Kisa Gotami, Karma, and The Man from Kabul

30 downloads 265 Views 557KB Size Report
Kisa Gotami is a very old Indian. death story which illustrates the Buddhist idea ... After some time a young girl, named Kisa Gotami, an orphan' and very poor, ...
Fools of little understanding have themselves for their greatest enemies, for they do evil deeds which must bear bitter fruits. That deed is not well done of which a man must repent, and the reward of which he receives crying and with a tearful face. No, that deed is well done of which a man does not repent, and the reward of which he receives gladly and cheerfully. As long as the evil deed done does not bear fruit, the fool thinks it is like honey; but when it ripens, then the fool suffers grief. Let a fool month after month eat his food (like an ascetic) with the tip of a blade of Kusa grass, yet he is not worth the sixteenth particle of those who have well weighed the law. An evil deed, like newly-drawn milk, does not turn (suddenly); smouldering, like fire covered by ashes, it follows the fool. And when the evil deed, after it has become known, brings sorrow to the fool, then it destroys his bright lot, nay, it cleaves his head. Let the fool wish for a false reputation, for precedence among the Bhikshus, for lordship in the convents, for worship among other people! 'May both the layman and he who has left the world think that this is done by me; may they be subject to me in everything which is to be done or is not to be done: thus is the mind of the fool, and his desire and pride increase. 'One is the road that leads to wealth, another the road that leads to Nirvana;' if the Bhikshu, the disciple of Buddha, has learnt this, he will not yearn for honour, he will strive after separation from the world.

KISA GOTAMI: A BUDDHIST STORY Kisa Gotami is a very old Indian. death story which illustrates the Buddhist idea that since death is inevitable, any attempt to resist it, either in one~ self or for loved ones, is bound to end in failure and unhappiness. This is not fatalism -at least not in a negative sense- but rather a very practical way of dealing with life; by accepting what comes and never trying to cling to anything or to prevent anything from happening, one lives without ,the frustrations and unhappiness experienced by those who wish to "control" life. 1>"..,

_ ., _.,

~

THERE was a rich man who found his gold suddenly transformed into ashes; and he took to his bed and refused all food. A friend, hearing of his sickness, visited the rich man and learned the cause of his grief. And the friend said: "Thou didst not make good use of thy wealth. When thou didst hoard it up it was not better than ashes. Now heed my advice. Spread mats in the bazaar; pile up these ashes, and pretend to trade with them." The rich man did as his friend had told him, and when his neighbors asked him, ''Why sellest thou ashes?" he said: "I offer my goods for sale." After some time a young girl, named Kisa Gotami, an orphan' and very poor, passed by, and seeing the rich man in the bazaar, said: "My lord, why pilest thou thus up gold and silver for sale?" And the rich man said: ''Wilt thou please hand me that gold and Silver?» And Kisa Gotami took up a handful of ashes, and 101 they changed back into gold Considering that Kisa Gotami had the mental eye of spiritual knowledge and saw the real worth of things, the rich man gave her in marriage to his son, and he said: ''With many, gold is no better than ashes, but with Kisa Gotami ashes become pure gold." . And Kisa Gotami had an only son, and he died. In her grief she carried the dead child to all her neighbors, ltsking them for medicine, and the people said: "She has lost her senses. The boy is

