A Tame Rabbit.

A Tame Rabbit.When a penniless Hindu marries into a wealthy family he is sorely tempted to live with, and upon, his father-in-law. But the ease thus secured is unattended by dignity. Thegharjamái, “son-in-law of the house,” as he is styled, shocks public opinion, which holds it disgraceful for an able-bodied man to eat the bread of idleness. Pulin incurred a certain degree of opprobrium by quartering himself on Debendra Babu; neighbours treated him with scant courtesy, and the very household servants made him feel that he was a person of small importance. He bore contumely with patience, looking forward to the time when Debendra Babu’s decease would give him a recognised position. His wife was far more ambitious. She objected strongly to sharing her husband’s loss of social standing and frequently reproached him with submitting to be her father’sannadás(rice-slave).So, one morning, he poured his sorrows into Nalini’s sympathetic ear.“Mahásay,” he said, “you know that people are inclined to blame me for living in idleness, and I do indeed long to chalk out a career for myself. But I don’t know how to set about it and have no patron to back me. Do you happen to know of any job which would give me enough to live on? Salary is less an object with me than prospects. I would gladly accept a mastership in some high school.”“You are quite right in seeking independence,” replied Nalini, “and I shall be glad to help you. But lower-grade teachers are miserably paid, and their prospects are no better. It is only graduates who can aspire to a head-mastership. Are you one?”“No, sir, but I passed the F.A. examination in 1897.”“Ah, then, you are a Diamond Jubilee man—that’s a good omen,” rejoined Nalini, with a shade of sarcasm in his voice. “What were your English text-books?”“I read Milton’sAbsalom and Achitophel, Dryden’sHoly Grail, and many other poems, but I’m not sure of their titles after all these years.”Nalini suspected that his friend’s English lore was somewhat rusty. In order to test him further, he asked, “Can you tell me who wrote ‘Life is real, life is earnest,’—that line applies to you!”Pulin fidgeted about before answering. “It musthave been Tennyson—or was it Wordsworth? I never could keep poetry in my head.”Nalini thought that an F.A. might have remembered Longfellow’sPsalm of Life, but he refrained from airing superior knowledge.“Do you know any mathematics?” he inquired.“Mathematics!” replied Pulin joyously. “Why, they’re myforte—-I am quite at home in arithmetic, algebra, and geometry. Please ask me any question you like.”“Well, let us have Prop. 30, Book I. of Euclid.”Pulin rattled off Proposition 13 of that book, without the aid of a diagram. Nalini now saw that the young man’s mental equipment was of the slenderest description. He said, “Well, you may call on me another day, when I may be able to tell you of some vacancy”.Pulin, however, would take no denial. He became so insistent that Nalini reluctantly gave him a letter of introduction to Babu Kaliprasanna Som, Secretary of the Rámnagar High School, who, he said, was looking about him for a fourth master. Pulin lost no time in delivering it and was immediately appointed to the vacant post.English education in Bengal is not regarded as a key which opens the door of a glorious literature, but simply and solely as a stepping-stone in the path ofworldly success. The Department seems to aim at turning out clerks and lawyers in reckless profusion. Moreover, academic degrees are tariffed in the marriage market. The “F.A.” commands a far higher price than the “entrance-passed,” while an M.A. has his pick of the richest and prettiest girls belonging to his class. Hence parents take a keen interest in their boys’ progress and constantly urge them to excel in class. With such lessons ringing in his ears, the Bengali schoolboy is consumed with a desire to master his text-books. The great difficulty is to tear him away from them, and insist on his giving sufficient time to manly games. When a new teacher takes the helm, he is closely watched in order to test his competence. The older lads take a cruel pleasure in plying him with questions which they have already solved from the Dictionary. Pulin did not emerge from this ordeal with credit, and the boys concocted a written complaint of his shortcomings, which they despatched to the Secretary of the School Committee, The answer was a promise to redress their grievances.At 10.30 next morning Kaliprasanna Babu entered Pulin’s classroom and stood listening to his method of teaching English literature. Presently one of the boys asked him to explain the difference between “fort” and “fortress”. After scratching his head for fully half a minute he replied that the first was acastle defended by men, while the second had a female garrison! The Secretary was quite satisfied. He left the room and sent Pulin a written notice of dismissal. The latter was disheartened beyond measure by this unkind stroke of fortune. He shook the dust of Rámnagar from his feet and returned home to lay his sorrows before Nalini, seasoning the story with remarks highly derogatory to Kaliprasanna Babu’s character. In order to get rid of an importunate suitor Nalini gave him another letter of introduction, this time to an old acquaintance named Debnath Lahiri who was head clerk in the office of Messrs. Kerr & Dunlop, one of the largest mercantile firms of Calcutta. Pulin was heartily sick of school-mastering, and the prospect of making a fortune in business filled his soul with joy. He borrowed Rs. 30 from Debendra Babu and took the earliest train for Calcutta. On arriving there he joined a mess of waifs and strays like himself, who herded in a small room and clubbed their pice to provide meals. Then he waited on Debnath Babu, whom he found installed in a sumptuous office overlooking the river Hughli. The great man glanced at his credentials and, with an appearance of cordiality, promised to let him know in case a vacancy occurred in the office. For nearly a month Pulin called daily for news at Messrs. Kerr & Dunlop’s, and generally managed to waylay thehead clerk, whose reply was invariably, “I have nothing to suit you at present”.One morning, however, he was stopped by the darwán (doorkeeper) who told him gruffly that the “Bara Babu did not like to have outsiders hanging about the office”. The baffled suitor reflected on his miserable position. He had just eleven rupees and two pice left, which he calculated would last him, with strict economy, for another fortnight. When they were spent, he would have to return crestfallen to Kadampur. But could he face the neighbours’ sneers, the servants’ contumely—worse than all, his wife’s bitter tongue? No, that was not to be thought of. It were better to plunge into the river whose turbid waters rolled only a few feet away.Pulin was roused from this unpleasant train of thought by hearing his name pronounced. It came from a well-dressed man, who was just entering Messrs. Kerr & Dunlop’s office, welcomed by a salám from the surly doorkeeper. Pulin was delighted to recognise in the stranger a certain Kisari Mohan Chatterji, who had taught him English in the General Assembly’s College more than a decade back. In a few words he told his sad story and learnt that Kisari Babu had taken the same step as he himself contemplated, with the result that he was now head clerk in Messrs. Kerr & Dunlop’s exportdepartment. This news augured well for his own ambition, but poor Pulin was disgusted on hearing that no less than three vacancies had occurred in as many weeks, and that all had been filled by relatives of Babu Debnath Lahiri. Kisari Babu added: “A junior clerk is to be appointed to-morrow. Write out an application in your very best hand, with copies of your testimonials, and bring it to me here this evening at five. I’ll see that it reaches our manager, Henderson Saheb.” Pulin punctually followed his friend’s advice, and dreamed all night of wealth beyond a miser’s utmost ambition.On arriving at Messrs. Kerr & Dunlop’s office next morning he joined a crowd of twenty or thirty young men who were bent on a like errand. His spirits sank to zero, nor were they raised when after hanging about in the rain for nearly two hours the aspirants were told that the vacancy had been filled up. Thereupon the forlorn group dispersed, cursing their ill-luck and muttering insinuations against Mr. Henderson and his head clerk. Pulin, however, lingered behind. By tendering a rupee to the doorkeeper he got a slip of paper and pencil, with which he indited a piteous appeal to Kisari Babu, and a promise that it should reach him. Presently his friend came out in a desperate hurry, with a stylograph behind his ear, and his hands laden with papers.“It’s just as I anticipated,” he whispered to Pulin. “The head clerk has persuaded Henderson Saheb to bestow the post on his wife’s nephew. But don’t be disheartened. I will speak to our Saheb about you this very day. Come here at five to learn the result.”Pulin did so and was overjoyed to find that he had been appointed probationary clerk in the export department on Rs. 20 per mensem, in supersession of Debnath Babu’s nominee.On the morrow he entered on his new duties with some trepidation, but Kisari Babu took him under his wing and spared no pains to “teach him the ropes”. Pulin spent his evenings in furbishing up his English and arithmetic, mastered the whole art of book-keeping, and, being naturally intelligent, he soon had the office routine at his fingers’ ends. He grasped the fact that a young man who wishes to succeed in life must make himself indispensable. In course of time Pulin’s industry and trustworthiness attracted the attention of Mr. Henderson, who confirmed him as clerk, with a salary of Rs. 35.But every cup has its bitter drop; and Pulin’s was the persistent enmity of the head clerk, who bore him a grudge for ousting his wife’s nephew and seized every opportunity of annoying him. Leagued with the arch-enemy were two subordinate clerks, Gyánendra and Lakshminarain by name, who belonged to DebnathBabu’sgústi(family). This trio so managed matters that all the hardest and most thankless work fell to Pulin’s lot. He bore their pin-pricks with equanimity, secure in the constant support of Kisari Babu.One muggy morning in August he awoke with a splitting headache, the harbinger of an attack of fever, and was obliged to inform the head clerk, by means of a note, of his inability to attend office. An answer was brought by Gyánendra to the effect that three days’ leave of absence was granted, but that his work must be carried on by some other clerk. He was, therefore, ordered to send the key of his desk by the bearer. For three days the patient endured alternations of heat and cold; but his malady yielded to quinine, and on the fourth he was able to resume work.Soon after reaching the office, he was accosted by one of the bearers, named Rámtonu, who told him thatthe Bara Sahebwished to see him at once. The moment he entered the manager’s sanctum he saw that something unpleasant had occurred. Without wishing him good morning, as usual, Mr. Henderson handed him a cheque and asked sternly whether he had filled it up. Pulin examined the document, which turned out to be an order on the Standard Bank to pay Tárak Ghose & Co. Rs. 200, signed by Mr. Henderson. He was obliged to admit that thepayee’s name, as also the amount in words and figures, seemed to be in his handwriting.“Yes,” rejoined the manager, “and the signature is very like my own; but it is a forgery. Do you hear me, Babu, aforgery!”To Pulin’s disordered senses the room, with its furniture and Mr. Henderson’s angry face, seemed to be turning round. He gasped out, “I’m ill, sir!” and sank into a chair. The manager mistook the remains of fever for a tacit admission of guilt. He waited till Pulin had regained a share of his wits and said gravely: “I did not think that one whom I trusted with my cheque-book would act thus. Now you will search your books, to see whether they contain a record of any payment of the kind, and return with them in half an hour. But I must warn you that if this forgery is traced to you, I shall have to call in the police.”Pulin staggered back to his room in despair and observed that Gyánendra and Lakshminarain, who sat at the next desk, were evidently enjoying his mental agony. Alas! the books showed no trace of any payment to Tárak Ghose & Co. He wrung his hands in great distress and sat bewildered, until Rámtonu came to summon him to the manager’s tribunal. In the corridor Rámtonu glanced round, to make sure that no one was within hearing, andsaid, “Don’t be afraid, Babuji. You did me a good turn, and I may be able to help you now.”This Rámtonu was an office menial hailing from the district of Gáya, in Behar. He was an intelligent man, but rather unlicked, and was the butt of the younger clerks, who delighted in mocking his uncouth up-country dialect. Pulin, however, had never joined in “ragging” him, and, on one occasion, he lent Rámtonu Rs. 7 for his wife, who was about to increase the population of Gáya. Gratitude for kindness is a marked trait in the Indian character, and Pulin bethought him of the old fable of the Lion and Mouse. He asked: “Why, what do you know aboutlekha-para(reading and writing)?”