Page 29 - English Class 08

From early morning noise and bustle had pervaded the house. In the courtyard, the

canopy had to be slung on its bamboo poles; the chandeliers with their tinkling sound must
be hung in each room and verandah. There was no end of hurry and excitement. I was sitting
in my study, looking through the accounts, when some one entered, saluting respectfully
and stood before me. It was Rahmun, the Kabuliwala. 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. I had never before talked with one who had
wounded his fellow and my heart shrank within itself when I realised this; for I felt that the

day would have been better-omened had he not turned up.
“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 Kabuliwala! Kabuliwala!” He had
imagined too that they would laugh and talk together, just as of old. In fact, 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.

I said again: “There is a ceremony in the house and you will not be able to see any one
to-day.”
The man’s face fell. He looked wistfully at me for a moment, then said “Good morning,”

and went out.

I felt a little sorry and would have called him back, but I found he was returning of his
own accord. He came close up to me holding out his offerings with the words: “I brought
these few things, sir, for the little one. Will you give them to her?”

I took them and was going to pay him, but he caught my hand 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 photograph. Not a drawing. The impression of an ink-smeared hand

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