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ ---:-.".,--- ";-"7

dead. At length Kisa Gotami met a man who replied to her request: "I cannot give thee medicine for thy child, but I know a physician who can." The girl said: "Pray tell me, sir; who is it?" And the man replied: "Go to Sakyamuni, the Buddha." Kisa Gotami repaired to the Buddha and cried: "Lord and Master, give me the medicine that will cure my boy." The Buddha answered: "I want a handful of mustard-seed." And when the girl in her joy promised to procure it, the Buddha added: '"The mustard-seed must be taken from a house where no one has lost a child, husband, parent, or friend." Poor Kisa Gotami now went from hou:;e to house, and the people pitied her and said: "Here is mustard-seed; take it!" But when she asked Did a son or daughter, a father or mother, die in your family?" They answered her: "Alas the living are few, but the dead are many. Do not remind us of our deepest grief." And there was no house but some beloved one bad died in it. Kisa Gotami became weary and hopeless, and sat down at the wayside, watching the lights of the city, as they flickered up and were extinguished again. At last the darkness of the night reigned everywhere. And she considered the fate of men, that their lives flicker up and are extinguished. And she thought to herself: "How selfish am I in my grief! Death is common to all; ·yet in this valley of desolation there is a path that leads him to immortality who has surrendered all selfishness." Putting away the selfishness of her affection for her child, Kisa Gotami had the dead body buried in the forest. Returning to the Buddha, she took refuge in him and found comfort in the Dharma, which is a balm that will soothe all the pains of our troubled hearts. The Buddha said: '"The life of mortals in this world is troubled and brief and combined with pain. For there is not any means by which those that have been bom can avoid dying; after reaching old age there is death; of such a nature are living beings. As ripe fruits are early in danger of falling, so mortals when bom are always in danger of death. As all earthen vessels made by the potter end in being broken, so is the life of mortals. Both young anq adult, both those who are fools and those who are wise, all fall into the power of death; all are subject to death. "Of those who, overcome by death, depart from life, a father catinot save his son, nor kinsmen their relations. Mark I while relatives are looking on and lamenting deeply, one by one mortals are carried off, like an ox that is led to the slaughter. So the world is afflicted with death and decay, therefore the wise do not grieve, knowing the terms of the world. In whatever manner people think a thing will come to pass, it is often different when it happens, and gteat is the disappointment; see, such are the terms of the world. '." "Not from weeping nor from grieving will anyone obtain peace of mind; on the contrary, his pain will be the greater and his body will suffer. He will make himself sick and pale, yet the dead are not saved by his lamentation. People pass away, and their fate after death will be according to their deeds. If a man live a hundred years, or even more, he will at last be separated from the company of his relatives, and leave the life of this world. He who seeks peace should draw out the arrow of lamentation, and complaint, and grief. He who bas drawn out the arrow and has become composed will obtain peace of mind; he who has overcome all sorrow will become free from SorrOW, and be blessed."

KARMA Khushwant Singh Sir Mohan La! looked at himself in the mirror of a first-class waiting room at the railway station. The mirror was obviously made in India. The red oxide at its back bad come off at several places and long lines of translucent glass cut across its surface. Sir Mohan smiled at the mirror with an air of pity and patronage.

,

''You are so very much like everything else in this country-inefficient, dirty, indifferent," he murmured The mirror smiled back at Sir Mohan. ''You are a bit all right, old chap," it said. "Distinguished, efficient-even handsome. That neady trimmed mustache, the suit from Saville Row with the carnation in the buttonhole, the aroma of eau de cologne, talcum powder and scented soap all about youl Yes, old fellow, you are a bit of all right." Sir Mohan threw out his chest, smoothed his Balliol tie for the umpteenth time, and waved a good-by to the mirror. He glanced at his watch. There was still time for a quick one. "Koi hai?" A bearer in white livery appeared through a wite-gauze door. "Ek chota," ordered Sir Mohan and sank into a large cane chair to drink and ruminate. Outside the waitiug room Sir Mohan La!'s luggage lay piled along the wall. On a small gray steel trunk, Lachmi, Lady Mohan La!, sat chewing a betel leaf and fanning herself with a newspaper. She was short and fat and in her middle forties. She wore a dirty white sari with a red border. On one side of her nose glistened a diamond nose ring and she had several gold bangles on her arms. She had been talking to the bearer until Sir Mohan had called him inside. As soon as he had gone, she hailed a passing railway coolie. ''Where does the zenana stop?" ''Right at the end of the platform." The coolie flattened his turhan to make a cushion, hoisted the steel trunk on his head, and moved-down the platform. Lady La! picked up her brass tiffin carrier and ambled along beside him. On the way she stopped by a hawker's stall to replenish her silver betel-leaf case, and then joined the coolie. She sat down on her steel trunk (which the coolie had put down) and started talking to him. "Are the trains very crowded on these lines?" ''These days all trains are crowded, but you'll find room in the zenana." ''Then I might as well get over the bother of eating." Lady La! opened the brass carrier and took out a bundle of cramped chapanis· and some mango pickle. While she ate, the coolie sat opposite her on his haunches, drawing lines in the gravel