“Never mind,” rejoined Rámtonu. “We must not loiter, for we should be suspected of plotting together. Come to the Saheb’s room. I shall be admitted, for he knows that I don’t understand English. All I ask is that you will clasp your hands as a signal when I may come forward and tell my story.”A European police officer was seated by Mr. Henderson’s side, engaged in writing from his dictation. They looked up, and the manager asked whether Pulin had found any record of the payment in dispute.On receiving a negative answer, he said: “Then I shall be obliged to hand you over to the police”.Pulin clasped his hands in a mute appeal for mercy, whereon Rámtonu stepped forward. Carefully extracting a folded sheet of foolscap from the pocket of hischapkan(a tight-fitting garment, worn by nearly all classes in full dress), he spread it out on the table and respectfully asked the manager to run his eye over it.“By Jove,” remarked the latter, with great surprise, “here’s some one has been copying my signature—and Pulin’s writing too!”All eyes were now bent on the incriminating document. It was made up of many fragments of paper, carefully pasted on a sheet of foolscap, and bore the words, “Tárak Ghose & Co., two hundred rupees, 200,” repeated at least twenty times. Below was “A.G. Henderson,” also multiplied many-fold. The manager asked where Rámtonu had found the paper, and received the following answer:—“Your Highness, Pulin Babu here did not come to office on Monday; and for the next few days his work was done by Gyánendra Babu, who got the keys of his desk. I knew that he and some other clerks detested Pulin Babu, so I watched their movements narrowly, to see whether they would try to get him into a scrape, and more than once I surprised Gyánendra and Lakshminarain whispering together. On Tuesday neither of them left the office for lunch withthe other clerks, and I seized some pretext for entering the room where they sit. Gyánendra roughly bade me begone; so I went to the verandah outside and peeped through thejilmils(Venetian blinds) of a window close to their desk. Lakshminarain was copying some English words from a paper on his left side, while the other clerk looked on, nodding and shaking his head from time to time. After writing in this fashion for a while, Lakshminarain took a sheet of notepaper covered with writing and copied the signature many times, until both babus were satisfied with the result. Then I saw Gyánendra unlock Pulin Babu’s desk, take out a cheque-book, and hand it to the other man, who filled up the counterfoil and body of one blank cheque, glancing sometimes at the paper in front of him. He returned it to Gyánendra who placed it in a pocket-book. After tearing up the papers they had used and throwing them into the waste-paper basket, they left the room. I ran round, carefully avoiding them, picked the fragments of paper out of the basket, tied them in a corner of mygamcha(wrapper), and left the office quickly, asking the doorkeeper what direction they had taken. When he said that they had turned northwards, I guessed that they were off to the Bank, in order to cash the cheque, and sure enough I overtook them not more than arassifrom the office. Following them at a littledistance on the other side of the street, I saw them stop outside the Standard Bank and look anxiously around. Presently a schoolboy passed by, whom they hailed and, after talking for a while, Gyánendra handed him the cheque with a small linen money-bag, and pointed to the door of the Bank. The lad went inside, while both babus waited round the corner. In a short time he came out and handed the bag full of money to Gyánendra, who gave him something and hurried back to the office with his companion. Putting two and two together I felt assured that those clerks had forged the cheque; and had I known where Pulin Babu lived, I would certainly have communicated my suspicions to him. Having to work without his help, I persuaded a student, who lodges near my quarters, to piece the scraps of paper together. It took him two hours to do so, and we then pasted them carefully on this sheet of foolscap. You will see, Saheb, that there are thirty-seven in all, and only three missing.”The story made a deep impression on Mr. Henderson and the Police Inspector, while Pulin was raised to the seventh heaven of delight by the thought that his innocence might yet be established.“Could you identify the boy?” asked the Europeans with one breath.“I don’t know his name,” was Rámtonu’s rejoinder;“but I think I could pick him out, for he passes this office daily on his way to and from school. But this is just the time when he goes home for tiffin. With your Highness’s permission, I will watch for him in the street.”“Do so by all means,” was the Inspector’s reply. “Meanwhile, I’ll take down notes of your statement.”Rámtonu went out and in a few minutes returned dragging with him triumphantly a well-dressed lad of fifteen, who seemed terribly alarmed by the company into which he was thrust. The Inspector calmed his fears by assuring him that he would come to no harm if only he spoke the whole truth. “You have been unwittingly made the instrument of a forgery,” he added, “and we want your help towards detecting it.” The boy plucked up courage and answered every question put him quite candidly. His tale corroborated Rámtonu’s in most particulars, with the addition that the tall babu had given him eight annasbakshishfor cashing the cheque. He had not seen either of the men previously, but thought he should be able to recognise one of them owing to his unusual height.“Now, bearer,” said Mr. Henderson, “go and fetch both the clerks; bring in the tall one first, but keep an eye on the other outside and beyond earshot.”Rámtonu left the room with alacrity and presently returned ushering Lakshminarain into the dreaded presence. The newcomer was beside himself with terror; and when he was identified by the schoolboy as one of the men who had employed him to cash the cheque, he did not wait to be asked for an explanation. Throwing himself at Mr. Henderson’s feet he begged for mercy, promising to reveal the entire truth. The Inspector would make no promises but simply adjured him to make a clean breast of his share in the transaction. Lakshminarain obeyed, and his statement, interrupted by many sobs, was duly recorded. His accomplice was next introduced. At first Gyánendra was inclined to put a bold face on the matter, stoutly affirming that it was a put-up affair between Pulin and Rámtonu. When, however, the Inspector read out to him the deposition of the bearer and schoolboy, he saw that the game was up and confessed his misdoings, accusing the head clerk of having prompted them. The culprits were taken in aticcá gári(four-wheeled cab) to the police station Pulin occupying the box, while Rámtonu ran behind.Well, to cut a long story short, the prisoners stuck to their confession and refunded their ill-gotten gains. They were duly committed to the High Court on charges of forgery and conspiring to accuse an innocent man of the like offence. They both pleadedguilty, and the judge remarked that it was one of the worst cases of the kind he had ever tried. In passing sentence of two years rigorous imprisonment on each prisoner, he added that they would have fared worse but for the patent fact that they had been made catspaws of by some one who kept in the background. As there was no evidence against Debnath Babu, except that of accomplices, he was not prosecuted; but immediately after the trial, Messrs. Kerr & Dunlop dismissed him without notice. Kisari Babu was promoted to the vacant office of head clerk, while Pulin stepped into his friend’s shoes. By unfailing application to duty, he won Messrs. Kerr & Dunlop’s entire confidence, and in fulness of time succeeded Kisari Babu as head clerk. Ten or twelve years later, Pulin was rich enough to build apakka(masonry) house at Kadampur, which far eclipsed his father-in-law’s, and had a well-paid doorkeeper in the person of Rámtonu. The once-despisedgharjamáitook a leading position among the local gentry.Gobardhan’s Triumph.Jadu Babu’s four-year-old daughter, Mrinalini, or Mrinu as she was called in the family, came to her mother one evening to say that her kitten was lost. In vain was she taken on the maternal lap, her tears gently wiped away, and all manner of pretty toys promised. Her little frame was convulsed with sobs, and she refused to be comforted. So her mother sent a maidservant to search for the plaything. The girl returned shortly and said that the kitten was certainly not in the house. At this Mrinu howled more loudly than ever, bringing her father on the scene. He pacified the child by undertaking to produce her pet, and told the servants that the finder would be handsomely rewarded. Meanwhile his wife was trying to keep Mrinu’s attention engaged by telling her a long story, when she suddenly exclaimed, “What has become of yourjasam(gold bracelet)?”Mrinu replied, “I took it off to play with kitty and laid it down somewhere”.This was all the information she could vouchsafein answer to repeated questions. The mother set her down and proceeded to search every hole and corner for thejasam, but it was not to be found. Her husband was greatly alarmed on hearing of this untoward event. The loss of Rs. 100, at which the trinket was valued, might have been borne; but Hindus believe that misfortune invariably follows the loss of gold. He set all his servants and hangers-on to look for thejasam, but they were unsuccessful. In despair he hurried to Nalini for advice and was told to send for Gobardhan, which he promptly did.The astrologer listened attentively to his story and then asked whether Jadu Babu would tryBáti Chálá(divination by thebátaleaf), or some simpler method of discovering the lostjasam. On learning that the matter would be left entirely in his hands, he told Jadu Babu to collect all his servants in the parlour and let him have half a seer (1 lb.) of raw rice, with as many strips of banana leaf as there were servants. When all were assembled, Gobardhan thus addressed them, “Mrinu has lost herjasam, have any of you seen it?” The reply was a chorus of “Noes” with emphatic head-shakings. “Then none of you have stolen it?” Again a volume of protestations. “Very well, then,” said Gobardhan, “I must try the ordeal of chewed rice.” After uttering manymantras(incantations) and waving his hand over the pile ofgrain and banana leaves, he dealt out a quotum of each to the servants.“Now” he said, “you will masticate the rice for a minute thoroughly and then drop the result on your leaves. I warn you that it will be deadly poison for the thief.” All obeyed with alacrity, and Gobardhan, after examining the contents of each leaf, assured Jadu Babu that thejasamhad not been stolen.My readers who are versed in science will understand that, in point of fact, there is nothing magical about this rite, which is based on the circumstance that fear checks the flow of saliva. In all probability a thief would eject the rice absolutely dry.The inference was thatthe jasamhad been mislaid; and Jadu Babu asked whether Gobardhan’s lore was equal to recovering it.