Page:Works of Tagore from the Modern Review, 1909-24 Segment 2.pdf/119

246 it may be that just because he felt that this atom of femininity desired his banishment with all her might, he made such a prolonged stay in Katalia.

But little Charu was not long in furnishing fresh proof of the inscrutability of the feminine mind. Sonamani, the daughter of the cook (a Brahmin woman) had been widowed at the early age of five or six. She was now of Charu's age and her closest friend. She was confined to her quarters with some ailment when the family returned home and so could not come to see her companion for some days. When at last she did turn up, the two bosom friends nearly fell out for good. This is how it happened.

Charu had started on the story of her travels with great circumstance. With the thrilling episode of the abduction of the gem, known as Tara, she had fully expected to raise her friend's curiosity and wonderment to the topmost pitch. But when she learned that Tara was not unknown to Sonamani, that he called Sonamani's mother, aunt, and Sonamani called him dada —when she further gathered that Tara had not only charmed both mother and daughter by playing songs of the loves of Radha and Krishna on the flute, but had actually made a bamboo flute for Sonamani with his own hand, and plucked fruit for her from tree tops and flowers for her from brambly thickets,—she felt as if a red-hot spear had been thrust into her.

That very day, Charu, on some different pretext, vowed eternal enmity to Sonamani. And going into Tara's room she pulled out his favourite flute, threw it on the floor and kicked and stamped and trampled it into shivers.

While she was thus furiously busy Tara came into the room. The picture of passion which the girl presented amazed him. "Charu!" he cried. "Why are you smashing up my flute?"

"Serve you right. I'd do it again!" she screamed, as with flushed face and reddened eyes she gave the flute some more superfluous kicks and then ran away crying from the room.

Tara picked up his flute to find it utterly done for. He could not help laughing out loud to think of the sudden fate which had overtaken his unoffending instrument. Charu was becoming for him more and more an object of curiosity as days went by.

He found in this house other objects, also, which gave full scope to his curiosity. These were the English picture books in Moti Babu's library. Though his knowledge of the outside world was considerable, he found it difficult to enter fully into this world of pictures. He tried to make up for the deficiency by dint of his imagination. But that did not prove wholly satisfactory.

Finding the picture books so greatly attracting Tara, Moti Babu one day asked him: "Would you like to learn English? You could then understand all about these pictures."

"I would indeed!" exclaimed Tara.

Moti Babu, highly delighted, at once arranged with the head master of the village school to give him English lessons.

With his keen memory and undivided attention, Tara set to work at his English lessons. He seemed to have embarked on some adventurous quest and left all his old life behind. The neighbours saw no more of him, and when in the afternoon, just before it got dark, he would pace rapidly up and down the deserted riverside, getting up his lessons, his devoted band of boys looked on dejectedly from a distance, not daring to interrupt him.

Even Charu but rarely came across him. Tara had been used to come into the zenana for his meals, of which he partook leisurely, under the kindly eyes of Annapurna. He could no longer brook the loss of time which took place over all this, and begged Moti Babu's permission to be served in his room outside. Annapurna was grieved at the prospect of losing his company, and protested. But Moti Babu, glad to find the boy so mindful of his studies, fell in with the idea and so arranged it.