The Boy Comes Home

BY A. N. KRISHNA RAO, Bangalore

(Translated from the original Kannada story)

"Usman–Usman,"

The boy gave no reply.

"Usman, my son."

"Dada"

The old man took a step forward and turned the boy towards him. The boy looked at the face of his father. He saw before his misty eyes a strong face, with tear-dimmed eyes. The old man returned the look. He, too, understood the reason of this trouble, though both had sought to hide their feelings. It was a vain struggle they had put up unable to face the surging tide of emotions. He had brought up the boy ever since his wife’s death, giving him a care that the dead mother might have given him. He had watched him grow from a suckling to a handsome young man with a pride that made him forget his biting poverty. Now Usman was his boy his idol that brought sunshine to his suffering heart.

Oftentimes, in the past years that now looked like a dream he had thought and planned to give his Usman the best he could and make him a man among men. His best was at all times poor since he was a begging minstrel. Early every morning, he would go out with his sarangi, out into the market-place where people gathered and would sing to the accompaniment of the sarangi, the songs of Kabir, Meera and a host of others. He would pocket his little earnings and would return home late in the evening the home which held his all in the world. This sort of miserable existence had eaten into his life and brought its own reaction in its wake. He had wanted his son to be free from this despicable life. He wanted for his boy a steady, regular income which would solve for him the problem of finding his daily bread.

He had succeeded but there was a price to pay.

Usman had a natural taste for music and his voice was exceptionally rich. Added to this he was a comely boy. This had attracted the notice of a touring dramatic troupe of Calcutta. After some negotiations he was at last engaged on a monthly salary of fifty rupees. But with this happy turn came a sad incident. He had to part from his father, his all in the world. But he had glimpse of compensation idea. He would be a dutiful son, he would keep his father above want with his earnings. This thought mitigated his sorrow at the parting. But muhamad had no such consolation. He had to part from his only boy. The days would be lonely and without love because there would be no Usman at home. But to his weeping heart came a ray of hope: his boy would become a great musician and all happiness would be his. Thus each nerved himself for the parting.

The train blew its harsh heart breaking whistle breaking in upon their thoughts and brought them to realities. They embrace each other warmly. The old man thought of his boy and the youth thought of his father. The world outside had no existence for them. Only the sweet broken word escaped:

"Dada"

"Beta". This was the half-whispered answer.

Time to disengage themselves. They could not be locked in each other’s embrace any longer.

Usman broke away from his father and got into the carriage. Slowly it moved out.

Muhamad stood staring blindly at the fast disappearing train. Only the winds carried his sobs for the boy. This train soon vanished out of sight carrying a soul most precious to Muhamad. Almost mechanically Muhamad tore himself away from the Station and towards his home. There was no one in the crowd who could offer any consolation to him. His boy was going away–away into the unknown world. He walked out muttering. The crowd looked at him in wonder and some one laughed brutally. But Muhamad had no ears for anybody. He just walked on muttering to himself, "Beta–Dada–Khuda."

These filled his heart and mind.

II

It was now five years since Usman had joined the troupe. He was now a "Star" and not the obscure person who had joined the Company to make a living. It was a picturesque life that he was now living and the glamour of it was making him forget the miserable and struggling existence he had had out side it. Success had, to a great extent cast a veil over the memory of agonised parting from his father and over the five years of struggle towards celebrity. Slowly but steadily the recollections of his father’s sacrifices were fading out. Today he had no eyes for any one but himself. He had succeeded after five years of rigorous training into moulding and establishing himself as a "Gavai." He had won the approbation and applause of his master and master’s master, the audience. His music had charmed many crowds and many a time he had lost himself in his songs. Of course, his good looks contributed a great deal towards the success and his popularity with the audience. Usman had won a deserved fame in his impersonations of Majnu, Farhad, Suleiman, Dushyanta and Omar Khayyam.