“Possibly,” answered the astrologer, “but it is not a case of Báti Chálá; if you can guarantee me Rs. 10, I will performNákha Darpan(literally ‘nail-mirror’). Let me have an almanac, please, to find an auspicious day.”After examining it and receiving a ten-rupee note from Jadu Babu, the astrologer said oracularly that he would return on the following afternoon, with a lad of twelve, who had been born under the Constellation of the Scales.At the appointed hour, Gobardhan came accompaniedby his acolyte, with whom he sat down at the Chandimandab (a shrine of the goddess Durga, found in most Hindu houses, which serves for social gatherings). Jadu Babu and thebhadra-lok(gentle-folk) took their seats there too, while the underlings formed a respectful half-circle in front. Adjuring all to keep perfect silence, he asked the lad to gaze into the nail on his own right index finger and tell the people what he saw there. After staring at it for a minute or so, the boy began to tremble violently and whispered: “I see a mango-tope (orchard); a little girl is playing with her kitten under the trees. Now I see her slipping ajasamfrom her arm, the kitten frisks about, and the child follows it; now it disappears, and the child runs indoors.” Then, raising his voice to a shrill scream, he pointed with his left hand to the north and asked:—“What are those animals which are prowling in the orchard? Are they dogs? No—they are jackals—one, two, three jackals! They pounce on the kitten, and tear her limb from limb! Now everything is growing hazy; I can’t see any more!”A thrill of fear ran through the audience, and one might have heard a pin drop. At length Gobardhan broke the silence:—“Let us go to the mango-tope north of this house,” he said solemnly.Thither they hurried and, after a few minutes’ search, one of the maidservants cried out that she had found thejasamhalf-hidden by the gnarled roots of a tree.Jadu Babu was overjoyed by the recovery of his missing jewel, and pressed another fee of ten rupees on the astrologer. As for Gobardhan, his fame spread far and wide, and his hut was rarely without some client, eager to learn the future.Patience is a Virtue.Sádhu Sheikh of Simulgachi was not long in finding a husband for his half-sister, Maini Bibi. Before she was fourteen, a young farmer named Ramzán proposed for her hand, offering aden mohurof Rs. 100. Theden mohuris a device recognised by Mohammadan law for protecting married women from capricious repudiation. The husband binds himself to refund a fictitious dowry, generally far above his means, in case he should divorce his wife for no fault of hers. Ramzán was accepted by Sádhu, and the marriage was duly celebrated. Maini Bibi was a handsome girl; but beauty was among the least of her gifts. She was sweet-tempered, thrifty, and obedient, winning sympathy on all sides. The one discordant note was struck by Ramzán’s mother, Fatima Bibi by name, who took a violent dislike to the bride and evinced it by persistently scolding and ill-using her. Ramzán was completely under his mother’s thumb and saw everything with her eyes. His love for Maini was slowly sapped by her innuendoes,and he treated the poor girl with something worse than coldness. Maini, however, bore her hard lot without a murmur, hoping that time and patience would win back her husband’s heart.On returning one evening from the fields, Ramzán was hailed by his mother who was evidently in a worse temper than usual.“Hi! Ramzán,” she shrieked, “I am an old woman, and you, doubtless, find me an incumbrance. Speak out, my son; you have only to say ‘go,’ and I will leave this house in half an hour.”“Why, what’s the matter, mother?” asked Ramzán with open eyes.“Matter,” she yelled. “Would you believe it, that black-faced daughter of a pig has actually abused me—me, your old mother!”“What did she say?” rejoined Ramzán angrily.“My son,” was the answer, “you know how she neglects household duties, leaving all the hard jobs to me. Well, this afternoon, I ventured on a word of remonstrance, and she actually abused me.” And the old woman wiped her tears away with a corner of her cotton wrapper, adding with eyes cast heavenwards, “Merciful Allah, to think that I should come to this in my old age!”“But what did she say?” repeated Ramzán wearily.“She told me to my face that I had forgotten to put salt into the curry!”“That’s hardly abusive,” rejoined Ramzán.“You think so,” shouted Fatima. “Now you’re taking sides with her against your mother, who bore you. You will assuredly suffer in Jehannam (hell) for such a crime! But I’ll have it out with that she-devil!”So saying, she dashed from the room to the kitchen, where the luckless Maini was cowering in anticipation of a coming storm. She was not deceived. Fatima seized her by the hair and administered a sound thumping.Several days passed by, bringing no alleviation to her fate. But matters came to a crisis on a certain morning, owing to Ramzán’s complaint that his wife had over-salted the curry. On tasting the food, Fatima burst into violent imprecations and “went for” her daughter-in-law, who took refuge in the neighbouring brushwood. At nightfall she crept back to the house and found Ramzán closeted with his mother. They were talking earnestly, but Maini could not distinguish the purport of the conversation. It seemed to her that Fatima’s voice was raised in entreaty, and Ramzán was objecting to some scheme proposed by her. She passed the night sleepless and in tears.Early next day Ramzán entered her room and saidgruffly, “Get up, collect your chattels, and follow me. I am going to take you back to Sádhu’s.” Maini obeyed without a word of remonstrance, and a quarter of an hour later the ill-assorted pair might have been seen walking towards Simulgachi.The rainy season was now in full swing, and their path lay across a deep nullah (ravine) through which mighty volumes of drainage water were finding their way to the Ganges. On reaching a bamboo foot-bridge which spanned it, Ramzán ordered his wife to go first. Ere she reached the opposite bank, he gave her a violent shove, which sent her shrieking vainly for help into the swirling torrent below.Hardly had Ramzán perpetrated this odious deed than he felt he would give his chances ofbihisht(paradise) to recall it. He ran along the bank shouting frantically, “Maini! Maini!” Alas! her slender body was carried like a straw by the foaming water towards the Ganges and soon disappeared in a bend of the nullah. Then her murderer sat down and gave himself up to despair. But the sun was up; people were stirring in the fields; and so he slunk homewards. Fatima stood on the threshold and raised her eyebrows inquiringly; but Ramzán thrust her aside, muttering, “It is done,” and shut himself up in his wife’s room. There everything reminded him of her; the scrupulous neatness of floor and walls—no cobwebs hanging from the rafters, the kitchen utensils shining like mirrors. He sat down and burst into a flood of tears.For several days he did not exchange a word with his accomplice, and dared not go to market lest his worst fears should be realised. Dread of personal consequences added new torture to unavailing remorse. Every moment he expected the red-pagried ministers of justice to appear and hale him to the scaffold. The position was clearly past bearing. So, too, thought Fatima, for she waylaid her son one afternoon and said: “Ramzán, I cannot stand this life any longer; let me go to my brother Mahmud Sardar, the cooly-catcher”.“Go,” he replied sullenly, and the old woman gathered up her belongings in a bundle and departed, leaving him to face the dark future alone.While brooding over his fate, he was startled by the sudden arrival of Sádhu. “Now I’m in for it,” he thought and began to tremble violently while his features assumed an ashen hue. But Sadhu sat down by his side and said, “Ramzán, I’ve come about Maini”.“Then she’s drowned!” gasped Ramzán. “By Allah the Highest, I swear that I did my best to save her.”“Hullo!” rejoined Sádhu with great surprise;“you must have been with her when she fell into the nullah.”Ramzán bent his head in silence. After a few moments he looked up, clasped his hands, and said:—“Tell me the truth, Sádhu, is Maini alive?”“She is,” was the reply. “On Thursday morning she came to our house dripping wet and quite exhausted, with a story that your mother had turned her out of doors and that she was on her way to live with us when, on crossing the Padmajali Nullah, her foot slipped and she fell into the water. She told us how, after being carried for nearly a gau-coss (lit. cow league, the distance at which a cow’s lowing can be heard), she was swept by the stream against the overhanging roots of a pipal tree(ficus religiosa)and managed to clamber up the bank. But Maini never told us that you were with her. Why, Ramzán, you’re quaking in every limb. I always suspected Maini had concealed the truth. Swear on the Quran that you did not try to drown her.”Ramzán feebly protested innocence, and the two men sat awhile without speaking.At length Sádhu said: “I’ve come to make you a proposal. Young Esáf, the son of Ibrahim of our village, has fallen in love with Maini and wants to marry her. He is willing to pay theden mohurofRs. 100 which would be due from you in case of repudiation. Now we want you to divorce her.”Ramzán was overcome by his wife’s magnanimity, and the thought of losing her drove him to distraction. “No!” he shouted, “I won’t divorce her. I’ll fetch her back this very day!”“That’s quite out of the question,” rejoined Sádhu. “Maini cannot bear her mother-in-law’s cruelty, and I’m sure she’ll never consent to live with you again. Besides, Esáf is a rich man and will make her happy. She shall marry him.”“I say she shan’t,” said Ramzán emphatically.Sádhu got up and moved off, remarking, “Very well, I will go to the police station at once and charge you with attempting to kill her! We shall soon worm the truth out of Maini, and get plenty of eye-witnesses too.”Ramzán was beside himself with terror. He followed Sádhu, clasped his feet, and groaned, “No, you won’t do that! I am ready to divorce Maini. Let Allah’s will be done.”“Ah,” replied Sádhu, “so you can listen to reason after all. Come to our house to-morrow evening; we will have witnesses ready, and Esáf will be there with theden mohur.”Ramzán had a sleepless night and was too downcast to work on the morrow. When evening came,he walked wearily to Simulgachi. There was quite a small crowd in Sádhu’s courtyard. On one side sat Maini and some other women with faces closely covered; Esáf and the witnesses were on the other. Between them was a mat, on which lay a bag full of money. Ramzán was received without salutations, and squatted down by Sádhu’s side.Moslem husbands can get rid of their wives by repeating the wordtalaq(surrender) thrice, in the presence of witnesses. Every one expected him to utter the formula, which would release Maini from his power. However, he sat silent, with downcast eyes. After a minute or two, he rose and, looking steadily at Maini, was just about to speak, when she sprang forward, laid her hand on his arm, and said: “Surely you are not going to divorce me, your faithful wife, who loves you dearly and seeks only to make you happy? What have I done to be treated thus?”A murmur was heard in the assembly, but Sádhu raised his hand in token of silence.“Foolish girl!” he exclaimed, “do you wish to return to a mother-in-law who hates and persecutes you? Will Ramzán be able to protect you?” Then lowering his voice, he added, “Is your life safe with those people?”“Life and death,” rejoined Maini, “are in Allah’s hands. It is his will that we should fulfil our destinies,and mine is to cling to my husband. I would not change him for Hátim Tái (a legendary hero, very rich and generous) himself!” Then nestling closer to Ramzán, she pleaded in a voice of music, “Surely you don’t want to get rid of me?”He was quite overcome and burst into tears.“No,” he sobbed, “I will never separate from my treasure. Come back to me, and you need not fear my mother’s tongue. She has left my house for good, and I swear by Allah, in the presence of all these people, that she shall not live with us again. You, Maini, shall be sole mistress of my house.”Maini was overjoyed by this decision. She clapped her hands twice, and then, picking up the bag of money, said to the crestfallen Esáf, “Take back your rupees; I am going home with my husband”.So speaking, she took Ramzán’s hand and led him out of the house, while a great silence fell on the crowd, broken at length by many exclamations and a buzz of loud talk. My readers who know Maini’s sweet nature will not be surprised to learn that her happiness was thenceforward without a single cloud.