~his~

"Are you traveling alone, sister?" "No, I am with my master, brother. He is in the waitiug room. He travels first class. He is a vizier and a barrister, and meets so many officers and Englishmen in the train8--1Uld I am only a native woman. I can't understand English and don't know theit ways, so I keep to my zenana interc1ass. " Lachmi chatted away mertily. She was fond of a lillie gossip and had no one. to talk to at home. Her husband never had any time to spare for her. She lived in the upper story of the house and he on the ground floor. He did not like her poor, illiterate relatives hanging about his bungalow, so they never came. He came up to her once in a while at night and stayed for a few minutes. He just ordered her about in anglicized Hindustrani and she obeyed passively. These nocturnal visits had, however, bome no fruit The signal came down and the clanging of the bell announced the approaching train. Lady La! .hurriedly finished off her meal. She got up, still licking the stone of the pickled mango. She emitted a long, loud belch as she went to the public tap to rinse her mouth and wash her hands. After washing, she dried her mouth and hands with the loose end of the sari, and walked back to her steel trunk, belching and , thanking the gods for the favor of a filling meal.

"

",

...--.

---,

-

The train steamed in. Lachmi found herself facing an almost empty interclass zenana compartment next to the guard's van, at the tail end of the train. The rest of the train was packed. She heaved her squat, bulky frame through the door and found a seat by the window. She produced a two-anna bit from a knot in her sari and dismissed the coolie. She then opened her betel case and made herself two betel leaves charged with a red-and-white paste, minced betel-nuts, and cardamons. These she thrust into her mouth until her cheeks bulged on both sides. Then she rested her chin on her hands and sat gazing idly at the jostling crowd on the platform. .. The arrival of the train did not disturb Sir Mohan Lal's sangfroid. He continued to sip his Scotch and ordered the bearer to tell him when he had moved the luggage to a first-class compartment. Excitement, busde, and hurry were exhibitions of bad breeding, and Sir Mohan was eminendy well-bred. He wanted everything "tickety-boo" and orderly. In his five years abroad, Sir Mohan had acquired the manners and attitudes of the upper classes. He rarely spoke Hindustani. When he did, it was like an Englishman's--onIy the very necessary words and properly anglicized. But he fancied his English, finished and refined at no less a place than the University of Oxford. He was fond of conversation, and like a cultured Englishman, he could talk on almost any subjectbooks, politics, people. How frequendy had he heart English people say that he spoke like an Englishman! Sir Mohan wondered if he would be travelling alone. It was a cantonment and some English officers might be on the train. His heart warmed at the prospect of an impressive conversation. He never showed any sign of eagerness to talk to the English, as most Indians did. Nor was he loud, aggressive, and opinionated like them. He went about his business with an expressionless matter-offactuess. He would retire to his comer by the window and get out a copy of The Times. He would fold it in a way in which the name of the paper was visible to others while he did the crossword puzzle. The Times always attracted attention. Someone. would like to borrow it when he put it aside with a gesture signifying "I've finished with it." Perhaps someone would recognize his Balliol tie, which he always wore while traveling. That would open a vista leading to a fairyland of Oxford colleges, masters, dons, tutors, boat races, and Rugger matches. If both The Times and the tie failed, Sir Mohan would "Koi hai" his bearer to get the Scotch out. Whisky never failed with Englishmen. Then followed Sir Mohan's handsome gold cigarette case filled with English cigarettes. English cigarettes in India? How on earth did he get them? Sure he didn't mind? And Sir Mohan's understanding srnile--of course he didn't. But could he use the Englishman as a me&um to commune with his dear old England? Those five years of gray bags and goWns, of sports blazers and mixed doubles, of dinners at the Inns of Court and nights with Piccadilly prostitutes. Five years of a crowded, glorious life. Worth far more than the forty-five in India with his dirty, vulgar countrymen, with sordid details of the road to success, of nocturnal visits to the upper story and all-too-brief sexual acts with obese old Lachmi, smelling of sweat and raw onions. Sir Mohan's thoughts were disturbed by the bearer's announcing the installation of the sahib's luggage in a first-class coupe next to the engine. Sir Mohan walked to his cope with a studied gait. He was dismayed. The compartment was empty. With a sigh, he sat down in a comer and opened the copy of The Times he had read several times before. Sir Mohan looked out of the window down at the crowded platform. His face lit up as he saw two English soldiers trudging along, looking in all the compartments for room. They had their haversacks slung behind their backs, and walked unsteadily. Sir Mohan decided to welcome them, even though they were entided only to travel in second class. He would speak to the guard. One of the soldiers came up to the last compartment and stuck his face through the window. He surveyed the compartment and noticed the unoccupied berth. "'Ere, Bill" he shouted. "One 'ere." His companion came up, also looked in, and looked at Sir Mohan.

