The Castaway
The Colonisation of Pakistan by China from news
story is set in the 18th Century British-India of a teenager and his unrequited fantasies of his 30 year old lover. The shame of the society , disgust and the Cast away
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Towards evening the storm
was at its height. From the terrific downpour of rain, the crash of thunder,
and the repeated flashes of lightning, you might think that a battle of the
gods and demons was raging in the skies. Black clouds waved like the Flags of
Doom. The Ganges was lashed into a fury, and the trees of the gardens on either
bank swayed from side to side with sighs and groans.
In a closed room of one
of the riverside houses at Chandernagore (the center of army of British-India), a husband and his wife were seated on
a bed spread on the floor, intently discussing. An earthen lamp burned beside
them.
The husband, Sharat, was
saying: "I wish you would stay on a few days more; you would then be able
to return home quite strong again."
The wife, Kiran, was
saying: "I have quite recovered already. It will not, cannot possibly, do
me any harm to go home now."
Every married person will
at once understand that the conversation was not quite so brief as I have
reported it. The matter was not difficult, but the arguments for and against
did not advance it towards a solution. Like a rudderless boat, the discussion
kept turning round and round the same point; and at last threatened to be
overwhelmed in a flood of tears.
Sharat said: "The
doctor thinks you should stop here a few days longer."
Kiran replied: "Your
doctor knows everything!"
"Well," said
Sharat, "you know that just now all sorts of illnesses are abroad. You
would do well to stop here a month or two more."
"And at this moment
I suppose every one in this place is perfectly well!"
What had happened was
this: Kiran was a universal favourite with her family and neighbours, so that,
when she fell seriously ill, they were all anxious. The village wiseacres
thought it shameless for her husband to make so much fuss about a mere wife and
even to suggest a change of air, and asked if Sharat supposed that no woman had
ever been ill before, or whether he had found out that the folk of the place to
which he meant to take her were immortal. Did he imagine that the writ of Fate
did not run there? But Sharat and his mother turned a deaf ear to them,
thinking that the little life of their darling was of greater importance than
the united wisdom of a village. People are wont to reason thus when danger
threatens their loved ones. So Sharat went to Chandernagore, and Kiran
recovered, though she was still very weak. There was a pinched look on her face
which filled the beholder with pity, and made his heart tremble, as he thought
how narrowly she had escaped death.
Kiran was fond of society
and amusement; the loneliness of her riverside villa did not suit her at all.
There was nothing to do, there were no interesting neighbours, and she hated to
be busy all day with medicine and dieting. There was no fun in measuring doses
and making fomentations. Such was the subject discussed in their closed room on
this stormy evening.
So long as Kiran deigned
to argue, there was a chance of a fair fight. When she ceased to reply, and
with a toss of her head disconsolately looked the other way, the poor man was
disarmed. He was on the point of surrendering unconditionally when a servant
shouted a message through the shut door.
Sharat got up and on
opening the door learnt that a boat had been upset in the storm, and that one
of the occupants, a young Brahmin boy, had succeeded in swimming ashore at
their garden.
Kiran was at once her own
sweet self and set to work to get out some dry clothes for the boy. She then
warmed a cup of milk and invited him to her room.
The boy had long curly
hair, big expressive eyes, and no sign yet of hair on the face. Kiran, after
getting him to drink some milk asked him all about himself.
He told her that his name
was Nilkanta, and that he belonged to a theatrical troupe. They were coming to
play in a neighbouring villa when the boat had suddenly foundered in the storm.
He had no idea what had become of his companions. He was a good swimmer and had
just managed to reach the shore.
The boy stayed with them.
His narrow escape from a terrible death made Kiran take a warm interest in him.
Sharat thought the boy's appearance at this moment rather a good thing, as his
wife would now have something to amuse her, and might be persuaded to stay on
for some time longer. Her mother-in-law, too, was pleased at the prospect of
profiting their Brahmin guest by her kindness. And Nilkanta himself was
delighted at his double escape from his master and from the other world, as
well as at finding a home in this wealthy family.
But in a short while
Sharat and his mother changed their opinion, and longed for his departure. The
boy found a secret pleasure in smoking Sharat's hookahs; he would calmly go off
in pouring rain with Sharat's best silk umbrella for a stroll through the
village, and make friends with all whom he met. Moreover, he had got hold of a
mongrel village dog which he petted so recklessly that it came indoors with
muddy paws, and left tokens of its visit on Sharat's spotless bed. Then he
gathered about him a devoted band of boys of all sorts and sizes, and the
result was that not a solitary mango in the neighbourhood had a chance of
ripening that season.