A Tame Rabbit.When a penniless Hindu marries into a wealthy family he is sorely tempted to live with, and upon, his father-in-law. But the ease thus secured is unattended by dignity. Thegharjamái, “son-in-law of the house,” as he is styled, shocks public opinion, which holds it disgraceful for an able-bodied man to eat the bread of idleness. Pulin incurred a certain degree of opprobrium by quartering himself on Debendra Babu; neighbours treated him with scant courtesy, and the very household servants made him feel that he was a person of small importance. He bore contumely with patience, looking forward to the time when Debendra Babu’s decease would give him a recognised position. His wife was far more ambitious. She objected strongly to sharing her husband’s loss of social standing and frequently reproached him with submitting to be her father’sannadás(rice-slave).So, one morning, he poured his sorrows into Nalini’s sympathetic ear.“Mahásay,” he said, “you know that people are inclined to blame me for living in idleness, and I do indeed long to chalk out a career for myself. But I don’t know how to set about it and have no patron to back me. Do you happen to know of any job which would give me enough to live on? Salary is less an object with me than prospects. I would gladly accept a mastership in some high school.”“You are quite right in seeking independence,” replied Nalini, “and I shall be glad to help you. But lower-grade teachers are miserably paid, and their prospects are no better. It is only graduates who can aspire to a head-mastership. Are you one?”“No, sir, but I passed the F.A. examination in 1897.”“Ah, then, you are a Diamond Jubilee man—that’s a good omen,” rejoined Nalini, with a shade of sarcasm in his voice. “What were your English text-books?”“I read Milton’sAbsalom and Achitophel, Dryden’sHoly Grail, and many other poems, but I’m not sure of their titles after all these years.”Nalini suspected that his friend’s English lore was somewhat rusty. In order to test him further, he asked, “Can you tell me who wrote ‘Life is real, life is earnest,’—that line applies to you!”Pulin fidgeted about before answering. “It musthave been Tennyson—or was it Wordsworth? I never could keep poetry in my head.”Nalini thought that an F.A. might have remembered Longfellow’sPsalm of Life, but he refrained from airing superior knowledge.“Do you know any mathematics?” he inquired.“Mathematics!” replied Pulin joyously. “Why, they’re myforte—-I am quite at home in arithmetic, algebra, and geometry. Please ask me any question you like.”“Well, let us have Prop. 30, Book I. of Euclid.”Pulin rattled off Proposition 13 of that book, without the aid of a diagram. Nalini now saw that the young man’s mental equipment was of the slenderest description. He said, “Well, you may call on me another day, when I may be able to tell you of some vacancy”.Pulin, however, would take no denial. He became so insistent that Nalini reluctantly gave him a letter of introduction to Babu Kaliprasanna Som, Secretary of the Rámnagar High School, who, he said, was looking about him for a fourth master. Pulin lost no time in delivering it and was immediately appointed to the vacant post.English education in Bengal is not regarded as a key which opens the door of a glorious literature, but simply and solely as a stepping-stone in the path ofworldly success. The Department seems to aim at turning out clerks and lawyers in reckless profusion. Moreover, academic degrees are tariffed in the marriage market. The “F.A.” commands a far higher price than the “entrance-passed,” while an M.A. has his pick of the richest and prettiest girls belonging to his class. Hence parents take a keen interest in their boys’ progress and constantly urge them to excel in class. With such lessons ringing in his ears, the Bengali schoolboy is consumed with a desire to master his text-books. The great difficulty is to tear him away from them, and insist on his giving sufficient time to manly games. When a new teacher takes the helm, he is closely watched in order to test his competence. The older lads take a cruel pleasure in plying him with questions which they have already solved from the Dictionary. Pulin did not emerge from this ordeal with credit, and the boys concocted a written complaint of his shortcomings, which they despatched to the Secretary of the School Committee, The answer was a promise to redress their grievances.At 10.30 next morning Kaliprasanna Babu entered Pulin’s classroom and stood listening to his method of teaching English literature. Presently one of the boys asked him to explain the difference between “fort” and “fortress”. After scratching his head for fully half a minute he replied that the first was acastle defended by men, while the second had a female garrison! The Secretary was quite satisfied. He left the room and sent Pulin a written notice of dismissal. The latter was disheartened beyond measure by this unkind stroke of fortune. He shook the dust of Rámnagar from his feet and returned home to lay his sorrows before Nalini, seasoning the story with remarks highly derogatory to Kaliprasanna Babu’s character. In order to get rid of an importunate suitor Nalini gave him another letter of introduction, this time to an old acquaintance named Debnath Lahiri who was head clerk in the office of Messrs. Kerr & Dunlop, one of the largest mercantile firms of Calcutta. Pulin was heartily sick of school-mastering, and the prospect of making a fortune in business filled his soul with joy. He borrowed Rs. 30 from Debendra Babu and took the earliest train for Calcutta. On arriving there he joined a mess of waifs and strays like himself, who herded in a small room and clubbed their pice to provide meals. Then he waited on Debnath Babu, whom he found installed in a sumptuous office overlooking the river Hughli. The great man glanced at his credentials and, with an appearance of cordiality, promised to let him know in case a vacancy occurred in the office. For nearly a month Pulin called daily for news at Messrs. Kerr & Dunlop’s, and generally managed to waylay thehead clerk, whose reply was invariably, “I have nothing to suit you at present”.One morning, however, he was stopped by the darwán (doorkeeper) who told him gruffly that the “Bara Babu did not like to have outsiders hanging about the office”. The baffled suitor reflected on his miserable position. He had just eleven rupees and two pice left, which he calculated would last him, with strict economy, for another fortnight. When they were spent, he would have to return crestfallen to Kadampur. But could he face the neighbours’ sneers, the servants’ contumely—worse than all, his wife’s bitter tongue? No, that was not to be thought of. It were better to plunge into the river whose turbid waters rolled only a few feet away.Pulin was roused from this unpleasant train of thought by hearing his name pronounced. It came from a well-dressed man, who was just entering Messrs. Kerr & Dunlop’s office, welcomed by a salám from the surly doorkeeper. Pulin was delighted to recognise in the stranger a certain Kisari Mohan Chatterji, who had taught him English in the General Assembly’s College more than a decade back. In a few words he told his sad story and learnt that Kisari Babu had taken the same step as he himself contemplated, with the result that he was now head clerk in Messrs. Kerr & Dunlop’s exportdepartment. This news augured well for his own ambition, but poor Pulin was disgusted on hearing that no less than three vacancies had occurred in as many weeks, and that all had been filled by relatives of Babu Debnath Lahiri. Kisari Babu added: “A junior clerk is to be appointed to-morrow. Write out an application in your very best hand, with copies of your testimonials, and bring it to me here this evening at five. I’ll see that it reaches our manager, Henderson Saheb.” Pulin punctually followed his friend’s advice, and dreamed all night of wealth beyond a miser’s utmost ambition.On arriving at Messrs. Kerr & Dunlop’s office next morning he joined a crowd of twenty or thirty young men who were bent on a like errand. His spirits sank to zero, nor were they raised when after hanging about in the rain for nearly two hours the aspirants were told that the vacancy had been filled up. Thereupon the forlorn group dispersed, cursing their ill-luck and muttering insinuations against Mr. Henderson and his head clerk. Pulin, however, lingered behind. By tendering a rupee to the doorkeeper he got a slip of paper and pencil, with which he indited a piteous appeal to Kisari Babu, and a promise that it should reach him. Presently his friend came out in a desperate hurry, with a stylograph behind his ear, and his hands laden with papers.“It’s just as I anticipated,” he whispered to Pulin. “The head clerk has persuaded Henderson Saheb to bestow the post on his wife’s nephew. But don’t be disheartened. I will speak to our Saheb about you this very day. Come here at five to learn the result.”Pulin did so and was overjoyed to find that he had been appointed probationary clerk in the export department on Rs. 20 per mensem, in supersession of Debnath Babu’s nominee.On the morrow he entered on his new duties with some trepidation, but Kisari Babu took him under his wing and spared no pains to “teach him the ropes”. Pulin spent his evenings in furbishing up his English and arithmetic, mastered the whole art of book-keeping, and, being naturally intelligent, he soon had the office routine at his fingers’ ends. He grasped the fact that a young man who wishes to succeed in life must make himself indispensable. In course of time Pulin’s industry and trustworthiness attracted the attention of Mr. Henderson, who confirmed him as clerk, with a salary of Rs. 35.But every cup has its bitter drop; and Pulin’s was the persistent enmity of the head clerk, who bore him a grudge for ousting his wife’s nephew and seized every opportunity of annoying him. Leagued with the arch-enemy were two subordinate clerks, Gyánendra and Lakshminarain by name, who belonged to DebnathBabu’sgústi(family). This trio so managed matters that all the hardest and most thankless work fell to Pulin’s lot. He bore their pin-pricks with equanimity, secure in the constant support of Kisari Babu.One muggy morning in August he awoke with a splitting headache, the harbinger of an attack of fever, and was obliged to inform the head clerk, by means of a note, of his inability to attend office. An answer was brought by Gyánendra to the effect that three days’ leave of absence was granted, but that his work must be carried on by some other clerk. He was, therefore, ordered to send the key of his desk by the bearer. For three days the patient endured alternations of heat and cold; but his malady yielded to quinine, and on the fourth he was able to resume work.Soon after reaching the office, he was accosted by one of the bearers, named Rámtonu, who told him thatthe Bara Sahebwished to see him at once. The moment he entered the manager’s sanctum he saw that something unpleasant had occurred. Without wishing him good morning, as usual, Mr. Henderson handed him a cheque and asked sternly whether he had filled it up. Pulin examined the document, which turned out to be an order on the Standard Bank to pay Tárak Ghose & Co. Rs. 200, signed by Mr. Henderson. He was obliged to admit that thepayee’s name, as also the amount in words and figures, seemed to be in his handwriting.“Yes,” rejoined the manager, “and the signature is very like my own; but it is a forgery. Do you hear me, Babu, aforgery!”To Pulin’s disordered senses the room, with its furniture and Mr. Henderson’s angry face, seemed to be turning round. He gasped out, “I’m ill, sir!” and sank into a chair. The manager mistook the remains of fever for a tacit admission of guilt. He waited till Pulin had regained a share of his wits and said gravely: “I did not think that one whom I trusted with my cheque-book would act thus. Now you will search your books, to see whether they contain a record of any payment of the kind, and return with them in half an hour. But I must warn you that if this forgery is traced to you, I shall have to call in the police.”Pulin staggered back to his room in despair and observed that Gyánendra and Lakshminarain, who sat at the next desk, were evidently enjoying his mental agony. Alas! the books showed no trace of any payment to Tárak Ghose & Co. He wrung his hands in great distress and sat bewildered, until Rámtonu came to summon him to the manager’s tribunal. In the corridor Rámtonu glanced round, to make sure that no one was within hearing, andsaid, “Don’t be afraid, Babuji. You did me a good turn, and I may be able to help you now.”This Rámtonu was an office menial hailing from the district of Gáya, in Behar. He was an intelligent man, but rather unlicked, and was the butt of the younger clerks, who delighted in mocking his uncouth up-country dialect. Pulin, however, had never joined in “ragging” him, and, on one occasion, he lent Rámtonu Rs. 7 for his wife, who was about to increase the population of Gáya. Gratitude for kindness is a marked trait in the Indian character, and Pulin bethought him of the old fable of the Lion and Mouse. He asked: “Why, what do you know aboutlekha-para(reading and writing)?”“Never mind,” rejoined Rámtonu. “We must not loiter, for we should be suspected of plotting together. Come to the Saheb’s room. I shall be admitted, for he knows that I don’t understand English. All I ask is that you will clasp your hands as a signal when I may come forward and tell my story.”A European police officer was seated by Mr. Henderson’s side, engaged in writing from his dictation. They looked up, and the manager asked whether Pulin had found any record of the payment in dispute.On receiving a negative answer, he said: “Then I shall be obliged to hand you over to the police”.Pulin clasped his hands in a mute appeal for mercy, whereon Rámtonu stepped forward. Carefully extracting a folded sheet of foolscap from the pocket of hischapkan(a tight-fitting garment, worn by nearly all classes in full dress), he spread it out on the table and respectfully asked the manager to run his eye over it.“By Jove,” remarked the latter, with great surprise, “here’s some one has been copying my signature—and Pulin’s writing too!”All eyes were now bent on the incriminating document. It was made up of many fragments of paper, carefully pasted on a sheet of foolscap, and bore the words, “Tárak Ghose & Co., two hundred rupees, 200,” repeated at least twenty times. Below was “A.G. Henderson,” also multiplied many-fold. The manager asked where Rámtonu had found the paper, and received the following answer:—“Your Highness, Pulin Babu here did not come to office on Monday; and for the next few days his work was done by Gyánendra Babu, who got the keys of his desk. I knew that he and some other clerks detested Pulin Babu, so I watched their movements narrowly, to see whether they would try to get him into a scrape, and more than once I surprised Gyánendra and Lakshminarain whispering together. On Tuesday neither of them left the office for lunch withthe other clerks, and I seized some pretext for entering the room where they sit. Gyánendra roughly bade me begone; so I went to the verandah outside and peeped through thejilmils(Venetian blinds) of a window close to their desk. Lakshminarain was copying some English words from a paper on his left side, while the other clerk looked on, nodding and shaking his head from time to time. After writing in this fashion for a while, Lakshminarain took a sheet of notepaper covered with writing and copied the signature many times, until both babus were satisfied with the result. Then I saw Gyánendra unlock Pulin Babu’s desk, take out a cheque-book, and hand it to the other man, who filled up the counterfoil and body of one blank cheque, glancing sometimes at the paper in front of him. He returned it to Gyánendra who placed it in a pocket-book. After tearing up the papers they had used and throwing them into the waste-paper basket, they left the room. I ran round, carefully avoiding them, picked the fragments of paper out of the basket, tied them in a corner of mygamcha(wrapper), and left the office quickly, asking the doorkeeper what direction they had taken. When he said that they had turned northwards, I guessed that they were off to the Bank, in order to cash the cheque, and sure enough I overtook them not more than arassifrom the office. Following them at a littledistance on the other side of the street, I saw them stop outside the Standard Bank and look anxiously around. Presently a schoolboy passed by, whom they hailed and, after talking for a while, Gyánendra handed him the cheque with a small linen money-bag, and pointed to the door of the Bank. The lad went inside, while both babus waited round the corner. In a short time he came out and handed the bag full of money to Gyánendra, who gave him something and hurried back to the office with his companion. Putting two and two together I felt assured that those clerks had forged the cheque; and had I known where Pulin Babu lived, I would certainly have communicated my suspicions to him. Having to work without his help, I persuaded a student, who lodges near my quarters, to piece the scraps of paper together. It took him two hours to do so, and we then pasted them carefully on this sheet of foolscap. You will see, Saheb, that there are thirty-seven in all, and only three missing.”The story made a deep impression on Mr. Henderson and the Police Inspector, while Pulin was raised to the seventh heaven of delight by the thought that his innocence might yet be established.“Could you identify the boy?” asked the Europeans with one breath.“I don’t know his name,” was Rámtonu’s rejoinder;“but I think I could pick him out, for he passes this office daily on his way to and from school. But this is just the time when he goes home for tiffin. With your Highness’s permission, I will watch for him in the street.”“Do so by all means,” was the Inspector’s reply. “Meanwhile, I’ll take down notes of your statement.”Rámtonu went out and in a few minutes returned dragging with him triumphantly a well-dressed lad of fifteen, who seemed terribly alarmed by the company into which he was thrust. The Inspector calmed his fears by assuring him that he would come to no harm if only he spoke the whole truth. “You have been unwittingly made the instrument of a forgery,” he added, “and we want your help towards detecting it.” The boy plucked up courage and answered every question put him quite candidly. His tale corroborated Rámtonu’s in most particulars, with the addition that the tall babu had given him eight annasbakshishfor cashing the cheque. He had not seen either of the men previously, but thought he should be able to recognise one of them owing to his unusual height.“Now, bearer,” said Mr. Henderson, “go and fetch both the clerks; bring in the tall one first, but keep an eye on the other outside and beyond earshot.”Rámtonu left the room with alacrity and presently returned ushering Lakshminarain into the dreaded presence. The newcomer was beside himself with terror; and when he was identified by the schoolboy as one of the men who had employed him to cash the cheque, he did not wait to be asked for an explanation. Throwing himself at Mr. Henderson’s feet he begged for mercy, promising to reveal the entire truth. The Inspector would make no promises but simply adjured him to make a clean breast of his share in the transaction. Lakshminarain obeyed, and his statement, interrupted by many sobs, was duly recorded. His accomplice was next introduced. At first Gyánendra was inclined to put a bold face on the matter, stoutly affirming that it was a put-up affair between Pulin and Rámtonu. When, however, the Inspector read out to him the deposition of the bearer and schoolboy, he saw that the game was up and confessed his misdoings, accusing the head clerk of having prompted them. The culprits were taken in aticcá gári(four-wheeled cab) to the police station Pulin occupying the box, while Rámtonu ran behind.Well, to cut a long story short, the prisoners stuck to their confession and refunded their ill-gotten gains. They were duly committed to the High Court on charges of forgery and conspiring to accuse an innocent man of the like offence. They both pleadedguilty, and the judge remarked that it was one of the worst cases of the kind he had ever tried. In passing sentence of two years rigorous imprisonment on each prisoner, he added that they would have fared worse but for the patent fact that they had been made catspaws of by some one who kept in the background. As there was no evidence against Debnath Babu, except that of accomplices, he was not prosecuted; but immediately after the trial, Messrs. Kerr & Dunlop dismissed him without notice. Kisari Babu was promoted to the vacant office of head clerk, while Pulin stepped into his friend’s shoes. By unfailing application to duty, he won Messrs. Kerr & Dunlop’s entire confidence, and in fulness of time succeeded Kisari Babu as head clerk. Ten or twelve years later, Pulin was rich enough to build apakka(masonry) house at Kadampur, which far eclipsed his father-in-law’s, and had a well-paid doorkeeper in the person of Rámtonu. The once-despisedgharjamáitook a leading position among the local gentry.