"Get the nigger out," he muttered to his companion. They opened the door, and turned to the half-smiling, half-protesting Sir Mohan. "Reserved!" yelled Bill. "Janta-reserved. Army-fauji," exclaimed Jim, pointing to his khaki shirt. "Ek dum jao-get out!" "1 say, I say, surely," protested Sir Mohan in his Oxford accent. The soldiers paused. It almost sounded like English, but they knew better than to trust their inebriated ears. The engine whistled and the guard waved his green flag. They picked up Sir Mohan's suitcase and flung it onto the platform. Then followed his thermos flask, bedding, and The Times. Sir Mohan was livid with rage. "Presposterous, preposterous," he shouted, hoarse with anger. "I'll have you arrested. Guard, guardl" Bill and Jim paused. It did sound like English, but it was too much of the King's for them. "Keep yer ruddy mouth shut!" And Jim struck Sir Mohan flat on the face. The engine gave another short whistle and the train began to move. The soldiers caught Sir Mohan by the arms and flung him out of the train. He reeled backward, tripped on his bedding, and landed on the suitcase. "Toodle-ool" Sir Mohan's feet were glued to the earth and he lost his speech. He stared at the lighted windows of the train going past him in quickening tempo. The tail end of the train appeared with a red light and the guard, standing in the open doorway with flags in his hands. In the interclass zenana compartment was Lachmi, fair and fat, on whose nose the diamond nose ring glistened against the station lights. Her mouth was bloated with betel saliva that she had been storing up to spit as soon as the train had cleared the station. As the train .sped past the lighted part of the platform, Lady Lal spat and sent a jet of red dribble flying across like a dart. THE MAN FROM KABUL Rabindranath Tagore My five years' 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 stop her prattle, but I would not. To see Mini quiet is unnatural, and I cannot bear it long. And so Il:!y own talk with her is always lively. . One moming, for instance, when 1 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 krowl He doesn't know anything, does he?" Before 1 could explain to her the differences of language in this world, she was 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 rainsl" And then, darting off anew, while I sat still making ready some reply to this last saying, "Father! what relation is Mother to you?" "My dear little sister in the lawl" I murmured involuntarily to myself, but with a grave face contrived to answer: "Go and play with Bhola, Mini! 1 am busyl" 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, where Protrap Singh, the hero, had just caught Kanchanlata, the heroine, in his arms, and was about to escape with her by the third story window of the castle, when all of a sudden Mini left her play, and ran to the window, crying, "A Kabuliwallahl a Kabuliwallahl" Sure enough in the street

