"Once upon a time there was a king."
When we were children there was no need to know who the king in the
fairy story was. It didn't matter whether he was called Shiladitya or
Shaliban, whether he lived at Kashi or Kanauj. The thing that made a
seven-year-old boy's heart go thump, thump with delight was this one
sovereign truth, this reality of all realities: "Once there was a king."
But the readers of this modern age are far more exact and exacting. When
they hear such an opening to a story, they are at once critical and
suspicious. They apply the searchlight of science to its legendary haze
and ask: "Which king?"
The story-tellers have become more precise in their turn. They are no
longer content with the old indefinite, "There was a king," but assume
instead a look of profound learning and begin: "Once there was a king
named Ajatasatru."
The modern reader's curiosity, however, is not so easily satisfied. He
blinks at the author through his scientific spectacles and asks again:
"Which Ajatasatru?"
When we were young, we understood all sweet things; and we could detect
the sweets of a fairy story by an unerring science of our own. We never
cared for such useless things as knowledge. We only cared for truth. And
our unsophisticated little hearts knew well where the Crystal Palace of
Truth lay and how to reach it. But to-day we are expected to write pages
of facts, while the truth is simply this:
"There was a king."
I remember vividly that evening in Calcutta when the fairy story began.
The rain and the storm had been incessant. The whole of the city was
flooded. The water was knee-deep in our lane. I had a straining hope,
which was almost a certainty, that my tutor would be prevented from
coming that evening. I sat on the stool in the far corner of the
verandah looking down the lane, with a heart beating faster and faster.
Every minute I kept my eye on the rain, and when it began to diminish I
prayed with all my might: "Please, God, send some more rain till
half-past seven is over." For I was quite ready to believe that there
was no other need for rain except to protect one helpless boy one
evening in one corner of Calcutta from the deadly clutches of his
tutor.
If not in answer to my prayer, at any rate according to some grosser law
of nature, the rain did not give up.
But, alas, nor did my teacher!
Exactly to the minute, in the bend of the lane, I saw his approaching
umbrella. The great bubble of hope burst in my breast, and my heart
collapsed. Truly, if there is a punishment to fit the crime after death,
then my tutor will be born again as me, and I shall be born as my tutor.
As soon as I saw his umbrella I ran as hard as I could to my mother's
room. My mother and my grandmother were sitting opposite one another
playing cards by the light of a lamp. I ran into the room, and flung
myself on the bed beside my mother, and said:
"Mother, the tutor has come, and I have such a bad headache; couldn't I
have no lessons to-day?"
I hope no child of immature age will be allowed to read this story, and
I sincerely trust it will not be used in text-books or primers for
junior classes. For what I did was dreadfully bad, and I received no
punishment whatever. On the contrary, my wickedness was crowned with
success.
My mother said to me: "All right," and turning to the servant added:
"Tell the tutor that he can go back home."
It was perfectly plain that she didn't think my illness very serious, as
she went on with her game as before and took no further notice. And I
also, burying my head in the pillow, laughed to my heart's content. We
perfectly understood one another, my mother and I.
But every one must know how hard it is for a boy of seven years old to
keep up the illusion of illness for a long time. After about a minute I
got hold of Grandmother and said: "Grannie, do tell me a story."
I had to ask this many times. Grannie and Mother went on playing cards
and took no notice. At last Mother said to me: "Child, don't bother.
Wait till we've finished our game." But I persisted: "Grannie, do tell
me a story." I told Mother she could finish her game to-morrow, but she
must let Grannie tell me a story there and then.
At last Mother threw down the cards and said: "You had better do what he
wants. I can't manage him." Perhaps she had it in her mind that she
would have no tiresome tutor on the morrow, while I should be obliged to
be back at those stupid lessons.
As soon as ever Mother had given way, I rushed at Grannie. I got hold
of her hand, and, dancing with delight, dragged her inside my mosquito
curtain on to the bed. I clutched hold of the bolster with both hands in
my excitement, and jumped up and down with joy, and when I had got a
little quieter said: "Now, Grannie, let's have the story!"