When a penniless Hindu marries into a wealthy family he is sorely tempted to live with, and upon, his father-in-law. But the ease thus secured is unattended by dignity. Thegharjamái, “son-in-law of the house,” as he is styled, shocks public opinion, which holds it disgraceful for an able-bodied man to eat the bread of idleness. Pulin incurred a certain degree of opprobrium by quartering himself on Debendra Babu; neighbours treated him with scant courtesy, and the very household servants made him feel that he was a person of small importance. He bore contumely with patience, looking forward to the time when Debendra Babu’s decease would give him a recognised position. His wife was far more ambitious. She objected strongly to sharing her husband’s loss of social standing and frequently reproached him with submitting to be her father’sannadás(rice-slave).

So, one morning, he poured his sorrows into Nalini’s sympathetic ear.

“Mahásay,” he said, “you know that people are inclined to blame me for living in idleness, and I do indeed long to chalk out a career for myself. But I don’t know how to set about it and have no patron to back me. Do you happen to know of any job which would give me enough to live on? Salary is less an object with me than prospects. I would gladly accept a mastership in some high school.”

“You are quite right in seeking independence,” replied Nalini, “and I shall be glad to help you. But lower-grade teachers are miserably paid, and their prospects are no better. It is only graduates who can aspire to a head-mastership. Are you one?”

“No, sir, but I passed the F.A. examination in 1897.”

“Ah, then, you are a Diamond Jubilee man—that’s a good omen,” rejoined Nalini, with a shade of sarcasm in his voice. “What were your English text-books?”

“I read Milton’sAbsalom and Achitophel, Dryden’sHoly Grail, and many other poems, but I’m not sure of their titles after all these years.”

Nalini suspected that his friend’s English lore was somewhat rusty. In order to test him further, he asked, “Can you tell me who wrote ‘Life is real, life is earnest,’—that line applies to you!”

Pulin fidgeted about before answering. “It musthave been Tennyson—or was it Wordsworth? I never could keep poetry in my head.”

Nalini thought that an F.A. might have remembered Longfellow’sPsalm of Life, but he refrained from airing superior knowledge.

“Do you know any mathematics?” he inquired.

“Mathematics!” replied Pulin joyously. “Why, they’re myforte—-I am quite at home in arithmetic, algebra, and geometry. Please ask me any question you like.”

“Well, let us have Prop. 30, Book I. of Euclid.”

Pulin rattled off Proposition 13 of that book, without the aid of a diagram. Nalini now saw that the young man’s mental equipment was of the slenderest description. He said, “Well, you may call on me another day, when I may be able to tell you of some vacancy”.

Pulin, however, would take no denial. He became so insistent that Nalini reluctantly gave him a letter of introduction to Babu Kaliprasanna Som, Secretary of the Rámnagar High School, who, he said, was looking about him for a fourth master. Pulin lost no time in delivering it and was immediately appointed to the vacant post.

English education in Bengal is not regarded as a key which opens the door of a glorious literature, but simply and solely as a stepping-stone in the path ofworldly success. The Department seems to aim at turning out clerks and lawyers in reckless profusion. Moreover, academic degrees are tariffed in the marriage market. The “F.A.” commands a far higher price than the “entrance-passed,” while an M.A. has his pick of the richest and prettiest girls belonging to his class. Hence parents take a keen interest in their boys’ progress and constantly urge them to excel in class. With such lessons ringing in his ears, the Bengali schoolboy is consumed with a desire to master his text-books. The great difficulty is to tear him away from them, and insist on his giving sufficient time to manly games. When a new teacher takes the helm, he is closely watched in order to test his competence. The older lads take a cruel pleasure in plying him with questions which they have already solved from the Dictionary. Pulin did not emerge from this ordeal with credit, and the boys concocted a written complaint of his shortcomings, which they despatched to the Secretary of the School Committee, The answer was a promise to redress their grievances.

At 10.30 next morning Kaliprasanna Babu entered Pulin’s classroom and stood listening to his method of teaching English literature. Presently one of the boys asked him to explain the difference between “fort” and “fortress”. After scratching his head for fully half a minute he replied that the first was acastle defended by men, while the second had a female garrison! The Secretary was quite satisfied. He left the room and sent Pulin a written notice of dismissal. The latter was disheartened beyond measure by this unkind stroke of fortune. He shook the dust of Rámnagar from his feet and returned home to lay his sorrows before Nalini, seasoning the story with remarks highly derogatory to Kaliprasanna Babu’s character. In order to get rid of an importunate suitor Nalini gave him another letter of introduction, this time to an old acquaintance named Debnath Lahiri who was head clerk in the office of Messrs. Kerr & Dunlop, one of the largest mercantile firms of Calcutta. Pulin was heartily sick of school-mastering, and the prospect of making a fortune in business filled his soul with joy. He borrowed Rs. 30 from Debendra Babu and took the earliest train for Calcutta. On arriving there he joined a mess of waifs and strays like himself, who herded in a small room and clubbed their pice to provide meals. Then he waited on Debnath Babu, whom he found installed in a sumptuous office overlooking the river Hughli. The great man glanced at his credentials and, with an appearance of cordiality, promised to let him know in case a vacancy occurred in the office. For nearly a month Pulin called daily for news at Messrs. Kerr & Dunlop’s, and generally managed to waylay thehead clerk, whose reply was invariably, “I have nothing to suit you at present”.

One morning, however, he was stopped by the darwán (doorkeeper) who told him gruffly that the “Bara Babu did not like to have outsiders hanging about the office”. The baffled suitor reflected on his miserable position. He had just eleven rupees and two pice left, which he calculated would last him, with strict economy, for another fortnight. When they were spent, he would have to return crestfallen to Kadampur. But could he face the neighbours’ sneers, the servants’ contumely—worse than all, his wife’s bitter tongue? No, that was not to be thought of. It were better to plunge into the river whose turbid waters rolled only a few feet away.

Pulin was roused from this unpleasant train of thought by hearing his name pronounced. It came from a well-dressed man, who was just entering Messrs. Kerr & Dunlop’s office, welcomed by a salám from the surly doorkeeper. Pulin was delighted to recognise in the stranger a certain Kisari Mohan Chatterji, who had taught him English in the General Assembly’s College more than a decade back. In a few words he told his sad story and learnt that Kisari Babu had taken the same step as he himself contemplated, with the result that he was now head clerk in Messrs. Kerr & Dunlop’s exportdepartment. This news augured well for his own ambition, but poor Pulin was disgusted on hearing that no less than three vacancies had occurred in as many weeks, and that all had been filled by relatives of Babu Debnath Lahiri. Kisari Babu added: “A junior clerk is to be appointed to-morrow. Write out an application in your very best hand, with copies of your testimonials, and bring it to me here this evening at five. I’ll see that it reaches our manager, Henderson Saheb.” Pulin punctually followed his friend’s advice, and dreamed all night of wealth beyond a miser’s utmost ambition.

On arriving at Messrs. Kerr & Dunlop’s office next morning he joined a crowd of twenty or thirty young men who were bent on a like errand. His spirits sank to zero, nor were they raised when after hanging about in the rain for nearly two hours the aspirants were told that the vacancy had been filled up. Thereupon the forlorn group dispersed, cursing their ill-luck and muttering insinuations against Mr. Henderson and his head clerk. Pulin, however, lingered behind. By tendering a rupee to the doorkeeper he got a slip of paper and pencil, with which he indited a piteous appeal to Kisari Babu, and a promise that it should reach him. Presently his friend came out in a desperate hurry, with a stylograph behind his ear, and his hands laden with papers.

“It’s just as I anticipated,” he whispered to Pulin. “The head clerk has persuaded Henderson Saheb to bestow the post on his wife’s nephew. But don’t be disheartened. I will speak to our Saheb about you this very day. Come here at five to learn the result.”

Pulin did so and was overjoyed to find that he had been appointed probationary clerk in the export department on Rs. 20 per mensem, in supersession of Debnath Babu’s nominee.

On the morrow he entered on his new duties with some trepidation, but Kisari Babu took him under his wing and spared no pains to “teach him the ropes”. Pulin spent his evenings in furbishing up his English and arithmetic, mastered the whole art of book-keeping, and, being naturally intelligent, he soon had the office routine at his fingers’ ends. He grasped the fact that a young man who wishes to succeed in life must make himself indispensable. In course of time Pulin’s industry and trustworthiness attracted the attention of Mr. Henderson, who confirmed him as clerk, with a salary of Rs. 35.

But every cup has its bitter drop; and Pulin’s was the persistent enmity of the head clerk, who bore him a grudge for ousting his wife’s nephew and seized every opportunity of annoying him. Leagued with the arch-enemy were two subordinate clerks, Gyánendra and Lakshminarain by name, who belonged to DebnathBabu’sgústi(family). This trio so managed matters that all the hardest and most thankless work fell to Pulin’s lot. He bore their pin-pricks with equanimity, secure in the constant support of Kisari Babu.

One muggy morning in August he awoke with a splitting headache, the harbinger of an attack of fever, and was obliged to inform the head clerk, by means of a note, of his inability to attend office. An answer was brought by Gyánendra to the effect that three days’ leave of absence was granted, but that his work must be carried on by some other clerk. He was, therefore, ordered to send the key of his desk by the bearer. For three days the patient endured alternations of heat and cold; but his malady yielded to quinine, and on the fourth he was able to resume work.

Soon after reaching the office, he was accosted by one of the bearers, named Rámtonu, who told him thatthe Bara Sahebwished to see him at once. The moment he entered the manager’s sanctum he saw that something unpleasant had occurred. Without wishing him good morning, as usual, Mr. Henderson handed him a cheque and asked sternly whether he had filled it up. Pulin examined the document, which turned out to be an order on the Standard Bank to pay Tárak Ghose & Co. Rs. 200, signed by Mr. Henderson. He was obliged to admit that thepayee’s name, as also the amount in words and figures, seemed to be in his handwriting.

“Yes,” rejoined the manager, “and the signature is very like my own; but it is a forgery. Do you hear me, Babu, aforgery!”