He was no longer the begging minstrel, no longer the hard-worked second. He was today the "Master". He was the uncrowned king of the Dramatic world: his every wish found a ready servant equally in the proprietor and in the servant boy. He was consulted at every step and, more often than not, even his whims were allowed free play. He had to approve of dramas, players and had to give his consent to the dates of productions. In fact, though not in name, he was the boss.

In the Parsi troupe Usman was the leading player and Pyari was the leading lady. Pyari had heard of Usman’s reputation and had given up her work in another Company to play with him. When first she came to them there was a difference of opinion regarding her admission amongst them. Some complained against her high demands. Some went further. They charged her with the ruin of many troupes. But Usman’s opinion had decided the issue. He thought her music was good. There was no more talk later.

It cannot be definitely stated what made Usman to let her come in. Pyari was a frail, fair woman with beautiful curly hair. Her eyes were large and mischievous. A well-set pearl nose-ring adorned her short yet not attractive nose. Her ears displayed a pair of diamond drops. The sari suited her very well. Her rose-tinted bodice matched beautifully with the thin orange-coloured sari. She wore a fine pair of sandals, decorated with the designs of many flowers. A dainty little silk vanity case with powder and puff as its contents graced her delicate hand. Usman might probably have lost his heart to her vivaciously charming figure. Or perhaps there was an allurement in her songs.

Visitors thronged from far and wide to see Pyari and Usman play. Their names were mentioned everywhere and snatches of their songs were on everybody’s lips. With the spread of their fame, spread unfortunately the tale of their lives. Players who were once against Pyari took the tale from rumour’s mouth and gave it the form of scandal. This soon gave rise to whispers in the press.

Slowly but steadily the lady of the plays became the lady of Usman’s life. The stage "Sherin", the "Zuleka" of the phantom life, the imitation "Shakuntala" began to cast her spell of magic on Usman’s days. The flame of his love began to consume the love-starved heart, until it became all-powerful. The infatuation was making him forgetful of himself and his place. Out of the forgetfulness there emerged but one in his life. It was Pyari and always Pyari. Just when he was preparing himself for the sacred life of love, infatuation of a base type began to overpower his soul. He would behave like a self-abnegated devotee and would offer his all to her amorous glamour; he would writhe in pain when she gave him a cold shrug. He would thunder curses at her when she preferred to play the role of "Abhisarika" and to go in search of her old friends. But the moment she turned and cast a mischievous glance he would melt and would wash her feet with tears of love and remorse. He would offer Prayers to Khuda and beg for His grace to change her heart and make it more responsive towards him. Usman’s pure and innocent heart was gradually shaping itself into a violent theatre of destructive activity. To overcome his troubles and agonies he sought relief in wine to which Pyari had once kindly and lovingly introduced him. Betwixt the tumult of lust and the temptation of wine, he tried to drown himself in insensibility. But these would often show their reactions on the stage and come in the way of expressing his art in a harmonious way.

III

At the western end of the town were a few cottages. These were the dwellings of those unfortunate beings whom the world calls beggars. Their lives were drab, and went in an inexorable sound. They got up in the morning, went about begging and returned late in the evening with a few coppers which the generous had bestowed on them in sudden fits of charity. Then the night would pass without any incident. Then, again with the sun would commence their daily life.

Their huts were no better than their lives. They were patch-work affairs just serving them against the sun, while in the rainy months they would be literally floating houses. Then their residents would seek any shelter that would keep their skin dry.

One such house was Muhamad’s. He had built it himself and named it "Amin Mahal" after his dead wife. He dreamt of adding one or two more rooms to that construction when Usman would bring home his bride. He had a hundred visions about his son and daughter-in-law. Kismet had deprived him of a daughter and so he wanted to find a sort of recompense in Usman’s wife. His little bird of life and love had its nest always in Usman. Often playing on his sarangi he would think of Usman. Some times he would have mental pictures of his boy Usman singing "Asaveri" at others he would imagine with pleasure how "Hindol" would find its true expression in Usman’s graceful voice; at other times he would think how grand "Bhairavi" would be if only Usman would sing it. In such moods by sheer force of habit he would callout "Beta, Usman" forgetting that his son was absent. Immediately he would remember that Usman was at Calcutta and would then heave a sigh. The costume pictures of Usman that were fixed on his walls were the only solace left to him. He would stand gazing at them with feelings of love and pride and would fondle them as if Usman were present in person.