,

-'~---:-:----,

--.. -. --'0 :.-0-----_ .. - ____ _

---------~~--

below was a Kabuliwal1ah, passing slowly along. He wore the loose soiled clothing of his people, with a tall turban; there was a bag on his back, and he carried boxes of grapes in his hand. I cannot tell what were my daughter's feelings at the sight of this man, but she began to call him loudly. "Ah!" I thought, "he will corne in, and my seventeenth chapter will never be finished!" At which exact moment the Kabuliwal1ah turned, and looked up at the child. When she saw this, overcome by terror, she fled to her mother's protection, and 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 smiling face. So precarious was the position of my hero and my heroine, that my first impulse was to stop and buy something, since the man had been called. I made some small purchases, and a conversation began about Abdurrahman, the Russians, the English, and the Frontier Policy. As he was about to leave, he asked: "And where is the little girl, sir?" And I, thinking that Mini must get rid of her false fear, had her brought out. She stood by my chair, and looked at the Kabuliwal1ah 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. One morning, however, not many days later, 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 Kabuliwal1ah 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 comer 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 bit, I handed it to him. The man accepted the money without demur, and slipped 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 KabuIiwallah 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 bit? " "The KabuIiwallah gave it me," said Mini cheerfully. "The Kabuliwallah gave it you!" cried her mother much shocked "Oh, Mini! how could you take it from him?" I, entering at the moment, saved her from impending disaster, and proceeded to make my own inquiries. It was not the first or second time, I found, that the two had met. The KabuIiwalJah had overcome the child's first terror by a judicious bribery of nuts and almonds, and the two were now great friends. They had many quaint jokes, which afforded them much amusement. Seated in front of him, looking down on his gigantic frame in all her tiny dignity, Mini would ripple her face with laughter, and begin: "0 KabuIiwallah, KabuIiwallah, what have you got in your bag?" And he would reply, in the nasal accents of the mountsineer: "An elephantl" Not much cause for merriment, perhaps; but how they both enjoyed the witticismJ And for me, this child's talk with a grown-up man had always in it something strangely fascinating. Then the KabuIiwallah, not to be behindhand, would take his turn: "Well, little one, and when are you going to the father-in-law's house?" Now most srnall Bengali maidens have heard long ago about the father-in-law's house; but we, being a little new-fangled, had kept these things from our child, .and 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 KabuIiwal1ah's class, however, it is well known that the words father-inlaw'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 pedlar 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, never stining from my little comer 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 faIl to weaving a network of dreams, --the mountains, the glens, ~d the forests of his distant home, with his cottage in its setting, and the free and independent life of far-away wilds. Perhaps the scenes of travel conjure themselves up before me, and pass and repass in my imagination all the more vividly, because I lead such a vegetable existence, that a call to travel would faIl upon me like a thunderbolt. In the presence of this Kabuliwallah, I was imtnediately 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, carrying some of their queer old firearms, and some of their spears, journeying downward towards the plains. I could see-"but at some such point Mini's mother would intervene, imploring me to "beware of that man."

Mini's mother is unfortunately a very timid lady. 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, or an English sailor. Even after all these years of experience, she is not able to overcome her terror. So she was full of doubts about the KabuliwaIlah, and used to beg me to keep a watchful eye on him. I tried to laugh her fear gendy away, but then she would turn round on me seriously, and ask me solemn questions. Were children never kidnapped? Was it, then, not true that there was slavery in Kabul? 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 highly improbable. But this was not enough, and her dread persisted As it was indefinite, however, 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 Rahmun, the Kabuliwallah, was in the habit of r"turning to his 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 would have seemed to an outsider 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 starding now and then, in the comer of a dark room, suddenly to surprise this tall, loose-garmented, much bebagged man; but when Mini would run in smiling, with her, "01 Kabuliwallah! Kabuliwal1ahI" and the two friends, so far apart in age, would subside 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 my proof sheets in my study. It was chilly weather. Through the window the rays of the sun touched my feet, and the slight warmth was very welcome. It was almost eight o'clock, and the early pedestrians were returning home, with their heads covered All at once, I heard an uproar in the street, and, looking out, saw Rahmun being led away hound between two policemen, and behind them a crowd of curious boys. There were blood-stains on the clothes of the Kabuliwal1ab, and one of the policemen carried a knife. Hurrying out, I stopped them, and enquired what it all meant. Pattly from one, pardy from another, I gatheted that a certain neighbour had owed the pedlar something for a Rampuri shawl,

