Who is the happy man? He that sees in his own house, at home, little
children crowned with dust, leaping and falling and crying.--
_Munichandra_, translated by Professor Peterson.
The polo-ball was an old one, scarred, chipped, and dinted. It stood
on the mantelpiece among the pipe-stems which Imam Din, _khitmatgar_,
was cleaning for me.
'Does the Heaven-born want this ball?' said Imam Din deferentially.
The Heaven-born set no particular store by it; but of what use was a
polo-ball to a _khitmatgar_?
'By Your Honour's favour, I have a little son. He has seen this ball,
and desires it to play with, I do not want it for myself.'
No one would for an instant accuse portly old Imam Din of wanting to
play with polo-balls. He carried out the battered thing into the
verandah; and there followed a hurricane of joyful squeaks, a patter
of small feet, and the _thud-thud-thud_ of the ball rolling along
the ground. Evidently the little son had been waiting outside the
door to secure his treasure. But how had he managed to see that
polo-ball?
Next day, coming back from office half an hour earlier than usual, I
was aware of a small figure in the dining-room--a tiny, plump figure
in a ridiculously inadequate shirt which came, perhaps, halfway down
the tubby stomach. It wandered round the room, thumb in mouth,
crooning to itself as it took stock of the pictures. Undoubtedly this
was the 'little son.'
He had no business in my room, of course; but was so deeply absorbed
in his discoveries that he never noticed me in the doorway. I stepped
into the room and startled him nearly into a fit. He sat down on the
ground with a gasp. His eyes opened, and his mouth followed suit. I
knew what was coming, and fled, followed by a long, dry howl which
reached the servants' quarters far more quickly than any command of
mine had ever done. In ten seconds Imam Din was in the dining-room.
Then despairing sobs arose, and I returned to find Imam Din
admonishing the small sinner who was using most of his shirt as a
handkerchief.
'This boy,' said Imam Din judicially, 'is a _budmash_--a big
_budmash_. He will, without doubt, go to the _jail-khana_, for his
behaviour.' Renewed yells from the penitent, and an elaborate
apology to myself from Imam Din.
Tell the baby,' said I, 'that the _Sahib_ is not angry, and take him
away.' Imam Din conveyed my forgiveness to the offender, who had now
gathered all his shirt round his neck, stringwise, and the yell
subsided into a sob. The two set off for the door. 'His name,' said
Imam Din, as though the name were part of the crime, 'is Muhammad
Din, and he is a _budmash_.' Freed from present danger, Muhammad Din
turned round in his father's arms, and said gravely, 'It is true that
my name is Muhammad Din, _Tahib_, but I am not a _budmash_. I am a
_man_!'
From that day dated my acquaintance with Muhammad Din. Never again
did he come into my dining-room, but on the neutral ground of the
garden we greeted each other with much state, though our conversation
was confined to '_Talaam, Tahib_' from his side, and '_Salaam,
Muhammad Din_' from mine. Daily on my return from office, the little
white shirt and the fat little body used to rise from the shade of
the creeper-covered trellis where they had been hid; and daily I
checked my horse here, that my salutation might not be slurred over
or given unseemly.
Muhammad Din never had any companions. He used to trot about the
compound, in and out of the castor-oil bushes, on mysterious errands
of his own. One day I stumbled upon some of his handiwork far down
the grounds. He had half buried the polo-ball in dust, and stuck six
shrivelled old marigold flowers in a circle round it. Outside that
circle again was a rude square, traced out in bits of red brick
alternating with fragments of broken china; the whole bounded by a
little bank of dust. The water-man from the well-curb put in a plea
for the small architect, saying that it was only the play of a baby
and did not much disfigure my garden.
Heaven knows that I had no intention of touching the child's work
then or later; but, that evening, a stroll through the garden brought
me unawares full on it; so that I trampled, before I knew,
marigold-heads, dust-bank, and fragments of broken soap dish into
confusion past all hope of mending. Next morning, I came upon
Muhammad Din crying softly to himself over the ruin I had wrought.
Some one had cruelly told him that the _Sahib_ was very angry with
him for spoiling the garden, and had scattered his rubbish, using bad
language the while. Muhammad Din laboured for an hour at effacing
every trace of the dust bank and pottery fragments, and it was with
a tearful and apologetic face that he said, '_Talaam, Tahib_,' when
I came home from office. A hasty inquiry resulted in Imam Din
informing Muhammad Din that, by my singular favour, he was permitted
to disport himself as he pleased. Whereat the child took heart and
fell to tracing the ground-plan of an edifice which was to eclipse
the marigold-polo-ball creation.
For some months the chubby little eccentricity revolved in his humble
orbit among the castor-oil bushes and in the dust; always fashioning
magnificent palaces from stale flowers thrown away by the bearer,
smooth water-worn pebbles, bits of broken glass, and feathers pulled,
I fancy, from my fowls--always alone, and always crooning to himself.
A gaily-spotted sea-shell was dropped one day close to the last of
his little buildings; and I looked that Muhammad Din should build
something more than ordinarily splendid on the strength of it. Nor
was I disappointed He meditated for the better part of an hour, and
his crooning rose to a jubilant song. Then he began tracing in the
dust. It would certainly be a wondrous palace, this one, for it was
two yards long and a yard broad in ground-plan. But the palace was
never completed.
Next day there was no Muhammad Din at the head of the carriage-drive,
and no '_Talaam, Tahib_' to welcome my return. I had grown accustomed
to the greeting, and its omission troubled me. Next day Imam Din told
me that the child was suffering slightly from fever and needed
quinine. He got the medicine, and an English Doctor.
'They have no stamina, these brats,' said the Doctor, as he left Imam
Din's quarters.
A week later, though I would have given much to have avoided it, I
met on the road to the Mussulman burying-ground Imam Din, accompanied
by one other friend, carrying in his arms, wrapped in a white cloth,
all that was left of little Muhammad Din.