Phatik said suddenly: "I tell you, I haven't. You ask Makhan!" But
Makhan thought it best to stick to his previous statement. He said:
"Yes, mother. Phatik did hit me."
Phatik's patience was already exhausted. He could not hear this
injustice. He rushed at Makban, and hammered him with blows: "Take that"
he cried, "and that, and that, for telling lies."
His mother took Makhan's side in a moment, and pulled Phatik away,
beating him with her hands. When Phatik pushed her aside, she shouted
out: "What I you little villain! would you hit your own mother?"
It was just at this critical juncture that the grey-haired stranger
arrived. He asked what was the matter. Phatik looked sheepish and
ashamed.
But when his mother stepped back and looked at the stranger, her anger
was changed to surprise. For she recognised her brother, and cried:
"Why, Dada! Where have you come from?" As she said these words, she
bowed to the ground and touched his feet. Her brother had gone away soon
after she had married, and he had started business in Bombay. His sister
had lost her husband while he was In Bombay. Bishamber had now come back
to Calcutta, and had at once made enquiries about his sister. He had
then hastened to see her as soon as he found out where she was.
The next few days were full of rejoicing. The brother asked after the
education of the two boys. He was told by his sister that Phatik was a
perpetual nuisance. He was lazy, disobedient, and wild. But Makhan was
as good as gold, as quiet as a lamb, and very fond of reading, Bishamber
kindly offered to take Phatik off his sister's hands, and educate him
with his own children in Calcutta. The widowed mother readily agreed.
When his uncle asked Phatik If he would like to go to Calcutta with him,
his joy knew no bounds, and he said; "Oh, yes, uncle!" In a way that
made it quite clear that he meant it.
It was an immense relief to the mother to get rid of Phatik. She had
a prejudice against the boy, and no love was lost between the two
brothers. She was in daily fear that he would either drown Makhan some
day in the river, or break his head in a fight, or run him into some
danger or other. At the same time she was somewhat distressed to see
Phatik's extreme eagerness to get away.
Phatik, as soon as all was settled, kept asking his uncle every minute
when they were to start. He was on pins and needles all day long with
excitement, and lay awake most of the night. He bequeathed to Makhan,
in perpetuity, his fishing-rod, his big kite and his marbles. Indeed, at
this time of departure his generosity towards Makhan was unbounded.
When they reached Calcutta, Phatik made the acquaintance of his aunt
for the first time. She was by no means pleased with this unnecessary
addition to her family. She found her own three boys quite enough
to manage without taking any one else. And to bring a village lad of
fourteen into their midst was terribly upsetting. Bishamber should
really have thought twice before committing such an indiscretion.
In this world of human affairs there is no worse nuisance than a boy
at the age of fourteen. He is neither ornamental, nor useful. It is
impossible to shower affection on him as on a little boy; and he is
always getting in the way. If he talks with a childish lisp he is called
a baby, and if he answers in a grown-up way he is called impertinent.
In fact any talk at all from him is resented. Then he is at the
unattractive, growing age. He grows out of his clothes with indecent
haste; his voice grows hoarse and breaks and quavers; his face grows
suddenly angular and unsightly. It is easy to excuse the shortcomings of
early childhood, but it is hard to tolerate even unavoidable lapses in a
boy of fourteen. The lad himself becomes painfully self-conscious. When
he talks with elderly people he is either unduly forward, or else so
unduly shy that he appears ashamed of his very existence.
Yet it is at this very age when in his heart of hearts a young lad most
craves for recognition and love; and he becomes the devoted slave of any
one who shows him consideration. But none dare openly love him, for that
would be regarded as undue indulgence, and therefore bad for the boy.
So, what with scolding and chiding, he becomes very much like a stray
dog that has lost his master.
For a boy of fourteen his own home is the only Paradise. To live in a
strange house with strange people is little short of torture, while the
height of bliss is to receive the kind looks of women, and never to be
slighted by them.
It was anguish to Phatik to be the unwelcome guest in his aunt's house,
despised by this elderly woman, and slighted, on every occasion. If she
ever asked him to do anything for her, he would be so overjoyed that he
would overdo it; and then she would tell him not to be so stupid, but to
get on with his lessons.