.,

but had falsely denied having bought it, and that in the course of the quarrel, Rahmun had struck him. Now in the heat of 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: "0 Kabuliwal1ahl Kabuliwal1ahl" Rahmun's face lighted up as he turned to her. He had no bag under his arm today, so she conld not discuss the elephant with him. She at once therefore proceeded to the next question: "Are you going to the father-in-law's house?" Rahmun laughed and said: "Just where I am going, little onel" Then seeing that the reply did not amuse the child, he held up his fetteed hands. " Ali," he said, " I wonld have thrashed that old father-in-law, but my hands are boundl" On a charge of murderous assault, Rahmun was sentenced to some years' imprisonment. Time passed away, and he was not remembered. The accustomed work in the accustomed place was ours, 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 time indeed did she spend with them that she came no more, as she used to do, to her father's room. I was scarcely on speaking tertns with her. Years had passed away. It was once more autunm and we had made arrangements for our Mini's marriage. It was to take place during the Puja Holidays. With Durga returning toKailas, the light of our home also was to depart to her husband's house, and leave her father's in the shadow. The morning was bright. After the rains, there was a sense of ablution in the air, and the sunrays looked like pure gold. So bright were they that they gave a beautiful radiance even to the sordid brick walls of our Calcutta lanes. Since early dawn to-day the wedding-pipes had been sounding, and at each beat my own heart throbbed. The wail of the tune, Bhairavi, seemed to intensify my pain at the approaching separation. My Mini was to be married to-night. From early morning noise and bustle had pervaded the house. In the courtyard the canopy had to be slung on its bamboo poles; the chandeliers with their tinkling sound must be hung in each room and verandah. There was no end of hurry and excitement. I was, sirting in my study, looking through the accounts, when some one entered, saluting respectfully, and stood before me. It was Rahmun the Kabuliwal1ah. At first I did not recognise him. He had no bag, nor the long hair, nor the same vigour that he used to have. But he smiled, and I knew him again. "When did you come, Rahmun?" I asked him. "Last evening," he said, "I was released from jail." "'" The words struck harsh upon my ears. I had never before talked with one who had wounded his fellow, and my heart shrank within itself, when I realised this, for I felt that the day would have been better-omened had he not turned up. "There are ceremonies going on," I said, "and I am busy. Could you perhaps come another day?" At once he 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, calling "0 Kabuliwallahl Kabuliwal1ah!" He had imagined too that they wonld laugh and talk together, just as of old. In fact, in memory of former days he had brought, carefully wrapped up in paper, a few almonds and raisins and grapes, obtained somehow from a countryman, for his own little fund was dispersed. I said again: "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, 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 holding out his offerings and said: "I 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 recollection. Do not offer me moneyl--You have a little girl, I too have one like her in my own home. I think of her, and bring fruits 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. With great care he unfolded this, and smoothed it out with both hands on my table. It bore the impression of a little band. Not a photograph. Not a drawing. The impression of an ink-smeared hand laid flat on the paper. This touch of his own little daughter had been always on his heart, as be 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 Kabuli 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 Parbati 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 would not listen. Clad in the red silk of her wedding-day, with the sandal paste on her forehead, and adomed as a young bride, Mini came, and stood bashfully before me. The Kabu1iwallah looked a little staggered 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 reply to him as of old. She flushed up at the question, and stood before him with her bride-like face turned down. I remembered the day when the Kabuliwallah and my Mini had first met, and I felt sad. When she had gone, Rahmun heaved a deep sigh, and sat down on the floor. The idea had suddeuly come to him that his daughter too must have grown in this long time, and that he would have to make friends with her anew. Assuredly he would not find her, as he used to know her. And besides, what might not have happened to her in these eight years? The marriage-pipes sounded, and the mild autumn sun streamed round us. But Rahmun sat in . the little Calcutta lane, and saw before him the barren mountains of Afghanistan. I took out a bank-note, and gave it to him, saying: "Go back to your own daughter, Rahmun, in your own country, and may the happiness of your meeting bring good fortune to my childl" 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 at it. But to me the wedding feast was all the brighter for the thought that in a distant land a long-lost fatHer met again with his only child.

WHEN MR. PIRZADA CAME TO DINEjhumpa Lahiri IN THE AUTUMN OF 1971 a man used to come to our house, bearing confections in his pocket and hopes of ascertaining the life or death of his family. His name was Mr. Pirzada, and he came from Dacca, now the capital of Bangladesh, but then a part of Pakistan. That year Pakistan was engaged in civiJ war. The eastem frontier, where Dacca was located, was fighting for autonomy from the ruling regime in the west. In March, Dacca had been invaded, torched and shelled by the Pakistani army. Teachers were drsgged onto streets and shot, women dragged into barracks and raped. By the end of the summer, three hundred thousand people were said to have died. In Dacca Mr. Pirzada had a three story home, a lectureship in botany at the university, a wife of twenty year, and seven daughters between the ages of six and sixteen whose names all began with the letter A. "Their mother's idea," he explained one day, producing from his wallet a black-and-white picture of seven girls at a picnic, their braids tied with ribbons, sitting cross-legged in a row, eating chicken curry off of banana leaves. "How am I to distinguish? Ayesha, Amira, Amina, Aziza, you see the difficulty." ,