Kabuliwallah

🔊 Read AloudOne 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 Kabuliwallah 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 corner of her little sari was stuffed with almonds and raisins, the gift of her visitor. It was not the first or second time, I found, that the two had met. The Kabuliwallah 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: “O Kabuliwallah! Kabuliwallah! what have you got in your bag?” And he would reply, in the nasal accents of the mountaineer: “An elephant!” Not much cause for merriment, perhaps; but how they both enjoyed the fun! And for me, this child’s talk with a grown-up man had always in it something strangely fascinating.

🔊 Read AloudThen the Kabuliwallah, 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 small 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 Kabuliwallah’s class, however, the words father-in-law’s house have a double meaning: it is a euphemism for jail, the place where one is well cared for, at no expense to oneself. In this sense the sturdy pedlar would 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, Mini would go off into peals of laughter, in which her formidable friend would join.

Mini’s mother is unfortunately a very timid lady. She was full of doubts about the Kabuliwallah, and used to beg me to keep a watchful eye on him. But I tried to laugh her fears gently away.

🔊 Read AloudThese were autumn mornings, the very time of year when kings of old went forth to conquest; and I, never stirring from my little corner 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. In the presence of this Kabuliwallah I was immediately 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 turbanned merchants carrying their queer old firearms, journeying downward towards the plains. Once a year, in the middle of January, Rahmun the Kabuliwallah was in the habit of returning 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.

🔊 Read AloudOne morning, a few days before he had made up his mind to go, I heard an uproar in the street, and, looking out, saw Rahmun being led away bound between two policemen, and behind them a crowd of curious boys. There were blood-stains on the clothes of the Kabuliwallah, and one of the policemen carried a knife. I gathered 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: “O Kabuliwallah! Kabuliwallah!” Rahmun’s face lighted up as he turned to her. He had no bag under his arm to-day, so she could not discuss the elephant with him. She at once 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 one!” Then, seeing that the reply did not amuse the child, he held up his fettered hands. “Ah,” he said, “I would have thrashed that old father-in-law, but my hands are bound!” On a charge of murderous assault, Rahmun was sentenced to some years’ imprisonment.

🔊 Read AloudTime 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, and came no more, as she used to do, to her father’s room. Years had passed away. It was once more autumn and we had made arrangements for Mini’s marriage. It was to take place during the Puja Holidays. From early morning noise and bustle had pervaded the house. I was sitting in my study, looking through the accounts, when some one entered, saluting respectfully, and stood before me. It was Rahmun the Kabuliwallah. 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. “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 “O Kabuliwallah! Kabuliwallah!” 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.

🔊 Read AloudHe came close up to me, holding out his offerings, and said: “You are very kind, sir! Keep me in your recollection. Do not offer me money! — 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 hand. 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 he 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 Cabuli fruit-seller, while I was —. But no, what was I more than he? He also was a father.

I sent for Mini. Clad in the red silk of her wedding-day, with the sandal paste on her forehead, and adorned as a young bride, she came, and stood bashfully before me. The Kabuliwallah 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, 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. 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 child!” Having made this present, I had to curtail some of the festivities. 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.