There is no doubt that
Kiran had a hand in spoiling the boy. Sharat often warned her about it, but she
would not listen to him. She made a dandy of him with Sharat's cast-off
clothes, and gave him new ones also. And because she felt drawn towards him,
and had a curiosity to know more about him, she was constantly calling him to
her own room. After her bath and midday meal Kiran would be seated on the
bedstead with her betel-leaf box by her side; and while her maid combed and
dried her hair, Nilkanta would stand in front and recite pieces out of his
repertory with appropriate gesture and song, his elf-locks waving wildly. Thus
the long afternoon hours passed merrily away. Kiran would often try to persuade
Sharat to sit with her as one of the audience, but Sharat, who had taken a
cordial dislike to the boy, refused; nor could Nilkanta do his part half so
well when Sharat was there. His mother would sometimes be lured by the hope of
hearing sacred names in the recitation; but love of her mid-day sleep speedily
overcame devotion, and she lay lapped in dreams.
The boy often got his
ears boxed and pulled by Sharat, but as this was nothing to what he had been
used to as a member of the troupe, he did not mind it in the least. In his
short experience of the world he had come to the conclusion that, as the earth
consisted of land and water, so human life was made up of eatings and beatings,
and that the beatings largely predominated.
It was hard to tell
Nilkanta's age. If it was about fourteen or fifteen, then his face was too old
for his years; if seventeen or eighteen, then it was too young. He was either a
man too early or a boy too late. The fact was that, joining the theatrical band
when very young, he had played the parts of Radhika, Damayanti, and Sita, and a
thoughtful Providence so arranged things that he grew to the exact stature that
his manager required, and then growth ceased.
Since every one saw how
small Nilkanta was, and he himself felt small, he did not receive due respect
for his years. Causes, natural and artificial, combined to make him sometimes
seem immature for seventeen years, and at other times a mere lad of fourteen
but far too knowing even for seventeen. And as no sign of hair appeared on his
face, the confusion became greater. Either because he smoked or because he used
language beyond his years, his lips puckered into lines that showed him to be
old and hard; but innocence and youth shone in his large eyes. I fancy that his
heart remained young, but the hot glare of publicity had been a forcing-house
that ripened untimely his outward aspect.
In the quiet shelter of
Sharat's house and garden at Chandernagore, Nature had leisure to work her way
unimpeded. Nilkanta had lingered in a kind of unnatural youth, but now he
silently and swiftly overpassed that stage. His seventeen or eighteen years
came to adequate revelation. No one observed the change, and its first sign was
this, that when Kiran treated him like a boy, he felt ashamed. When the gay
Kiran one day proposed that he should play the part of lady's companion, the
idea of woman's dress hurt him, though he could not say why. So now, when she
called for him to act over again his old characters, he disappeared.
It never occurred to
Nilkanta that he was even now not much more than a lad-of-all-work in a
strolling company. He even made up his mind to pick up a little education from
Sharat's factor. But, because he was the pet of his master's wife, the factor
could not endure the sight of him. Also, his restless training made it
impossible for him to keep his mind long engaged; sooner or later, the alphabet
did a misty dance before his eyes. He would sit long enough with an open book
on his lap, leaning against a champak bush beside the Ganges. The waves
sighed below, boats floated past, birds flitted and twittered restlessly above.
What thoughts passed through his mind as he looked down on that book he alone
knew, if indeed he did know. He never advanced from one word to another, but
the glorious thought, that he was actually reading a book, filled his soul with
exultation. Whenever a boat went by, he lifted his book, and pretended to be
reading hard, shouting at the top of his voice. But his energy dropped as soon
as the audience was gone.
Formerly he sang his
songs automatically, but now their tunes stirred in his mind. Their words were
of little import and full of trifling alliteration. Even the feeble meaning
they had was beyond his comprehension; yet when he sang —
Twice-born
bird, ah! wherefore stirred
To wrong our royal lady?
Goose, ah, say why wilt thou slay
Her in forest shady?
then he felt as if
transported to another world and to fear other folk. This familiar earth and
his own poor life became music, and he was transformed. That tale of the goose
and the king's daughter flung upon the mirror of his mind a picture of
surpassing beauty. It is impossible to say what he imagined himself to be, but
the destitute little slave of the theatrical troupe faded from his memory.
When with evening the
child of want lies down, dirty and hungry, in his squalid home, and hears of
prince and princess and fabled gold, then in the dark hovel with its dim
flickering candle, his mind springs free from its bonds of poverty and misery
and walks in fresh beauty and glowing raiment, strong beyond all fear of
hindrance, through that fairy realm where all is possible.
