He: (Shey) (Modern Classics (Penguin)) by Rabindranath Tagore Page B
Authors: Rabindranath Tagore
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beginning to feel rather drowsy.’
We finally reached He’s sister-in-law’s house. I was so hungry that I’d completely forgotten about meeting the bride. I asked his sister-in-law, ‘He was with me all this while, why don’t I see him now?’
His sister-in-law’s dulcet tones issued through three yards of swaddling dupatta: ‘He has gone to seek his bride.’
‘In what dump?’
‘In the bamboo thicket by the dried-up pond.’
‘How far away would that be?’
‘A nine-hour journey.’
‘Not very far, then. But I’m famished. Bring out that chutney of yours.’
Sister-in-law lamented in nasal tones, ‘Curse my ill-luck, it was only the Tuesday before last that I filled the shell of a burst football with all that was left of it and sent it off to Buju-didi. She loves it so with mustard oil, chillies and gram-flour dumplings.’
My face went pale. ‘What’ll we eat, then?’
Sister-in-law answered, ‘Shrivelled shrimps in treacle syrup. Do eat something, son, or you’ll have a stomach ache.’
I ate what I could, but there was a lot left. ‘Have some?’ I asked Puttulal.
He answered, ‘Give me the jar, I’ll take it home and eat it after evening prayers.’
We came back home. Our sandals were soaked and we were plastered in mud.
I summoned Banamali. ‘You monkey, what were you doing when we called you?’
He burst into tears and sobbed, ‘A scorpion had stung me, and it sent me straight to sleep.’
Having said this, he trotted back to bed.
Suddenly, a villainous-looking fellow burst into the room. He was very tall, broad-shouldered and barrel-necked; as dark as Banamali, with bushy hair and bristling whiskers. His eyes were bloodshot, and he was dressed in a printed smock, with a three-cornered yellow towel knotted around his striped red lungi. 29 In his hand was a bamboo cudgel topped with long copper spikes. His voice was like the horn on Gadai-babu’s motorcar. His bellow of ‘Babumashai!’ would have turned the scales at no less than three and a half maunds.
I flinched, tearing a hole in my paper with a nervous thrust of my pen.
‘What’s the matter?’ I demanded. ‘Who are you?’
He answered, ‘My name is Pallaram. I’ve come from my sister’s house. Where’s that He of yours?’
I said, ‘How should I know?’
Pallaram glowered at me. ‘Don’t know, indeed!’ he shouted. ‘I can see that single sock of his—the patched, hairy, green one— dangling from your bookshelf like the chopped-off tail of a dead squirrel. How would he bring himself to leave that behind?’
I said, ‘Our He isn’t one to sustain losses. Wherever he’s gone, he’s sure to come back for it. But what’s the matter?’
He replied, ‘Yesterday, my sister went to the house of the commander-in-chief of the army and made a pact of friendship with his wife. She returned to discover that your He had made off with a pot, an umbrella, a deck of playing cards, a hurricane lantern and a sack of anthracite coal. She can’t even find the basket of bamboo sprouts, tender ends of bottle-gourd and cane-bush leaves that she’d brought in from the garden. She’s simply furious.’
‘Well, what am I to do about that?’ I asked.
‘That He must be hiding somewhere on your premises, bring him out!’ ordered Pallaram.
‘He isn’t here,’ I protested. ‘Go lodge a complaint at the police station.’
‘He must be here.’
‘This is a pretty kettle of fish! I tell you he isn’t here!’
‘He must be here, he must, he must!’ Pallaram pounded on my table with his brass-topped cudgel. The madman next door began howling like a jackal. All the neighbourhood dogs began yapping. Banamali had left me a glass of bael sharbat, which Pallaram now knocked over. The juice mingled with violet ink from a smashed bottle and ran gracefully down the silk sheet to puddle in my shoes. I began yelling for Banamali.
As soon as he saw Pallaram, Banamali fled, calling upon his ancestors to
We finally reached He’s sister-in-law’s house. I was so hungry that I’d completely forgotten about meeting the bride. I asked his sister-in-law, ‘He was with me all this while, why don’t I see him now?’
His sister-in-law’s dulcet tones issued through three yards of swaddling dupatta: ‘He has gone to seek his bride.’
‘In what dump?’
‘In the bamboo thicket by the dried-up pond.’
‘How far away would that be?’
‘A nine-hour journey.’
‘Not very far, then. But I’m famished. Bring out that chutney of yours.’
Sister-in-law lamented in nasal tones, ‘Curse my ill-luck, it was only the Tuesday before last that I filled the shell of a burst football with all that was left of it and sent it off to Buju-didi. She loves it so with mustard oil, chillies and gram-flour dumplings.’
My face went pale. ‘What’ll we eat, then?’
Sister-in-law answered, ‘Shrivelled shrimps in treacle syrup. Do eat something, son, or you’ll have a stomach ache.’
I ate what I could, but there was a lot left. ‘Have some?’ I asked Puttulal.
He answered, ‘Give me the jar, I’ll take it home and eat it after evening prayers.’
We came back home. Our sandals were soaked and we were plastered in mud.
I summoned Banamali. ‘You monkey, what were you doing when we called you?’
He burst into tears and sobbed, ‘A scorpion had stung me, and it sent me straight to sleep.’
Having said this, he trotted back to bed.
Suddenly, a villainous-looking fellow burst into the room. He was very tall, broad-shouldered and barrel-necked; as dark as Banamali, with bushy hair and bristling whiskers. His eyes were bloodshot, and he was dressed in a printed smock, with a three-cornered yellow towel knotted around his striped red lungi. 29 In his hand was a bamboo cudgel topped with long copper spikes. His voice was like the horn on Gadai-babu’s motorcar. His bellow of ‘Babumashai!’ would have turned the scales at no less than three and a half maunds.
I flinched, tearing a hole in my paper with a nervous thrust of my pen.
‘What’s the matter?’ I demanded. ‘Who are you?’
He answered, ‘My name is Pallaram. I’ve come from my sister’s house. Where’s that He of yours?’
I said, ‘How should I know?’
Pallaram glowered at me. ‘Don’t know, indeed!’ he shouted. ‘I can see that single sock of his—the patched, hairy, green one— dangling from your bookshelf like the chopped-off tail of a dead squirrel. How would he bring himself to leave that behind?’
I said, ‘Our He isn’t one to sustain losses. Wherever he’s gone, he’s sure to come back for it. But what’s the matter?’
He replied, ‘Yesterday, my sister went to the house of the commander-in-chief of the army and made a pact of friendship with his wife. She returned to discover that your He had made off with a pot, an umbrella, a deck of playing cards, a hurricane lantern and a sack of anthracite coal. She can’t even find the basket of bamboo sprouts, tender ends of bottle-gourd and cane-bush leaves that she’d brought in from the garden. She’s simply furious.’
‘Well, what am I to do about that?’ I asked.
‘That He must be hiding somewhere on your premises, bring him out!’ ordered Pallaram.
‘He isn’t here,’ I protested. ‘Go lodge a complaint at the police station.’
‘He must be here.’
‘This is a pretty kettle of fish! I tell you he isn’t here!’
‘He must be here, he must, he must!’ Pallaram pounded on my table with his brass-topped cudgel. The madman next door began howling like a jackal. All the neighbourhood dogs began yapping. Banamali had left me a glass of bael sharbat, which Pallaram now knocked over. The juice mingled with violet ink from a smashed bottle and ran gracefully down the silk sheet to puddle in my shoes. I began yelling for Banamali.
As soon as he saw Pallaram, Banamali fled, calling upon his ancestors to
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