To Pulin’s disordered senses the room, with its furniture and Mr. Henderson’s angry face, seemed to be turning round. He gasped out, “I’m ill, sir!” and sank into a chair. The manager mistook the remains of fever for a tacit admission of guilt. He waited till Pulin had regained a share of his wits and said gravely: “I did not think that one whom I trusted with my cheque-book would act thus. Now you will search your books, to see whether they contain a record of any payment of the kind, and return with them in half an hour. But I must warn you that if this forgery is traced to you, I shall have to call in the police.”

Pulin staggered back to his room in despair and observed that Gyánendra and Lakshminarain, who sat at the next desk, were evidently enjoying his mental agony. Alas! the books showed no trace of any payment to Tárak Ghose & Co. He wrung his hands in great distress and sat bewildered, until Rámtonu came to summon him to the manager’s tribunal. In the corridor Rámtonu glanced round, to make sure that no one was within hearing, andsaid, “Don’t be afraid, Babuji. You did me a good turn, and I may be able to help you now.”

This Rámtonu was an office menial hailing from the district of Gáya, in Behar. He was an intelligent man, but rather unlicked, and was the butt of the younger clerks, who delighted in mocking his uncouth up-country dialect. Pulin, however, had never joined in “ragging” him, and, on one occasion, he lent Rámtonu Rs. 7 for his wife, who was about to increase the population of Gáya. Gratitude for kindness is a marked trait in the Indian character, and Pulin bethought him of the old fable of the Lion and Mouse. He asked: “Why, what do you know aboutlekha-para(reading and writing)?”

“Never mind,” rejoined Rámtonu. “We must not loiter, for we should be suspected of plotting together. Come to the Saheb’s room. I shall be admitted, for he knows that I don’t understand English. All I ask is that you will clasp your hands as a signal when I may come forward and tell my story.”

A European police officer was seated by Mr. Henderson’s side, engaged in writing from his dictation. They looked up, and the manager asked whether Pulin had found any record of the payment in dispute.

On receiving a negative answer, he said: “Then I shall be obliged to hand you over to the police”.

Pulin clasped his hands in a mute appeal for mercy, whereon Rámtonu stepped forward. Carefully extracting a folded sheet of foolscap from the pocket of hischapkan(a tight-fitting garment, worn by nearly all classes in full dress), he spread it out on the table and respectfully asked the manager to run his eye over it.

“By Jove,” remarked the latter, with great surprise, “here’s some one has been copying my signature—and Pulin’s writing too!”

All eyes were now bent on the incriminating document. It was made up of many fragments of paper, carefully pasted on a sheet of foolscap, and bore the words, “Tárak Ghose & Co., two hundred rupees, 200,” repeated at least twenty times. Below was “A.G. Henderson,” also multiplied many-fold. The manager asked where Rámtonu had found the paper, and received the following answer:—“Your Highness, Pulin Babu here did not come to office on Monday; and for the next few days his work was done by Gyánendra Babu, who got the keys of his desk. I knew that he and some other clerks detested Pulin Babu, so I watched their movements narrowly, to see whether they would try to get him into a scrape, and more than once I surprised Gyánendra and Lakshminarain whispering together. On Tuesday neither of them left the office for lunch withthe other clerks, and I seized some pretext for entering the room where they sit. Gyánendra roughly bade me begone; so I went to the verandah outside and peeped through thejilmils(Venetian blinds) of a window close to their desk. Lakshminarain was copying some English words from a paper on his left side, while the other clerk looked on, nodding and shaking his head from time to time. After writing in this fashion for a while, Lakshminarain took a sheet of notepaper covered with writing and copied the signature many times, until both babus were satisfied with the result. Then I saw Gyánendra unlock Pulin Babu’s desk, take out a cheque-book, and hand it to the other man, who filled up the counterfoil and body of one blank cheque, glancing sometimes at the paper in front of him. He returned it to Gyánendra who placed it in a pocket-book. After tearing up the papers they had used and throwing them into the waste-paper basket, they left the room. I ran round, carefully avoiding them, picked the fragments of paper out of the basket, tied them in a corner of mygamcha(wrapper), and left the office quickly, asking the doorkeeper what direction they had taken. When he said that they had turned northwards, I guessed that they were off to the Bank, in order to cash the cheque, and sure enough I overtook them not more than arassifrom the office. Following them at a littledistance on the other side of the street, I saw them stop outside the Standard Bank and look anxiously around. Presently a schoolboy passed by, whom they hailed and, after talking for a while, Gyánendra handed him the cheque with a small linen money-bag, and pointed to the door of the Bank. The lad went inside, while both babus waited round the corner. In a short time he came out and handed the bag full of money to Gyánendra, who gave him something and hurried back to the office with his companion. Putting two and two together I felt assured that those clerks had forged the cheque; and had I known where Pulin Babu lived, I would certainly have communicated my suspicions to him. Having to work without his help, I persuaded a student, who lodges near my quarters, to piece the scraps of paper together. It took him two hours to do so, and we then pasted them carefully on this sheet of foolscap. You will see, Saheb, that there are thirty-seven in all, and only three missing.”

The story made a deep impression on Mr. Henderson and the Police Inspector, while Pulin was raised to the seventh heaven of delight by the thought that his innocence might yet be established.

“Could you identify the boy?” asked the Europeans with one breath.

“I don’t know his name,” was Rámtonu’s rejoinder;“but I think I could pick him out, for he passes this office daily on his way to and from school. But this is just the time when he goes home for tiffin. With your Highness’s permission, I will watch for him in the street.”

“Do so by all means,” was the Inspector’s reply. “Meanwhile, I’ll take down notes of your statement.”

Rámtonu went out and in a few minutes returned dragging with him triumphantly a well-dressed lad of fifteen, who seemed terribly alarmed by the company into which he was thrust. The Inspector calmed his fears by assuring him that he would come to no harm if only he spoke the whole truth. “You have been unwittingly made the instrument of a forgery,” he added, “and we want your help towards detecting it.” The boy plucked up courage and answered every question put him quite candidly. His tale corroborated Rámtonu’s in most particulars, with the addition that the tall babu had given him eight annasbakshishfor cashing the cheque. He had not seen either of the men previously, but thought he should be able to recognise one of them owing to his unusual height.

“Now, bearer,” said Mr. Henderson, “go and fetch both the clerks; bring in the tall one first, but keep an eye on the other outside and beyond earshot.”

Rámtonu left the room with alacrity and presently returned ushering Lakshminarain into the dreaded presence. The newcomer was beside himself with terror; and when he was identified by the schoolboy as one of the men who had employed him to cash the cheque, he did not wait to be asked for an explanation. Throwing himself at Mr. Henderson’s feet he begged for mercy, promising to reveal the entire truth. The Inspector would make no promises but simply adjured him to make a clean breast of his share in the transaction. Lakshminarain obeyed, and his statement, interrupted by many sobs, was duly recorded. His accomplice was next introduced. At first Gyánendra was inclined to put a bold face on the matter, stoutly affirming that it was a put-up affair between Pulin and Rámtonu. When, however, the Inspector read out to him the deposition of the bearer and schoolboy, he saw that the game was up and confessed his misdoings, accusing the head clerk of having prompted them. The culprits were taken in aticcá gári(four-wheeled cab) to the police station Pulin occupying the box, while Rámtonu ran behind.

Well, to cut a long story short, the prisoners stuck to their confession and refunded their ill-gotten gains. They were duly committed to the High Court on charges of forgery and conspiring to accuse an innocent man of the like offence. They both pleadedguilty, and the judge remarked that it was one of the worst cases of the kind he had ever tried. In passing sentence of two years rigorous imprisonment on each prisoner, he added that they would have fared worse but for the patent fact that they had been made catspaws of by some one who kept in the background. As there was no evidence against Debnath Babu, except that of accomplices, he was not prosecuted; but immediately after the trial, Messrs. Kerr & Dunlop dismissed him without notice. Kisari Babu was promoted to the vacant office of head clerk, while Pulin stepped into his friend’s shoes. By unfailing application to duty, he won Messrs. Kerr & Dunlop’s entire confidence, and in fulness of time succeeded Kisari Babu as head clerk. Ten or twelve years later, Pulin was rich enough to build apakka(masonry) house at Kadampur, which far eclipsed his father-in-law’s, and had a well-paid doorkeeper in the person of Rámtonu. The once-despisedgharjamáitook a leading position among the local gentry.

Gobardhan’s Triumph.Jadu Babu’s four-year-old daughter, Mrinalini, or Mrinu as she was called in the family, came to her mother one evening to say that her kitten was lost. In vain was she taken on the maternal lap, her tears gently wiped away, and all manner of pretty toys promised. Her little frame was convulsed with sobs, and she refused to be comforted. So her mother sent a maidservant to search for the plaything. The girl returned shortly and said that the kitten was certainly not in the house. At this Mrinu howled more loudly than ever, bringing her father on the scene. He pacified the child by undertaking to produce her pet, and told the servants that the finder would be handsomely rewarded. Meanwhile his wife was trying to keep Mrinu’s attention engaged by telling her a long story, when she suddenly exclaimed, “What has become of yourjasam(gold bracelet)?”Mrinu replied, “I took it off to play with kitty and laid it down somewhere”.This was all the information she could vouchsafein answer to repeated questions. The mother set her down and proceeded to search every hole and corner for thejasam, but it was not to be found. Her husband was greatly alarmed on hearing of this untoward event. The loss of Rs. 100, at which the trinket was valued, might have been borne; but Hindus believe that misfortune invariably follows the loss of gold. He set all his servants and hangers-on to look for thejasam, but they were unsuccessful. In despair he hurried to Nalini for advice and was told to send for Gobardhan, which he promptly did.The astrologer listened attentively to his story and then asked whether Jadu Babu would tryBáti Chálá(divination by thebátaleaf), or some simpler method of discovering the lostjasam. On learning that the matter would be left entirely in his hands, he told Jadu Babu to collect all his servants in the parlour and let him have half a seer (1 lb.) of raw rice, with as many strips of banana leaf as there were servants. When all were assembled, Gobardhan thus addressed them, “Mrinu has lost herjasam, have any of you seen it?” The reply was a chorus of “Noes” with emphatic head-shakings. “Then none of you have stolen it?” Again a volume of protestations. “Very well, then,” said Gobardhan, “I must try the ordeal of chewed rice.” After uttering manymantras(incantations) and waving his hand over the pile ofgrain and banana leaves, he dealt out a quotum of each to the servants.“Now” he said, “you will masticate the rice for a minute thoroughly and then drop the result on your leaves. I warn you that it will be deadly poison for the thief.” All obeyed with alacrity, and Gobardhan, after examining the contents of each leaf, assured Jadu Babu that thejasamhad not been stolen.My readers who are versed in science will understand that, in point of fact, there is nothing magical about this rite, which is based on the circumstance that fear checks the flow of saliva. In all probability a thief would eject the rice absolutely dry.The inference was thatthe jasamhad been mislaid; and Jadu Babu asked whether Gobardhan’s lore was equal to recovering it.“Possibly,” answered the astrologer, “but it is not a case of Báti Chálá; if you can guarantee me Rs. 10, I will performNákha Darpan(literally ‘nail-mirror’). Let me have an almanac, please, to find an auspicious day.”After examining it and receiving a ten-rupee note from Jadu Babu, the astrologer said oracularly that he would return on the following afternoon, with a lad of twelve, who had been born under the Constellation of the Scales.At the appointed hour, Gobardhan came accompaniedby his acolyte, with whom he sat down at the Chandimandab (a shrine of the goddess Durga, found in most Hindu houses, which serves for social gatherings). Jadu Babu and thebhadra-lok(gentle-folk) took their seats there too, while the underlings formed a respectful half-circle in front. Adjuring all to keep perfect silence, he asked the lad to gaze into the nail on his own right index finger and tell the people what he saw there. After staring at it for a minute or so, the boy began to tremble violently and whispered: “I see a mango-tope (orchard); a little girl is playing with her kitten under the trees. Now I see her slipping ajasamfrom her arm, the kitten frisks about, and the child follows it; now it disappears, and the child runs indoors.” Then, raising his voice to a shrill scream, he pointed with his left hand to the north and asked:—“What are those animals which are prowling in the orchard? Are they dogs? No—they are jackals—one, two, three jackals! They pounce on the kitten, and tear her limb from limb! Now everything is growing hazy; I can’t see any more!”A thrill of fear ran through the audience, and one might have heard a pin drop. At length Gobardhan broke the silence:—“Let us go to the mango-tope north of this house,” he said solemnly.Thither they hurried and, after a few minutes’ search, one of the maidservants cried out that she had found thejasamhalf-hidden by the gnarled roots of a tree.Jadu Babu was overjoyed by the recovery of his missing jewel, and pressed another fee of ten rupees on the astrologer. As for Gobardhan, his fame spread far and wide, and his hut was rarely without some client, eager to learn the future.