The cramped atmosphere of neglect in his aunt's house oppressed Phatik
so much that he felt that he could hardly breathe. He wanted to go out
into the open country and fill his lungs and breathe freely. But there
was no open country to go to. Surrounded on all sides by Calcutta houses
and walls, he would dream night after night of his village home, and
long to be back there. He remembered the glorious meadow where he used
to fly his kite all day long; the broad river-banks where he would wander
about the livelong day singing and shouting for joy; the narrow brook
where he could go and dive and swim at any time he liked. He thought of
his band of boy companions over whom he was despot; and, above all, the
memory of that tyrant mother of his, who had such a prejudice against
him, occupied him day and night. A kind of physical love like that of
animals; a longing to be in the presence of the one who is loved; an
inexpressible wistfulness during absence; a silent cry of the inmost
heart for the mother, like the lowing of a calf in the twilight;-this
love, which was almost an animal instinct, agitated the shy, nervous,
lean, uncouth and ugly boy. No one could understand it, but it preyed
upon his mind continually.
There was no more backward boy in the whole school than Phatik. He gaped
and remained silent when the teacher asked him a question, and like an
overladen ass patiently suffered all the blows that came down on his
back. When other boys were out at play, he stood wistfully by the window
and gazed at the roofs of the distant houses. And if by chance he espied
children playing on the open terrace of any roof, his heart would ache
with longing.
One day he summoned up all his courage, and asked his uncle: "Uncle,
when can I go home?"
His uncle answered; "Wait till the holidays come." But the holidays would
not come till November, and there was a long time still to wait.
One day Phatik lost his lesson-book. Even with the help of books he
had found it very difficult indeed to prepare his lesson. Now it was
impossible. Day after day the teacher would cane him unmercifully.
His condition became so abjectly miserable that even his cousins were
ashamed to own him. They began to jeer and insult him more than the
other boys. He went to his aunt at last, and told her that he had lost
his book.
His aunt pursed her lips in contempt, and said: "You great clumsy,
country lout. How can I afford, with all my family, to buy you new books
five times a month?"
That night, on his way back from school, Phatik had a bad headache with
a fit of shivering. He felt he was going to have an attack of malarial
fever. His one great fear was that he would be a nuisance to his aunt.
The next morning Phatik was nowhere to be seen. All searches in the
neighbourhood proved futile. The rain had been pouring in torrents all
night, and those who went out in search of the boy got drenched through
to the skin. At last Bisbamber asked help from the police.
At the end of the day a police van stopped at the door before the house.
It was still raining and the streets were all flooded. Two constables
brought out Phatik in their arms and placed him before Bishamber. He was
wet through from head to foot, muddy all over, his face and eyes flushed
red with fever, and his limbs all trembling. Bishamber carried him in
his arms, and took him into the inner apartments. When his wife saw him,
she exclaimed; "What a heap of trouble this boy has given us. Hadn't you
better send him home?"
Phatik heard her words, and sobbed out loud: "Uncle, I was just going
home; but they dragged me back again."
The fever rose very high, and all that night the boy was delirious.
Bishamber brought in a doctor. Phatik opened his eyes flushed with
fever, and looked up to the ceiling, and said vacantly: "Uncle, have the
holidays come yet? May I go home?"
Bishamber wiped the tears from his own eyes, and took Phatik's lean
and burning hands in his own, and sat by him through the night. The boy
began again to mutter. At last his voice became excited: "Mother," he
cried, "don't beat me like that! Mother! I am telling the truth!"
The next day Phatik became conscious for a short time. He turned his
eyes about the room, as if expecting some one to come. At last, with an
air of disappointment, his head sank back on the pillow. He turned his
face to the wall with a deep sigh.
Bishamber knew his thoughts, and, bending down his head, whispered:
"Phatik, I have sent for your mother." The day went by. The doctor said
in a troubled voice that the boy's condition was very critical.
Phatik began to cry out; "By the mark!--three fathoms. By the mark--four
fathoms. By the mark-." He had heard the sailor on the river-steamer
calling out the mark on the plumb-line. Now he was himself plumbing an
unfathomable sea.
Later in the day Phatik's mother burst into the room like a whirlwind,
and began to toss from side to side and moan and cry in a loud voice.
Bishamber tried to calm her agitation, but she flung herself on the bed,
and cried: "Phatik, my darling, my darling."
Phatik stopped his restless movements for a moment. His hands ceased
beating up and down. He said: "Eh?"