The Post Office by Rabindranath Tagore (types of ebook readers txt) 📕

they had kidnapped you?

 

AMAL. That would have been splendid! But no one ever takes me

away. They all want me to stay in here.

 

MADHAV. I am off to my work—but, darling, you won’t go out,

will you?

 

AMAL. No, I won’t. But, Uncle, you’ll let me be in this room by

the roadside.

 

[Exit MADHAV]

 

DAIRYMAN. Curds, curds, good nice curds.

 

AMAL. Curdseller, I say, Curdseller.

 

DAIRYMAN. Why do you call me? Will you buy some curds?

 

AMAL. How can I buy? I have no money.

 

DAIRYMAN. What a boy! Why call out then? Ugh! What a waste of

time.

 

AMAL. I would go with you if I could.

 

DAIRYMAN. With me?

 

AMAL. Yes, I seem to feel homesick when I hear you call from far

down the road.

 

DAIRYMAN. [Lowering his yoke-pole] Whatever are you doing here, my

child?

 

AMAL. The doctor says I’m not to be out, so I sit here all day

long.

 

DAIRYMAN. My poor child, whatever has happened to you?

 

AMAL. I can’t tell. You see I am not learned, so I don’t know

what’s the matter with me. Say, Dairyman, where do you come

from?

 

DAIRYMAN. From our village.

 

AMAL. Your village? Is it very far?

 

DAIRYMAN. Our village lies on the river Shamli at the foot of

the Panch-mura hills.

 

AMAL. Panch-mura hills! Shamli river! I wonder. I may have

seen your village. I can’t think when though!

 

DAIRYMAN. Have you seen it? Been to the foot of those hills?

 

AMAL. Never. But I seem to remember having seen it. Your

village is under some very old big trees, just by the side of the

red road—isn’t that so?

 

DAIRYMAN. That’s right, child.

 

AMAL. And on the slope of the hill cattle grazing.

 

DAIRYMAN. How wonderful! Aren’t there cattle grazing in our

village! Indeed, there are!

 

AMAL. And your women with red sarees fill their pitchers from

the river and carry them on their heads.

 

DAIRYMAN. Good, that’s right. Women from our dairy village do

come and draw their water from the river; but then it isn’t

everyone who has a red saree to put on. But, my dear child,

surely you must have been there for a walk some time.

 

AMAL. Really, Dairyman, never been there at all. But the first

day doctor lets me go out, you are going to take me to your

village.

 

DAIRYMAN. I will, my child, with pleasure.

 

AMAL. And you’ll teach me to cry curds and shoulder the yoke

like you and walk the long, long road?

 

DAIRYMAN. Dear, dear, did you ever? Why should you sell curds?

No, you will read big books and be learned.

 

AMAL. No, I never want to be learned—I’ll be like you and take

my curds from the village by the red road near the old banyan

tree, and I will hawk it from cottage to cottage. Oh, how do you

cry—“Curd, curd, good nice curd!” Teach me the tune, will you?

 

DAIRYMAN. Dear, dear, teach you the tune; what an idea!

 

AMAL. Please do. I love to hear it. I can’t tell you how queer

I feel when I hear you cry out from the bend of that road,

through the line of those trees! Do you know I feel like that

when I hear the shrill cry of kites from almost the end of the

sky?

 

DAIRYMAN. Dear child, will you have some curds? Yes, do.

 

AMAL. But I have no money.

 

DAIRYMAN. No, no, no, don’t talk of money! You’ll make me so

happy if you have a little curds from me.

 

AMAL. Say, have I kept you too long?

 

DAIRYMAN. Not a bit; it has been no loss to me at all; you have

taught me how to be happy selling curds. [Exit]

 

AMAL. [Intoning] Curds, curds, good nice curds—from the dairy

village—from the country of the Panch-mura hills by the Shamli

bank. Curds, good curds; in the early morning the women make the

cows stand in a row under the trees and milk them, and in the

evening they turn the milk into curds. Curds, good curds.

Hello, there’s the watchman on his rounds. Watchman, I say, come

and have a word with me.

 

WATCHMAN. What’s all this row you are making? Aren’t you afraid

of the likes of me?

 

AMAL. No, why should I be?

 

WATCHMAN. Suppose I march you off then?

 

AMAL. Where will you take me to? Is it very far, right beyond

the hills?

 

WATCHMAN. Suppose I march you straight to the King?

 

AMAL. To the King! Do, will you? But the doctor won’t let me

go out. No one can ever take me away. I’ve got to stay here all

day long.

 

WATCHMAN. Doctor won’t let you, poor fellow! So I see! Your

face is pale and there are dark rings round your eyes. Your

veins stick out from your poor thin hands.

 

AMAL. Won’t you sound the gong, Watchman?

 

WATCHMAN. Time has not yet come.

 

AMAL. How curious! Some say time has not yet come, and some say

time has gone by! But surely your time will come the moment you

strike the gong!

 

WATCHMAN. That’s not possible; I strike up the gong only when it

is time.

 

AMAL. Yes, I love to hear your gong. When it is midday and our

meal is over, Uncle goes off to his work and Auntie falls asleep

reading her Râmayana, and in the courtyard under the shadow of

the wall our doggie sleeps with his nose in his curled up tail;

then your gong strikes out, “Dong, dong, dong!” Tell me why does

your gong sound?

 

WATCHMAN. My gong sounds to tell the people, Time waits for

none, but goes on forever.