Jadu Babu’s four-year-old daughter, Mrinalini, or Mrinu as she was called in the family, came to her mother one evening to say that her kitten was lost. In vain was she taken on the maternal lap, her tears gently wiped away, and all manner of pretty toys promised. Her little frame was convulsed with sobs, and she refused to be comforted. So her mother sent a maidservant to search for the plaything. The girl returned shortly and said that the kitten was certainly not in the house. At this Mrinu howled more loudly than ever, bringing her father on the scene. He pacified the child by undertaking to produce her pet, and told the servants that the finder would be handsomely rewarded. Meanwhile his wife was trying to keep Mrinu’s attention engaged by telling her a long story, when she suddenly exclaimed, “What has become of yourjasam(gold bracelet)?”

Mrinu replied, “I took it off to play with kitty and laid it down somewhere”.

This was all the information she could vouchsafein answer to repeated questions. The mother set her down and proceeded to search every hole and corner for thejasam, but it was not to be found. Her husband was greatly alarmed on hearing of this untoward event. The loss of Rs. 100, at which the trinket was valued, might have been borne; but Hindus believe that misfortune invariably follows the loss of gold. He set all his servants and hangers-on to look for thejasam, but they were unsuccessful. In despair he hurried to Nalini for advice and was told to send for Gobardhan, which he promptly did.

The astrologer listened attentively to his story and then asked whether Jadu Babu would tryBáti Chálá(divination by thebátaleaf), or some simpler method of discovering the lostjasam. On learning that the matter would be left entirely in his hands, he told Jadu Babu to collect all his servants in the parlour and let him have half a seer (1 lb.) of raw rice, with as many strips of banana leaf as there were servants. When all were assembled, Gobardhan thus addressed them, “Mrinu has lost herjasam, have any of you seen it?” The reply was a chorus of “Noes” with emphatic head-shakings. “Then none of you have stolen it?” Again a volume of protestations. “Very well, then,” said Gobardhan, “I must try the ordeal of chewed rice.” After uttering manymantras(incantations) and waving his hand over the pile ofgrain and banana leaves, he dealt out a quotum of each to the servants.

“Now” he said, “you will masticate the rice for a minute thoroughly and then drop the result on your leaves. I warn you that it will be deadly poison for the thief.” All obeyed with alacrity, and Gobardhan, after examining the contents of each leaf, assured Jadu Babu that thejasamhad not been stolen.

My readers who are versed in science will understand that, in point of fact, there is nothing magical about this rite, which is based on the circumstance that fear checks the flow of saliva. In all probability a thief would eject the rice absolutely dry.

The inference was thatthe jasamhad been mislaid; and Jadu Babu asked whether Gobardhan’s lore was equal to recovering it.

“Possibly,” answered the astrologer, “but it is not a case of Báti Chálá; if you can guarantee me Rs. 10, I will performNákha Darpan(literally ‘nail-mirror’). Let me have an almanac, please, to find an auspicious day.”

After examining it and receiving a ten-rupee note from Jadu Babu, the astrologer said oracularly that he would return on the following afternoon, with a lad of twelve, who had been born under the Constellation of the Scales.

At the appointed hour, Gobardhan came accompaniedby his acolyte, with whom he sat down at the Chandimandab (a shrine of the goddess Durga, found in most Hindu houses, which serves for social gatherings). Jadu Babu and thebhadra-lok(gentle-folk) took their seats there too, while the underlings formed a respectful half-circle in front. Adjuring all to keep perfect silence, he asked the lad to gaze into the nail on his own right index finger and tell the people what he saw there. After staring at it for a minute or so, the boy began to tremble violently and whispered: “I see a mango-tope (orchard); a little girl is playing with her kitten under the trees. Now I see her slipping ajasamfrom her arm, the kitten frisks about, and the child follows it; now it disappears, and the child runs indoors.” Then, raising his voice to a shrill scream, he pointed with his left hand to the north and asked:—

“What are those animals which are prowling in the orchard? Are they dogs? No—they are jackals—one, two, three jackals! They pounce on the kitten, and tear her limb from limb! Now everything is growing hazy; I can’t see any more!”

A thrill of fear ran through the audience, and one might have heard a pin drop. At length Gobardhan broke the silence:—

“Let us go to the mango-tope north of this house,” he said solemnly.

Thither they hurried and, after a few minutes’ search, one of the maidservants cried out that she had found thejasamhalf-hidden by the gnarled roots of a tree.

Jadu Babu was overjoyed by the recovery of his missing jewel, and pressed another fee of ten rupees on the astrologer. As for Gobardhan, his fame spread far and wide, and his hut was rarely without some client, eager to learn the future.

Patience is a Virtue.Sádhu Sheikh of Simulgachi was not long in finding a husband for his half-sister, Maini Bibi. Before she was fourteen, a young farmer named Ramzán proposed for her hand, offering aden mohurof Rs. 100. Theden mohuris a device recognised by Mohammadan law for protecting married women from capricious repudiation. The husband binds himself to refund a fictitious dowry, generally far above his means, in case he should divorce his wife for no fault of hers. Ramzán was accepted by Sádhu, and the marriage was duly celebrated. Maini Bibi was a handsome girl; but beauty was among the least of her gifts. She was sweet-tempered, thrifty, and obedient, winning sympathy on all sides. The one discordant note was struck by Ramzán’s mother, Fatima Bibi by name, who took a violent dislike to the bride and evinced it by persistently scolding and ill-using her. Ramzán was completely under his mother’s thumb and saw everything with her eyes. His love for Maini was slowly sapped by her innuendoes,and he treated the poor girl with something worse than coldness. Maini, however, bore her hard lot without a murmur, hoping that time and patience would win back her husband’s heart.On returning one evening from the fields, Ramzán was hailed by his mother who was evidently in a worse temper than usual.“Hi! Ramzán,” she shrieked, “I am an old woman, and you, doubtless, find me an incumbrance. Speak out, my son; you have only to say ‘go,’ and I will leave this house in half an hour.”“Why, what’s the matter, mother?” asked Ramzán with open eyes.“Matter,” she yelled. “Would you believe it, that black-faced daughter of a pig has actually abused me—me, your old mother!”“What did she say?” rejoined Ramzán angrily.“My son,” was the answer, “you know how she neglects household duties, leaving all the hard jobs to me. Well, this afternoon, I ventured on a word of remonstrance, and she actually abused me.” And the old woman wiped her tears away with a corner of her cotton wrapper, adding with eyes cast heavenwards, “Merciful Allah, to think that I should come to this in my old age!”“But what did she say?” repeated Ramzán wearily.“She told me to my face that I had forgotten to put salt into the curry!”“That’s hardly abusive,” rejoined Ramzán.“You think so,” shouted Fatima. “Now you’re taking sides with her against your mother, who bore you. You will assuredly suffer in Jehannam (hell) for such a crime! But I’ll have it out with that she-devil!”So saying, she dashed from the room to the kitchen, where the luckless Maini was cowering in anticipation of a coming storm. She was not deceived. Fatima seized her by the hair and administered a sound thumping.Several days passed by, bringing no alleviation to her fate. But matters came to a crisis on a certain morning, owing to Ramzán’s complaint that his wife had over-salted the curry. On tasting the food, Fatima burst into violent imprecations and “went for” her daughter-in-law, who took refuge in the neighbouring brushwood. At nightfall she crept back to the house and found Ramzán closeted with his mother. They were talking earnestly, but Maini could not distinguish the purport of the conversation. It seemed to her that Fatima’s voice was raised in entreaty, and Ramzán was objecting to some scheme proposed by her. She passed the night sleepless and in tears.Early next day Ramzán entered her room and saidgruffly, “Get up, collect your chattels, and follow me. I am going to take you back to Sádhu’s.” Maini obeyed without a word of remonstrance, and a quarter of an hour later the ill-assorted pair might have been seen walking towards Simulgachi.The rainy season was now in full swing, and their path lay across a deep nullah (ravine) through which mighty volumes of drainage water were finding their way to the Ganges. On reaching a bamboo foot-bridge which spanned it, Ramzán ordered his wife to go first. Ere she reached the opposite bank, he gave her a violent shove, which sent her shrieking vainly for help into the swirling torrent below.Hardly had Ramzán perpetrated this odious deed than he felt he would give his chances ofbihisht(paradise) to recall it. He ran along the bank shouting frantically, “Maini! Maini!” Alas! her slender body was carried like a straw by the foaming water towards the Ganges and soon disappeared in a bend of the nullah. Then her murderer sat down and gave himself up to despair. But the sun was up; people were stirring in the fields; and so he slunk homewards. Fatima stood on the threshold and raised her eyebrows inquiringly; but Ramzán thrust her aside, muttering, “It is done,” and shut himself up in his wife’s room. There everything reminded him of her; the scrupulous neatness of floor and walls—no cobwebs hanging from the rafters, the kitchen utensils shining like mirrors. He sat down and burst into a flood of tears.For several days he did not exchange a word with his accomplice, and dared not go to market lest his worst fears should be realised. Dread of personal consequences added new torture to unavailing remorse. Every moment he expected the red-pagried ministers of justice to appear and hale him to the scaffold. The position was clearly past bearing. So, too, thought Fatima, for she waylaid her son one afternoon and said: “Ramzán, I cannot stand this life any longer; let me go to my brother Mahmud Sardar, the cooly-catcher”.“Go,” he replied sullenly, and the old woman gathered up her belongings in a bundle and departed, leaving him to face the dark future alone.While brooding over his fate, he was startled by the sudden arrival of Sádhu. “Now I’m in for it,” he thought and began to tremble violently while his features assumed an ashen hue. But Sadhu sat down by his side and said, “Ramzán, I’ve come about Maini”.“Then she’s drowned!” gasped Ramzán. “By Allah the Highest, I swear that I did my best to save her.”“Hullo!” rejoined Sádhu with great surprise;“you must have been with her when she fell into the nullah.”Ramzán bent his head in silence. After a few moments he looked up, clasped his hands, and said:—“Tell me the truth, Sádhu, is Maini alive?”“She is,” was the reply. “On Thursday morning she came to our house dripping wet and quite exhausted, with a story that your mother had turned her out of doors and that she was on her way to live with us when, on crossing the Padmajali Nullah, her foot slipped and she fell into the water. She told us how, after being carried for nearly a gau-coss (lit. cow league, the distance at which a cow’s lowing can be heard), she was swept by the stream against the overhanging roots of a pipal tree(ficus religiosa)and managed to clamber up the bank. But Maini never told us that you were with her. Why, Ramzán, you’re quaking in every limb. I always suspected Maini had concealed the truth. Swear on the Quran that you did not try to drown her.”Ramzán feebly protested innocence, and the two men sat awhile without speaking.At length Sádhu said: “I’ve come to make you a proposal. Young Esáf, the son of Ibrahim of our village, has fallen in love with Maini and wants to marry her. He is willing to pay theden mohurofRs. 100 which would be due from you in case of repudiation. Now we want you to divorce her.”Ramzán was overcome by his wife’s magnanimity, and the thought of losing her drove him to distraction. “No!” he shouted, “I won’t divorce her. I’ll fetch her back this very day!”“That’s quite out of the question,” rejoined Sádhu. “Maini cannot bear her mother-in-law’s cruelty, and I’m sure she’ll never consent to live with you again. Besides, Esáf is a rich man and will make her happy. She shall marry him.”“I say she shan’t,” said Ramzán emphatically.Sádhu got up and moved off, remarking, “Very well, I will go to the police station at once and charge you with attempting to kill her! We shall soon worm the truth out of Maini, and get plenty of eye-witnesses too.”Ramzán was beside himself with terror. He followed Sádhu, clasped his feet, and groaned, “No, you won’t do that! I am ready to divorce Maini. Let Allah’s will be done.”“Ah,” replied Sádhu, “so you can listen to reason after all. Come to our house to-morrow evening; we will have witnesses ready, and Esáf will be there with theden mohur.”Ramzán had a sleepless night and was too downcast to work on the morrow. When evening came,he walked wearily to Simulgachi. There was quite a small crowd in Sádhu’s courtyard. On one side sat Maini and some other women with faces closely covered; Esáf and the witnesses were on the other. Between them was a mat, on which lay a bag full of money. Ramzán was received without salutations, and squatted down by Sádhu’s side.Moslem husbands can get rid of their wives by repeating the wordtalaq(surrender) thrice, in the presence of witnesses. Every one expected him to utter the formula, which would release Maini from his power. However, he sat silent, with downcast eyes. After a minute or two, he rose and, looking steadily at Maini, was just about to speak, when she sprang forward, laid her hand on his arm, and said: “Surely you are not going to divorce me, your faithful wife, who loves you dearly and seeks only to make you happy? What have I done to be treated thus?”A murmur was heard in the assembly, but Sádhu raised his hand in token of silence.“Foolish girl!” he exclaimed, “do you wish to return to a mother-in-law who hates and persecutes you? Will Ramzán be able to protect you?” Then lowering his voice, he added, “Is your life safe with those people?”“Life and death,” rejoined Maini, “are in Allah’s hands. It is his will that we should fulfil our destinies,and mine is to cling to my husband. I would not change him for Hátim Tái (a legendary hero, very rich and generous) himself!” Then nestling closer to Ramzán, she pleaded in a voice of music, “Surely you don’t want to get rid of me?”He was quite overcome and burst into tears.“No,” he sobbed, “I will never separate from my treasure. Come back to me, and you need not fear my mother’s tongue. She has left my house for good, and I swear by Allah, in the presence of all these people, that she shall not live with us again. You, Maini, shall be sole mistress of my house.”Maini was overjoyed by this decision. She clapped her hands twice, and then, picking up the bag of money, said to the crestfallen Esáf, “Take back your rupees; I am going home with my husband”.So speaking, she took Ramzán’s hand and led him out of the house, while a great silence fell on the crowd, broken at length by many exclamations and a buzz of loud talk. My readers who know Maini’s sweet nature will not be surprised to learn that her happiness was thenceforward without a single cloud.

