Rabindranath Tagore - Selected Stories of Rabindranath Tagore

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 crow a krow! He doesnt 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 daughters 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 mothers 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 pedlar 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 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 me, said Mini cheerfully.

The Cabuliwallah gave it you! cried her mother greatly shocked. O Mini! How could you take it from him?

I entered at that moment, and saving her from impending disaster, proceeded to make my own inquiries.