[adapted]

by
Rabindranath Tagore

I

Brindaban Kundu came to his father feeling very angry and said, “I’m leaving right now.”

“You ungrateful boy!” said the father, Jaganath Kundu, in a mean voice. “When you pay me back for all the food and clothes I gave you, then you can talk like that.”

The food and clothes that Jaganath gave were not expensive. The wise men (rishis) of old times used to live on very little. Jaganath tried to live like them. He wanted to eat and wear very little too. But he couldn’t always do it. That was partly because of the bad example of modern people, and partly because the human body needs some food and care to stay alive.

While Brindaban was not married, things were okay. But after he got married, he started wanting more comfort than his father. It was clear that Brindaban no longer wanted to live a very simple life like his father. He wanted to live more like other people. He didn’t want to suffer from heat or cold, or feel hungry or thirsty. The amount of food and clothing he wanted kept getting bigger.

The father and son often fought. Then, Brindaban’s wife became very sick, and he called a kabiraj (a traditional doctor with no medical training). But when the doctor said he needed to give her an expensive medicine, Jaganath said the doctor didn’t know anything and sent him away at once. First, Brindaban begged his father to let the treatment continue. Then he argued with him. But it didn’t help. When his wife died, Brindaban shouted at his father and called him a murderer.

“Nonsense!” said the father. “People still die even after taking all kinds of medicine. If expensive drugs could save a life, then why do kings and emperors still die? Do you think your wife should die with more show and cost than your mother or grandmother did?”

Brindaban might have felt better from hearing these words, but he was too sad to think clearly. His mother and grandmother had both died without taking any medicine, and that was the family tradition. But, sadly, the younger generation didn’t want to follow the old ways anymore. At the time this story takes place, the English had just come to India. Even back then, old people were shocked at how the younger ones were acting, and they just sat quietly, trying to calm themselves by smoking their hookas (pipes).

Anyway, modern Brindaban said to his old-fashioned father, “I’m leaving.”

His father quickly agreed and made a public vow: if he ever gave his son even one pice (a small coin), may the gods punish him as if he had killed a holy cow. Brindaban, in return, made a vow too. He said that if he ever took anything from his father, may it be counted as bad as killing his own mother.

The people of the village thought this little drama was a nice change after many quiet, boring days. And when Jaganath said his only son would not get anything from him anymore, everyone tried to comfort him. They all agreed that only in these bad modern times would a man fight with his father because of his wife. They gave what they thought was a good reason: “When your wife dies, you can quickly marry another. But when your father dies, you can never get another father, no matter how much money you have.”

That reasoning made sense, but we don’t think the son cared much about it. In fact, he may have felt happy knowing he would never have another father.

And the father, too, didn’t really miss Brindaban. First, having his son gone made it cheaper to run the house. Second, Jaganath felt much safer. He had always been afraid that his son might poison him to get his money. Every time he ate his simple food, he worried about poison. After his daughter-in-law died, that fear became a little less. But now that his son was gone too, the fear disappeared completely.

But there was one tender spot in the old man’s heart. Brindaban had taken away with him his four-year-old son, Gokul Chandra. Now, the expense of keeping the child was quite small, and so Jaganath’s affection for him had no drawback. Still, when Brindaban took the boy away, his sadness, although real, was at first mixed with thoughts about how much money he would save each month by not having to feed them. He added it up by the year, and even thought about how much interest he could earn from that amount.

But the empty house, without Gokul Chandra causing trouble, became harder and harder for the old man to live in. There was no one now to play tricks on him during his puja (a religious ceremony), no one to steal his food and eat it, no one to run off with his inkpot when he was writing in his account book. His daily routine, now undisturbed, became a heavy burden. He started to think that this kind of peaceful life was only suitable for the next world, not this one. When he saw the holes that Gokul had made in his quilt, or the ink drawings the child had scribbled on his rush-mat, his heart grew heavy with sorrow. He had once scolded the boy harshly because he had torn his dhoti (a traditional cloth worn by men) into pieces in just two years. Now, tears filled Jaganath’s eyes as he looked at the dirty pieces left behind in the bedroom. He carefully stored them away in his safe and made a promise: if Gokul ever came back, he would not be scolded even if he ruined one dhoti every year.

But Gokul did not return, and poor Jaganath grew old quickly. His empty home seemed more and more empty each day.

The old man could no longer stay peacefully at home. Even in the middle of the day, when all respectable people in the village took their naps after lunch, Jaganath could be seen walking around the village with his hooka (a smoking pipe) in hand. When the boys saw him, they would stop playing and run away together to a safe distance, then chant funny verses written by a local poet that made fun of the old man’s stingy habits. No one dared to say his real name, because of the belief that if someone said the name of a very stingy person, they would miss their meal that day (a common village superstition). So people gave him nicknames based on their imagination. The older folks called him Jaganash (a made-up word meaning “the destroyer of joy”), but it was unclear why the younger people liked to call him a vampire. Maybe it was because his dry, wrinkled skin looked like a vampire’s.

