brick-walls of our Calcutta lanes
radiant. Since early dawn the wedding-pipes had been sounding, and at each
burst of sound my own heart throbbed. The wail of the tune, Bhairavi, seemed to
intensify the pain I felt at the approaching separation. My Mini was to be
married that night.
From early morning, noise and
bustle had pervaded the house. In the courtyard there was the canopy to be
slung on its bamboo poles; there were chandeliers with their tinkling sound to
be hung in each room and verandah. There was endless hurry and excitement. I
was sitting in my study, looking through the accounts, when someone entered,
saluting respectfully, and stood before me. It was Rahman, the Cabuliwallah. At
first I did not recognise him. He carried no bag, his long hair was cut short
and his old vigour seemed to have gone. But he smiled; and I knew him again.
"When did you come,
Rahman?" I asked him.
"Last evening," he
said, "I was released from jail."
The words struck harshly upon my
ears. I had never before talked with one, who had wounded his fellow-man, and
my heart shrank within itself when I realised this; for I felt that the day
would have been better-omened had he not appeared.
"There are ceremonies going
on," I said, "and I am busy. Perhaps you could come another
day?"
He immediately turned to go; but
as he reached the door he hesitated, and said, "May I not see the little
one, sir, for a moment?" It was his belief that Mini was still the same.
He had pictured her running to him as she used to do, calling. "O
Cabuliwallah! Cabuliwallah!" He had imagined too that they would laugh and
talk together, just as of old. Indeed, in memory of former days, he had
brought, carefully wrapped up in paper, a few almonds and raisins and grapes,
obtained somehow or other from a countryman; for what little money he had, had
gone.
I repeated: "There is a
ceremony in the house, and you will not be able to see anyone today."
The man's face fell. He looked
wistfully at me for a moment, then said, "Good morning," and went
out.
I felt a little sorry, and
would have called him back but I found he was returning of his own accord. He
came close up to me and held out his offerings with the words: "I have
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 memory. 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 this fruit 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.
Unfolding it with great care, he smoothened it out with both hands on my table.
It bore the impression of a little hand. Not a photograph. Not a drawing.
Merely the impression of an ink-smeared hand laid flat on the paper. This touch
of the hand of his own little daughter he had carried always next to his heart,
as he had come year after year to Calcutta to sell his wares in the streets.
Tears came to my eyes. I forgot
that he was a poor Cabuli fruit-seller, while I was.... But no, what was I more
than he? He also was a father.
That impression of the hand of
his little Parvati in her distant mountain home reminded me of my own little
Mini.
I sent for Mini immediately
from the inner apartment. Many difficulties were raised, but I swept them
aside. Clad in the red silk of her wedding-day, with sandal paste on her
forehead, and adorned as a young bride, Mini came, and stood modestly before
me.
The Cabuliwallah seemed amazed 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," and she could not answer him as
of old. She blushed at the question, and stood before him with her head bowed
down.
I remembered the day when the
Cabuliwallah and my Mini had first met, and I felt sad. When she had gone,
Rahman sighed deeply and sat down on the floor. The idea had suddenly come to
him that his daughter too must have grown up, while he had been away so long,
and that he would have to make friends anew with her also. Assuredly he would
not find her as she was when he left her. And besides, what might not have
happened to her in these eight years?
The marriage-pipes sounded and
the mild autumn sunlight streamed round us. But Rahman, standing in our narrow
Calcutta lane, saw in his mind's eye the mountains of Afghanistan.
I took out a hundred rupee note,
gave it to him, and said: "Go back to your daughter, Rahman, 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 house were despondent
about it. But to me the wedding feast was all the brighter for the thought that
in a distant land a long-lost father was going to meet again his only child.
"Kabuliwallah" Summary
The story opens with the narrator
talking about his precocious five-year-old daughter Mini, who learned how to
talk within a year of being born and practically hadn’t stopped talking since.
Her mother often tells her to be quiet, but her father prefers to let her talk,
so she talks to him often.
One day while the narrator is
writing, Mini starts crying out “Kabuliwallah, Kabuliwallah!” The man she’s
shouting about is an Afghan in baggy clothes, walking along selling grapes and
nuts. Mini fears him, convinced that she has children the size of herself
stashed in his bag.
But a few days later, our
narrator finds the Kabuliwallah sitting with Mini, paying close attention as
she talks and talks. He has given her some grapes and pistachios, so the
narrator gives the Kabuliwallah half a rupee. Later, Mini’s mother finds her
with the half-rupee and asks where she got it, and is displeased to hear she
took money from the man.
Mini and the Kabuliwallah develop
a close relationship, spending time together every day joking around and
talking. The narrator enjoys talking to the Kabuliwallah too, asking him about
his home country of Afghanistan, and all about his travels. But Mini’s mother
is alarmed by her daughter’s closeness with the man, worrying that he might try
to abduct Mini. The narrator does not agree that there is any danger.
Every year in the middle of the
month of Magh, the Kabuliwallah returns home. Before making the trip, he goes
around collecting money he is owed. But this year, the Kabuliwallah gets in a
scuffle with a man who owes him money and ends up stabbing him. This lands him
in jail for the next several years, during which Mini grows up and starts enjoying
the company of girls her age. The narrator more or less forgets about the
Kabuliwallah.
But on the day of Mini’s wedding,
the Kabuliwallah appears at the narrator’s house. Without a bag or his long
hair, he is barely recognizable to the narrator, but he eventually welcomes him
in. The narrator is uneasy, thinking about how the Kabuliwallah is the only
would-be murderer he’s ever known, and tells the visitor to leave. He complies.
But shortly after, the
Kabuliwallah returns, bringing a gift of grapes and pistachios for Mini. The
narrator doesn’t tell him that it’s her wedding today, but simply repeats that
there’s an engagement at their house and he must go. But the Kabuliwallah pulls
a small piece of paper out of his coat pocket and shows it to the narrator.
It’s a handprint in ash, and he explains that he has a daughter back home in
Afghanistan, and that Mini helps him deal with the heartache of being so far
from her. The narrator is touched and gets Mini.
Mini and the Kabuliwallah have an
awkward exchange during which the man realizes that Mini has grown up, and
therefore so has his own daughter. Like with Mini, he’ll have to reacquaint
himself with his daughter. The narrator gives the Kabuliwallah money so that he
can return home to Afghanistan to see his daughter, meaning that Mini’s wedding
will lose some of the theatrics such as electric lights and a brass band. But
the wedding will be “lit by a kinder, more gracious light.”
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