Sádhu Sheikh of Simulgachi was not long in finding a husband for his half-sister, Maini Bibi. Before she was fourteen, a young farmer named Ramzán proposed for her hand, offering aden mohurof Rs. 100. Theden mohuris a device recognised by Mohammadan law for protecting married women from capricious repudiation. The husband binds himself to refund a fictitious dowry, generally far above his means, in case he should divorce his wife for no fault of hers. Ramzán was accepted by Sádhu, and the marriage was duly celebrated. Maini Bibi was a handsome girl; but beauty was among the least of her gifts. She was sweet-tempered, thrifty, and obedient, winning sympathy on all sides. The one discordant note was struck by Ramzán’s mother, Fatima Bibi by name, who took a violent dislike to the bride and evinced it by persistently scolding and ill-using her. Ramzán was completely under his mother’s thumb and saw everything with her eyes. His love for Maini was slowly sapped by her innuendoes,and he treated the poor girl with something worse than coldness. Maini, however, bore her hard lot without a murmur, hoping that time and patience would win back her husband’s heart.

On returning one evening from the fields, Ramzán was hailed by his mother who was evidently in a worse temper than usual.

“Hi! Ramzán,” she shrieked, “I am an old woman, and you, doubtless, find me an incumbrance. Speak out, my son; you have only to say ‘go,’ and I will leave this house in half an hour.”

“Why, what’s the matter, mother?” asked Ramzán with open eyes.

“Matter,” she yelled. “Would you believe it, that black-faced daughter of a pig has actually abused me—me, your old mother!”

“What did she say?” rejoined Ramzán angrily.

“My son,” was the answer, “you know how she neglects household duties, leaving all the hard jobs to me. Well, this afternoon, I ventured on a word of remonstrance, and she actually abused me.” And the old woman wiped her tears away with a corner of her cotton wrapper, adding with eyes cast heavenwards, “Merciful Allah, to think that I should come to this in my old age!”

“But what did she say?” repeated Ramzán wearily.

“She told me to my face that I had forgotten to put salt into the curry!”

“That’s hardly abusive,” rejoined Ramzán.

“You think so,” shouted Fatima. “Now you’re taking sides with her against your mother, who bore you. You will assuredly suffer in Jehannam (hell) for such a crime! But I’ll have it out with that she-devil!”

So saying, she dashed from the room to the kitchen, where the luckless Maini was cowering in anticipation of a coming storm. She was not deceived. Fatima seized her by the hair and administered a sound thumping.

Several days passed by, bringing no alleviation to her fate. But matters came to a crisis on a certain morning, owing to Ramzán’s complaint that his wife had over-salted the curry. On tasting the food, Fatima burst into violent imprecations and “went for” her daughter-in-law, who took refuge in the neighbouring brushwood. At nightfall she crept back to the house and found Ramzán closeted with his mother. They were talking earnestly, but Maini could not distinguish the purport of the conversation. It seemed to her that Fatima’s voice was raised in entreaty, and Ramzán was objecting to some scheme proposed by her. She passed the night sleepless and in tears.

Early next day Ramzán entered her room and saidgruffly, “Get up, collect your chattels, and follow me. I am going to take you back to Sádhu’s.” Maini obeyed without a word of remonstrance, and a quarter of an hour later the ill-assorted pair might have been seen walking towards Simulgachi.

The rainy season was now in full swing, and their path lay across a deep nullah (ravine) through which mighty volumes of drainage water were finding their way to the Ganges. On reaching a bamboo foot-bridge which spanned it, Ramzán ordered his wife to go first. Ere she reached the opposite bank, he gave her a violent shove, which sent her shrieking vainly for help into the swirling torrent below.

Hardly had Ramzán perpetrated this odious deed than he felt he would give his chances ofbihisht(paradise) to recall it. He ran along the bank shouting frantically, “Maini! Maini!” Alas! her slender body was carried like a straw by the foaming water towards the Ganges and soon disappeared in a bend of the nullah. Then her murderer sat down and gave himself up to despair. But the sun was up; people were stirring in the fields; and so he slunk homewards. Fatima stood on the threshold and raised her eyebrows inquiringly; but Ramzán thrust her aside, muttering, “It is done,” and shut himself up in his wife’s room. There everything reminded him of her; the scrupulous neatness of floor and walls—no cobwebs hanging from the rafters, the kitchen utensils shining like mirrors. He sat down and burst into a flood of tears.

For several days he did not exchange a word with his accomplice, and dared not go to market lest his worst fears should be realised. Dread of personal consequences added new torture to unavailing remorse. Every moment he expected the red-pagried ministers of justice to appear and hale him to the scaffold. The position was clearly past bearing. So, too, thought Fatima, for she waylaid her son one afternoon and said: “Ramzán, I cannot stand this life any longer; let me go to my brother Mahmud Sardar, the cooly-catcher”.

“Go,” he replied sullenly, and the old woman gathered up her belongings in a bundle and departed, leaving him to face the dark future alone.

While brooding over his fate, he was startled by the sudden arrival of Sádhu. “Now I’m in for it,” he thought and began to tremble violently while his features assumed an ashen hue. But Sadhu sat down by his side and said, “Ramzán, I’ve come about Maini”.

“Then she’s drowned!” gasped Ramzán. “By Allah the Highest, I swear that I did my best to save her.”

“Hullo!” rejoined Sádhu with great surprise;“you must have been with her when she fell into the nullah.”

Ramzán bent his head in silence. After a few moments he looked up, clasped his hands, and said:—

“Tell me the truth, Sádhu, is Maini alive?”

“She is,” was the reply. “On Thursday morning she came to our house dripping wet and quite exhausted, with a story that your mother had turned her out of doors and that she was on her way to live with us when, on crossing the Padmajali Nullah, her foot slipped and she fell into the water. She told us how, after being carried for nearly a gau-coss (lit. cow league, the distance at which a cow’s lowing can be heard), she was swept by the stream against the overhanging roots of a pipal tree(ficus religiosa)and managed to clamber up the bank. But Maini never told us that you were with her. Why, Ramzán, you’re quaking in every limb. I always suspected Maini had concealed the truth. Swear on the Quran that you did not try to drown her.”

Ramzán feebly protested innocence, and the two men sat awhile without speaking.

At length Sádhu said: “I’ve come to make you a proposal. Young Esáf, the son of Ibrahim of our village, has fallen in love with Maini and wants to marry her. He is willing to pay theden mohurofRs. 100 which would be due from you in case of repudiation. Now we want you to divorce her.”

Ramzán was overcome by his wife’s magnanimity, and the thought of losing her drove him to distraction. “No!” he shouted, “I won’t divorce her. I’ll fetch her back this very day!”

“That’s quite out of the question,” rejoined Sádhu. “Maini cannot bear her mother-in-law’s cruelty, and I’m sure she’ll never consent to live with you again. Besides, Esáf is a rich man and will make her happy. She shall marry him.”

“I say she shan’t,” said Ramzán emphatically.

Sádhu got up and moved off, remarking, “Very well, I will go to the police station at once and charge you with attempting to kill her! We shall soon worm the truth out of Maini, and get plenty of eye-witnesses too.”

Ramzán was beside himself with terror. He followed Sádhu, clasped his feet, and groaned, “No, you won’t do that! I am ready to divorce Maini. Let Allah’s will be done.”

“Ah,” replied Sádhu, “so you can listen to reason after all. Come to our house to-morrow evening; we will have witnesses ready, and Esáf will be there with theden mohur.”

Ramzán had a sleepless night and was too downcast to work on the morrow. When evening came,he walked wearily to Simulgachi. There was quite a small crowd in Sádhu’s courtyard. On one side sat Maini and some other women with faces closely covered; Esáf and the witnesses were on the other. Between them was a mat, on which lay a bag full of money. Ramzán was received without salutations, and squatted down by Sádhu’s side.

Moslem husbands can get rid of their wives by repeating the wordtalaq(surrender) thrice, in the presence of witnesses. Every one expected him to utter the formula, which would release Maini from his power. However, he sat silent, with downcast eyes. After a minute or two, he rose and, looking steadily at Maini, was just about to speak, when she sprang forward, laid her hand on his arm, and said: “Surely you are not going to divorce me, your faithful wife, who loves you dearly and seeks only to make you happy? What have I done to be treated thus?”

A murmur was heard in the assembly, but Sádhu raised his hand in token of silence.

“Foolish girl!” he exclaimed, “do you wish to return to a mother-in-law who hates and persecutes you? Will Ramzán be able to protect you?” Then lowering his voice, he added, “Is your life safe with those people?”

“Life and death,” rejoined Maini, “are in Allah’s hands. It is his will that we should fulfil our destinies,and mine is to cling to my husband. I would not change him for Hátim Tái (a legendary hero, very rich and generous) himself!” Then nestling closer to Ramzán, she pleaded in a voice of music, “Surely you don’t want to get rid of me?”

He was quite overcome and burst into tears.

“No,” he sobbed, “I will never separate from my treasure. Come back to me, and you need not fear my mother’s tongue. She has left my house for good, and I swear by Allah, in the presence of all these people, that she shall not live with us again. You, Maini, shall be sole mistress of my house.”

Maini was overjoyed by this decision. She clapped her hands twice, and then, picking up the bag of money, said to the crestfallen Esáf, “Take back your rupees; I am going home with my husband”.

So speaking, she took Ramzán’s hand and led him out of the house, while a great silence fell on the crowd, broken at length by many exclamations and a buzz of loud talk. My readers who know Maini’s sweet nature will not be surprised to learn that her happiness was thenceforward without a single cloud.

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