II

One afternoon, when Jaganath was wandering as usual through the village lanes shaded by mango trees, he saw a boy, who seemed to be a stranger, taking charge of the village boys and explaining some new trick they could play. The village boys, impressed by his boldness and fresh ideas, had all decided to follow him as their leader. Unlike the other boys, he didn’t run away when the old man came near. Instead, he came very close and began shaking his own chadar (a light cotton shawl). Suddenly, a live lizard jumped out of it, landed on Jaganath’s body, ran down his back, and disappeared into the jungle. The old man shivered all over from fright, which made the other boys laugh and shout with joy. Before Jaganath had gone far, still cursing and scolding, the gamcha (a thin cotton towel used on the shoulder) from his shoulder was suddenly gone—and in the next moment, it was wrapped around the stranger boy’s head like a turban!

This strange attention from the little fellow actually pleased Jaganath. It had been a long time since any boy had dared to tease him like that. After a lot of begging and sweet promises, Jaganath finally got the boy to come talk to him. This was their conversation:

“What’s your name, my boy?”

“Nitai Pal.”

“Where’s your home?”

“Won’t tell.”

“Who’s your father?”

“Won’t tell.”

“Why won’t you?”

“Because I have run away from home.”

“What made you do it?”

“My father wanted to send me to school.”

It occurred to Jaganath that it would be a waste of money to send a boy like this to school, and the boy’s father must have been a foolish man not to realize that.

“Well, well,” said Jaganath, “how would you like to come and stay with me?”

“Don’t mind,” said the boy, and right away he moved into Jaganath’s house. He showed no hesitation at all, as if it were just like resting under the shade of a tree by the side of the road. And not only that—he began to make demands about his food and clothing with such calm confidence that it seemed like he had already paid for everything in advance. And when something didn’t go his way, he didn’t hesitate to argue with the old man.

It had been easy enough for Jaganath to win arguments with his own son. But now that he was dealing with someone else’s child, he had to admit defeat.

III

The people of the village were surprised when Nitai Pal suddenly became so important to Jaganath. They were sure the old man must be close to death, and the idea that he might leave all his property to this unknown boy made them feel very jealous. Full of envy, they decided to harm the boy in some way. But the old man protected him as if he were part of his own body.

Sometimes, the boy would say he wanted to leave, and the old man would tempt him by saying, “I will leave you all the property I have.” Even though he was young, the boy clearly understood how great this promise was.

Then the village people started trying to find out who the boy’s father was. They suddenly felt very sorry for the boy’s poor parents and said the boy must be very wicked to make them suffer so much. They cursed him, but it was clear that their anger came more from jealousy than true concern.

One day, the old man heard from a traveler that a man named Damodar Pal was searching for his lost son and was now on his way to the village. When Nitai heard this, he became very nervous and wanted to run away, even if it meant losing all the property he might inherit. Jaganath calmed him down, saying, “I will hide you in a place where no one can find you—not even the village people.”

This made the boy very curious, and he said, “Oh, where? Please show me.”

“If I show you now, people might find out,” said Jaganath. “Wait until night.”

The boy became excited at the idea of finding out the secret hiding place. He thought to himself that, once his father had gone away without him, he would make a bet with his friends and play hide-and-seek. No one would be able to find him. Wouldn’t that be fun? His father would search the whole village and still not find him—that would be great fun too.

At noon, Jaganath locked the boy inside the house and went out for a while. When he came back, Nitai kept asking him questions.

As soon as it got dark, Nitai said, “Grandfather, shall we go now?”

“It’s not night yet,” Jaganath replied.

A little while later the boy said again, “It is night now, grandfather; let’s go.”

“The village people haven’t gone to bed yet,” Jaganath whispered.

Nitai waited just a moment and said, “They have gone to bed now, grandfather; I’m sure they have. Let’s go.”

As the night went on, the boy became very sleepy. His eyes were heavy, and it was hard for him to stay awake. At midnight, Jaganath grabbed the boy’s arm and left the house. They walked through the dark paths of the quiet village. Everything was silent, except for a dog howling now and then. When that happened, all the other dogs nearby would start howling too. Sometimes a bird would flap its wings in fear after hearing the sound of footsteps. Nitai was very scared and held tightly to Jaganath’s arm.

They walked across many fields until they reached a small forest, where there was an old, broken-down temple with no god inside. “What, here?” said Nitai, sounding disappointed. This wasn’t what he had expected at all. It wasn’t magical or mysterious. Since he had run away from home, he had already spent some nights in empty temples like this one. It might be a good place to play hide-and-seek, but he thought his friends could still find him there.

From the middle of the floor inside, Jaganath moved a big stone slab. Underneath, an underground room appeared, and there was a small lamp burning. Nitai was amazed and stared with wide eyes. He felt both scared and curious. Jaganath climbed down a ladder, and Nitai followed him.

When he looked around, the boy saw ghurras (large water or storage pots) all around the room. In the middle of the floor there was an assan (a prayer mat), and in front of it were red powder (vermilion), sandalwood paste, flowers, and other things used for worship.

The boy was very curious. He dipped his hand into one of the brass pots and pulled out what was inside. It was full of silver rupees and mohurs (old Indian gold coins).

Jaganath said to the boy, “I told you, Nitai, that I would give you all my money. I don’t have much—just these pots. Today, I will give them all to you.”