Even so, this drudge of
wandering players fashioned himself and his world anew, as he moved in spirit
amid his songs. The lapping water, rustling leaves, and calling birds; the
goddess who had given shelter to him, the helpless, the God-forsaken; her
gracious, lovely face, her exquisite arms with their shining bangles, her rosy
feet as soft as flower-petals; all these by some magic became one with the
music of his song. When the singing ended, the mirage faded, and the Nilkanta
of the stage appeared again, with his wild elf-locks. Fresh from the complaints
of his neighbour, the owner of the despoiled mango-orchard, Sharat would come
and box his ears and cuff him. The boy Nilkanta, the misleader of adoring
youths, went forth once more, to make ever new mischief by land and water and
in the branches that are above the earth.
Shortly after the advent
of Nilkanta, Sharat's younger brother, Satish, came to spend his college
vacation with them. Kiran was hugely pleased at finding a fresh occupation. She
and Satish were of the same age, and the time passed pleasantly in games and
quarrels and reconciliations and laughter and even tears. Suddenly she would
clasp him over the eyes from behind with vermilion-stained hands, or she would
write "monkey" on his back, or else she would bolt the door on him
from the outside amidst peals of laughter. Satish in his turn did not take
things lying down; he would steal her keys and rings; he would put pepper among
her betel, he would tie her to the bed when she was not looking.
Meanwhile, heaven only
knows what possessed poor Nilkanta. He was suddenly filled with a bitterness
which he must avenge on somebody or something. He thrashed his devoted
boy-followers for no fault, and sent them away crying. He would kick his pet
mongrel till it made the skies resound with its whinings. When he went out for
a walk, he would litter his path with twigs and leaves beaten from the roadside
shrubs with his cane.
Kiran liked to see people
enjoying good fare. Nilkanta had an immense capacity for eating, and never
refused a good thing however often it was offered. So Kiran liked to send for
him to have his meals in her presence, and ply him with delicacies, happy in
the bliss of seeing this Brahmin boy eat to satiety. After Satish's arrival she
had much less spare time on her hands, and was seldom present when Nilkanta's meals
were served. Before, her absence made no difference to the boy's appetite, and
he would not rise till he had drained his cup of milk and rinsed it thoroughly
with water.
But now, if Kiran was not
present to ask him to try this and that, he was miserable, and nothing tasted
right. He would get up, without eating much, and say to the serving-maid in a
choking voice: "I am not hungry." He thought in imagination that the
news of his repeated refusal, "I am not hungry," would reach Kiran;
he pictured her concern, and hoped that she would send for him, and press him
to eat. But nothing of the sort happened. Kiran never knew and never sent for
him; and the maid finished whatever he left. He would then put out the lamp in
his room, and throw himself on his bed in the darkness, burying his head in the
pillow in a paroxysm of sobs. What was his grievance? Against whom? And from
whom did he expect redress? At last, when no one else came, Mother Sleep
soothed with her soft caresses the wounded heart of the motherless lad.
Nilkanta came to the
unshakable conviction that Satish was poisoning Kiran's mind against him. If
Kiran was absent-minded, and had not her usual smile, he would jump to the
conclusion that some trick of Satish had made her angry with him. He took to
praying to the gods, with all the fervour of his hate, to make him at the next
rebirth Satish, and Satish him. He had an idea that a Brahmin's wrath could
never be in vain; and the more he tried to consume Satish with the fire of his
curses, the more did his own heart burn within him. And upstairs he would hear
Satish laughing and joking with his sister-in-law.
Nilkanta never dared
openly to show his enmity to Satish. But he would contrive a hundred petty ways
of causing him annoyance. When Satish went for a swim in the river, and left
his soap on the steps of the bathing-place, on coming back for it he would find
that it had disappeared. Once he found his favourite striped tunic floating
past him on the water, and thought it had been blown away by the wind.
One day Kiran, desiring
to entertain Satish, sent for Nilkanta to recite as usual, but he stood there
in gloomy silence. Quite surprised, Kiran asked him what was the matter. But he
remained silent. And when again pressed by her to repeat some particular
favourite piece of hers, he answered: "I don't remember," and walked
away.
At last the time came for
their return home. Everybody was busy packing up. Satish was going with them.
But to Nilkanta nobody said a word. The question whether he was to go or not
seemed to have occurred to nobody.
The subject, as a matter
of fact, had been raised by Kiran, who had proposed to take him along with
them. But her husband and his mother and brother had all objected so
strenuously that she let the matter drop. A couple of days before they were to
start, she sent for the boy, and with kind words advised him to go back to his
own home.
So many days had he felt
neglected that this touch of kindness was too much for him; he burst into
tears. Kiran's eyes were also brimming over. She was filled with remorse at the
thought that she had created a tie of affection, which could not be permanent.
But Satish was much
annoyed at the blubbering of this overgrown boy. "Why does the fool stand
there howling instead of speaking?" said he. When Kiran scolded him for an
unfeeling creature, he replied: "My dear sister, you do not understand.