 

AMAL. Where, to what land?

 

WATCHMAN. That none knows.

 

AMAL. Then I suppose no one has ever been there! Oh, I do wish

to fly with the time to that land of which no one knows anything.

 

WATCHMAN. All of us have to get there one day, my child.

 

AMAL. Have I too?

 

WATCHMAN. Yes, you too!

 

AMAL. But doctor won’t let me out.

 

WATCHMAN. One day the doctor himself may take you there by the

hand.

 

AMAL. He won’t; you don’t know him. He only keeps me in.

 

WATCHMAN. One greater than he comes and lets us free.

 

AMAL. When will this great doctor come for me? I can’t stick in

here any more.

 

WATCHMAN. Shouldn’t talk like that, my child.

 

AMAL. No. I am here where they have left me—I never move a

bit. But when your gong goes off, dong, dong, dong, it goes to

my heart. Say, Watchman?

 

WATCHMAN. Yes, my dear.

 

AMAL. Say, what’s going on there in that big house on the other

side, where there is a flag flying high up and the people are

always going in and out?

 

WATCHMAN. Oh, there? That’s our new Post Office.

 

AMAL. Post Office? Whose?

 

WATCHMAN. Whose? Why, the King’s surely!

 

AMAL. Do letters come from the King to his office here?

 

WATCHMAN. Of course. One fine day there may be a letter for you

in there.

 

AMAL. A letter for me? But I am only a little boy.

 

WATCHMAN. The King sends tiny notes to little boys.

 

AMAL. Oh, how lovely! When shall I have my letter? How do you

guess he’ll write to me?

 

WATCHMAN. Otherwise why should he set his Post Office here right

in front of your open window, with the golden flag flying?

 

AMAL. But who will fetch me my King’s letter when it comes?

 

WATCHMAN. The King has many postmen. Don’t you see them run

about with round gilt badges on their chests?

 

AMAL. Well, where do they go?

 

WATCHMAN. Oh, from door to door, all through the country.

 

AMAL. I’ll be the King’s postman when I grow up.

 

WATCHMAN. Ha! ha! Postman, indeed! Rain or shine, rich or

poor, from house to house delivering letters—that’s very great

work!

 

AMAL. That’s what I’d like best. What makes you smile so? Oh,

yes, your work is great too. When it is silent everywhere in the

heat of the noonday, your gong sounds, Dong, dong, dong,— and

sometimes when I wake up at night all of a sudden and find our

lamp blown out, I can hear through the darkness your gong slowly

sounding, Dong, dong, dong!

 

WATCHMAN. There’s the village headman! I must be off. If he

catches me gossiping with you there’ll be a great to do.

 

AMAL. The headman? Whereabouts is he?

 

WATCHMAN. Right down the road there; see that huge palm-leaf

umbrella hopping along? That’s him!

 

AMAL. I suppose the King’s made him our headman here?

 

WATCHMAN. Made him? Oh, no! A fussy busy-body! He knows so

many ways of making himself unpleasant that everybody is afraid

of him. It’s just a game for the likes of him, making trouble

for everybody. I must be off now! Mustn’t keep work waiting,

you know! I’ll drop in again to-morrow morning and tell you all

the news of the town. [Exit]

 

AMAL. It would be splendid to have a letter from the King every

day. I’ll read them at the window. But, oh! I can’t read

writing. Who’ll read them out to me, I wonder! Auntie reads her

Râmayana; she may know the King’s writing. If no one will, then

I must keep them carefully and read them when I’m grown up. But

if the postman can’t find me? Headman, Mr. Headman, may I have a

word with you?

 

HEADMAN. Who is yelling after me on the highway? Oh, you

wretched monkey!

 

AMAL. You’re the headman. Everybody minds you.

 

HEADMAN [Looking pleased] Yes, oh yes, they do! They must!

 

AMAL. Do the King’s postmen listen to you?

 

HEADMAN. They’ve got to. By Jove, I’d like to see—

 

AMAL. Will you tell the postman it’s Amal who sits by the window

here?

 

HEADMAN. What’s the good of that?

 

AMAL. In case there’s a letter for me.

 

HEADMAN. A letter for you! Whoever’s going to write to you?

 

AMAL. If the King does.

 

HEADMAN. Ha! ha! What an uncommon little fellow you are! Ha!

ha! the King indeed, aren’t you his bosom friend, eh! You

haven’t met for a long while and the King is pining, I am sure.

Wait till to-morrow and you’ll have your letter.

 

AMAL. Say, Headman, why do you speak to me in that tone of

voice? Are you cross?

 

HEADMAN. Upon my word! Cross, indeed! You write to the King!

Madhav is devilish swell nowadays. He’d made a little pile; and

so kings and padishahs are everyday talk with his people. Let me

find him once and I’ll make him dance. Oh, you snipper-snapper!

I’ll get the King’s letter sent to your house—indeed I will!

 

AMAL. No, no, please don’t trouble yourself about it.

 

HEADMAN. And why not, pray! I’ll tell the King about you and he

won’t be very long. One of his footmen will come along presently

for news of you. Madhav’s impudence staggers me. If the King

hears of this, that’ll take some of his nonsense out of him.

[Exit]

 

AMAL. Who are you walking there? How your anklets tinkle! Do

stop a while, dear, won’t you?

 

[A GIRL enters]

 

GIRL. I haven’t a moment to spare; it is already late!

 

AMAL. I see, you don’t wish to stop; I don’t care