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The master said: "You need not be anxious about my going away, Ratan; I shall tell my successor to look after you. Ratan had borne many a scolding from her master without complaint, but these kind words she could not bear. She burst out weeping, and said: "No, no, you need not tell anybody anything at all about me; I don't want to stay on here.
He had never seen Ratan like this before. The new incumbent duly arrived, and the postmaster, having given over charge, prepared to depart. Just before starting he called Ratan and said: "Here is something for you; I hope it will keep you for some little time.
Then Ratan fell at his feet and cried: "Oh, Dada, I pray you, don't give me anything, don't in any way trouble about me," and then she ran away out of sight.
The postmaster heaved a sigh, took up his carpet bag, put his umbrella over his shoulder, and, accompanied by a man carrying his many-coloured tin trunk, he slowly made for the boat. When he got in and the boat was under way, and the rain-swollen river, like a stream of tears welling up from the earth, swirled and sobbed at her bows, then he felt a pain at heart; the grief-stricken face of a village girl seemed to represent for him the great unspoken pervading grief of Mother Earth herself.
At one time he had an impulse to go back, and bring away along with him that lonesome waif, forsaken of the world. But the wind had just filled the sails, the boat had got well into the middle of the turbulent current, and already the village was left behind, and its outlying burning-ground came in sight.
So the traveller, borne on the breast of the swift-flowing river, consoled himself with philosophical reflections on the numberless meetings and partings going on in the world—on death, the great parting, from which none returns. But Ratan had no philosophy. She was wandering about the post office in a flood of tears.
It may be that she had still a lurking hope in some corner of her heart that her Dada would return, and that is why she could not tear herself away. Alas for our foolish human nature! Its fond mistakes are persistent.
The dictates of reason take a long time to assert their own sway. The surest proofs meanwhile are disbelieved.
False hope is clung to with all one's might and main, till a day comes when it has sucked the heart dry and it forcibly breaks through its bonds and departs. After that comes the misery of awakening, and then once again the longing to get back into the maze of the same mistakes. This word has a very interesting history.
It means "Indian. This dye was first known to the Greeks who called it "Indikon," then to the Latins who called it Indicum, then to the Italians and Spaniards who called it Indigo. It was introduced into England from Italy by artists and painters who kept the Italian word "indigo" without change. There is a Latin word "genius," meaning originally a spirit inhabiting a special place. It is from this word that our English common noun "genius" is taken, meaning a specially gifted or inspired person, e.
This is quite a modern word in English. It comes from the name of the inventor of this kind of road-paving, who was Mr. He discovered that different layers of small stone rolled in, one after the other, can stand the wear and tear of traffic.
We have similar words from proper names. Compare, boycott, burke, lynch, etc. From the Latin "ludere," to play. Compare prelude, interlude, delude, collusion, elude, elusive, allusion. This word came into English from the Spanish.
It is of great interest to trace the names of the fruits in English back to their sources, e. The two first letters in the Greek language are called "alpha" and "beta. The postmaster sighed, and called out "Ratan.
At the voice of her master, she ran up breathlessly, saying: "Were you calling me, Dada? Thus, in a very short time, Ratan had got as far as the double consonants. It seemed as though the showers of the season would never end. Canals, ditches, and hollows were all overflowing with water. Day and night the patter of rain was heard, and the croaking of frogs.
The village roads became impassable, and marketing had to be done in punts. One heavily clouded morning, the postmaster's little pupil had been long waiting outside the door for her call, but, not hearing it as usual, she took up her dog-eared book, and slowly entered the room.
She found her master stretched out on his bed, and, thinking that he was resting, she was about to retire on tip-toe, when she suddenly heard her name—"Ratan! Feel my head; is it very hot? He longed to remember the touch on the forehead of soft hands with tinkling bracelets, to imagine the presence of loving womanhood, the nearness of mother and sister. And the exile was not disappointed. Ratan ceased to be a little girl. She at once stepped into the post of mother, called in the village doctor, gave the patient his pills at the proper intervals, sat up all night by his pillow, cooked his gruel for him, and every now and then asked: "Are you feeling a little better, Dada?
Relieved from her duties as nurse, Ratan again took up her old place outside the door. But she no longer heard the same old call. She would sometimes peep inside furtively to find the postmaster sitting on his chair, or stretched on his bed, and staring absent-mindedly into the air. While Ratan was awaiting her call, the postmaster was awaiting a reply to his application. The girl read her old lessons over and over again,—her great fear was lest, when the call came, she might be found wanting in the double consonants.
At last, after a week, the call did come one evening. With an overflowing heart Ratan rushed into the room with her—"Were you calling me, Dada? The postmaster, of his own accord, went on to tell her that his application for a transfer had been rejected, so he had resigned his post and was going home. For a long time neither of them spoke another word. The lamp went on dimly burning, and from a leak in one corner of the thatch water dripped steadily into an earthen vessel on the floor beneath it.
After a while Ratan rose, and went off to the kitchen to prepare the meal; but she was not so quick about it as on other days. Many new things to think of had entered her little brain. When the postmaster had finished his supper, the girl suddenly asked him: "Dada, will you take me to your home?
That whole night, in her waking and in her dreams, the postmaster's laughing reply haunted her—"What an idea! He had stuck to his Calcutta habit of bathing in water drawn and kept in pitchers, instead of taking a plunge in the river as was the custom of the village.
For some reason or other, the girl could not ask him about the time of his departure, so she had fetched the water from the river long before sunrise, that it should be ready as early as he might want it. After the bath came a call for Ratan. She entered noiselessly, and looked silently into her master's face for orders. The master said: "You need not be anxious about my going away, Ratan; I shall tell my successor to look after you.
Ratan had borne many a scolding from her master without complaint, but these kind words she could not bear. She burst out weeping, and said: "No, no, you need not tell anybody anything at all about me; I don't want to stay on here.
He had never seen Ratan like this before. The new incumbent duly arrived, and the postmaster, having given over charge, prepared to depart. His poetic works achieved massive international renown when he won the Nobel Prize for Literature and was knighted in the following year.
Honors came to him from all parts of the world. Login Sign Up. Login to your account Remember Me Register a new account Lost your password? Rabindranath Tagore Samagra Books. Book Info Report.
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