You are too good and trustful. This fellow turns up from the Lord knows where,
and is treated like a king. Naturally the tiger has no wish to become a mouse
again. And he has evidently discovered that there is nothing like a tear or two
to soften your heart."
Nilkanta hurriedly left
the spot. He felt he would like to be a knife to cut Satish to pieces; a needle
to pierce him through and through; a fire to burn him to ashes. But Satish was
not even scared. It was only his own heart that bled and bled.
Satish had brought with
him from Calcutta a grand inkstand. The inkpot was set in a mother-of-pearl
boat drawn by a German-silver goose supporting a penholder. It was a great
favourite of his, and he cleaned it carefully every day with an old silk
handkerchief. Kiran would laugh, and tapping the silver bird's beak would say —
Twice-born
bird, ah! wherefore stirred
To wrong our royal lady?
and the usual war of
words would break out between her and her brother-in-law.
The day before they were
to start, the inkstand was missing and could nowhere be found. Kiran smiled,
and said: "Brother-in-law, your goose has flown off to look for your
Damayanti."
But Satish was in a great
rage. He was certain that Nilkanta had stolen it—for several people said they
had seen him prowling about the room the night before. He had the accused
brought before him. Kiran also was there. "You have stolen my inkstand, you
thief!" he blurted out. "Bring it back at once." Nilkanta had
always taken punishment from Sharat, deserved or undeserved, with perfect
equanimity. But, when he was called a thief in Kiran's presence, his eyes
blazed with a fierce anger, his breast swelled, and his throat choked. If
Satish had said another word, he would have flown at him like a wild cat and
used his nails like claws.
Kiran was greatly
distressed at the scene, and taking the boy into another room said in her
sweet, kind way: "Nilu, if you really have taken that inkstand give it to
me quietly, and I shall see that no one says another word to you about
it." Big tears coursed down the boy's cheeks, till at last he hid his face
in his hands, and wept bitterly. Kiran came back from the room and said: "I
am sure Nilkanta has not taken the inkstand." Sharat and Satish were
equally positive that no other than Nilkanta could have done it.
But Kiran said
determinedly: "Never."
Sharat wanted to
cross-examine the boy, but his wife refused to allow it.
Then Satish suggested
that his room and box should be searched. And Kiran said: "If you dare do
such a thing I will never forgive you. You shall not spy on the poor innocent
boy." And as she spoke, her wonderful eyes filled with tears. That settled
the matter and effectually prevented any further molestation of Nilkanta.
Kiran's heart overflowed
with pity at this attempted outrage on a homeless lad. She got two new suits of
clothes and a pair of shoes, and with these and a banknote in her hand she
quietly went into Nilkanta's room in the evening. She intended to put these parting
presents into his box as a surprise. The box itself had been her gift.
From her bunch of keys,
she selected one that fitted and noiselessly opened the box. It was so jumbled
up with odds and ends that the new clothes would not go in. So she thought she
had better take everything out and pack the box for him. At first knives, tops,
kite-flying reels, bamboo twigs, polished shells for peeling green mangoes,
bottoms of broken tumblers and such like things dear to a boy's heart were
discovered. Then there came a layer of linen, clean and otherwise. And from
under the linen there emerged the missing inkstand, goose and all.
Kiran, with flushed face,
sat down helplessly with the inkstand in her hand, puzzled and wondering.
In the meantime, Nilkanta
had come into the room from behind without Kiran knowing it. He had seen the
whole thing and thought that Kiran had come like a thief to catch him in his thieving,
—and that his deed was out. How could he ever hope to convince her that he was
not a thief, and that only revenge had prompted him to take the inkstand, which
he meant to throw into the river at the first chance? In a weak moment he had
put it in the box instead. "He was not a thief," his heart cried out,
"not a thief!" Then what was he? What could he say? That he had
stolen, and yet he was not a thief? He could never explain to Kiran how
grievously wrong she was. And then, how could he bear the thought that she had
tried to spy on him?
At last Kiran with a deep
sigh replaced the inkstand in the box, and, as if she were the thief herself,
covered it up with the linen and the trinkets as they were before; and at the
top she placed the presents, together with the banknote which she had brought
for him.
The next day the boy was
nowhere to be found. The villagers had not seen him; the police could discover
no trace of him. Said Sharat: "Now, as a matter of curiosity, let us have
a look at his box." But Kiran was obstinate in her refusal to allow that
to be done.
She had the box brought
up to her own room; and taking out the inkstand alone, she threw it into the
river.
The whole family went
home. In a day the garden became desolate. And only that starving mongrel of
Nilkanta's remained prowling along the river-bank, whining and whining as if
its heart would break.
A wonderful short-story by Rabindranath Tagore
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