Page:Works of Tagore from the Modern Review, 1909-24 Segment 1.pdf/15

Rh About this time, on the occasion of the opening of a new railway line, many gentlemen of the town, proud recipients of official favour, joined the Lieutenant Governor on invitation to take the first trip. Pramathanath was among them. On the return journey, a European Sergeant of the Police, expelled some Indian gentlemen from a certain compartment in a highly insulting manner. Pramathanath, dressed in his European clothes, was there among them. He too was getting down when the Sergeant said to him—"You needn't move, Sir. Keep your seat, please."

At first Pramathanath felt a little flattered at the special respect thus shown to him. When, however, the train left, the dull rays of the setting sun at the western extremity of the fields, now ploughed up and devoid of green, seemed in his eyes, as though spreading over the whole country a glow of shame. Sitting near the window of his lonely compartment, he seemed to catch a glimpse of the down-cast eyes of his Motherland, hidden behind the trees. As Pramathanath sat there lost in reverie, burning tears flowed down his cheeks and his heart was bursting with indignation.

He now recollected the story of a donkey who was drawing the chariot of an idol along the street. The wayfarers were bowing down to the idol touching the dusty ground with their foreheads. The foolish donkey imagined that it was to him that all this reverence was being shown. "The only difference"—said Pramathanath to himself—"between the donkey and myself is that I understand today that the respect I receive is not rendered to me but to the burden on my back."

Arriving home Pramathanath called together all the children of the household and lighting up a big bonfire, threw one by one all his European clothes into it. The children began to dance round and round it and the higher the flames shot up, the greater was their merriment. After that Pramathanath gave up his sip of tea and bits of toast in Anglo-Indian houses and once again sat inaccessible within his castle of a house, while the insulted title-holders aforesaid went about from the door of one Englishman to that of another, bending their turbaned heads as before.

By a strange irony of fate, poor Navendu Sekhar married the second daughter of this house. His sisters-in-law were well-educated and a very handsome set of girls too. Navendu considered he had made a lucky bargain. But he lost no time in trying to impress on the family that it was a rare bargain on their side also. As if by mistake he would often pass on to the hands of his sisters-in-law, sundry letters that his late father had received from Europeans. When however the cherry lips of those young ladies betrayed a sharp sarcastic smile, like the point of a shining dagger peeping out of its sheath of red velvet, the unfortunate man realised his situation and regretted his error.

Labanyalekha, the eldest sister, surpassed the rest in beauty and cleverness. Finding an auspicious day, she put on the mantel-shelf of Navendu's bedroom, two pairs of English boots bedaubed with vermilion, and arranged before them flowers, sandal-paste, incense and a couple of burning candles, in right ceremonial fashion. When Navendu came in, the two sisters-in-law stood on either side of him and said with mock solemnity—"Bow down to your gods and may your position increase through their blessings."

The third sister Kiranlekha spent many days in embroidering with red silk one hundred common English names such as Jones, Smith, Brown, Thomson, &c., on a chadar. When ready, she presented this namavali to Navendu Sekhar with great ceremony.

The fourth, Sasankalekha, although of no account owing to her tender age, said—"I will make you a string of beads, brother, with which to tell the names of your gods,—the sahibs." Her sisters reproved her, saying—"Run away, you saucy girl."

Feelings of shame and irritation assailed the mind of Navendu Sekhar by turns. Still he could not forego the company of