Many a time he would think of going to Calcutta to see his son and his glory. The next moment his eyes would turn towards the picture showing Usman dressed like a prince, in a costly car, and Muhamad would think: "No, no, I shan’t go. I am a beggar and he is a prince. What would his friends think of him if they learnt that his father was a beggar? "Usman’s father in rags!" He would then ponder over his sons attitude if he were to go to Calcutta. But he would laugh at himself at his ignorance and chide himself, "Usman is my son, My son."

It was nearly six years since Usman had left his father. He had kept up contact with his father by sending him some of his pictures. Occasionally he sent him some money too. But for one year past, for reasons best known to himself, he had fallen into absolute silence. Muhamad had worn himself out by eagerly awaiting some news from his son. Sometimes he would think that Usman might have taken ill. The letter he had addressed to the Manager of the Parsi Company brought no response. Muhamad thought and thought. At last he decided that to go to Calcutta was the only course left open.

He had some money in his hands, the money he had fondly saved for buying a beautiful dress for Usman’s bride. Now he had to make an inroad upon it. With great reluctance and with a feeling that he was stealing Usman’s money he provided himself with enough cash for the journey. Also he took with him dried Ragi cakes for his food. He left for Calcutta the same night.

Till he reached Calcutta he had no idea what the place was like. Those huge mansions, rising to giddy heights, the incessant plying of motor cars and deafening noise from every quarter staggered Muhamad. It shook his fond hope of meeting his son. To this was added a constant fear of thieves aggravating his misery. He wandered through the city and inquired after Usman. But who knew his Usman? At last Muhamad remembered that he might enquire at some Parsi theatres. It was at such a one that his Usman began his career.

After three futile days of search Muhamad successfully faced Usman’s Parsi Company. His heart was thumping with excitement as he neared the place. A vague fear of his not being recognised by his son gnawed at his sensitive soul.

Just when he was about to enter the portals of the theatre a car passed out in front of him. Muhamad got a fleeting glimpse of the occupant, "Was it he," he asked himself. The resemblance was so close. In hurried haste he timidly approached the gate-keeper. The keeper was staggered at the enquiry made by this beggarly-looking old man. He replied with a touch of superiority, "Yes. He is Gavai Usman Khan Sahib–the great actor."

Muhamad’s excitement grew. He asked, "Where is he going now?"

"To Delhi. The Company has gone there for a short season. Khan sahib is leaving by to-day’s train."

Muhamad did not catch the full drift of the answer. He turned his steps to the station.

By the time he reached the Station the train was slowly steaming out of the platform on its long forward journey.

Wearied and dejected Muhamad sank to the ground and moaned in writhing pain.

"Oh! Khuda, why are you so unkind?"

IV

The Company returned to Calcutta after a successful tour. But things were not all right within. The discontent that was growing against Pyari began to grow and blaze. The proprietors became anxious to quell the tide of discontent among the actors. The relation and behaviour of Usman and Pyari had shocked the susceptibility of Calcutta. The audience who bore all his erotic explosions in deference to his sweet songs now began to develop a great prejudice His drunken excesses disgusted the patron of his music and the patrons kept away from the theatre more and more. The names of Usman and Pyari that once cast a magic spell on the audience were now enough to keep the theatre empty. The Company eventually suffered heavy losses. The proprietors realised the crisis and issued notices both to Pyari and Usman to leave the troupe. Usman then began to think. But even before he could come to a definite realisation of his position Pyari deserted him and went to her old troupe.

Usman opened his eyes. He began to understand his position. He thought of all the money he had spent on Pyari without the least reservation. And today she was the mistress of his hard-earned money and he was a ruined pauper. His melliflous voice had become a broken reed unable to bear the brunt of excessive indulgence, which had shattered his once handsome frame and rendered it loathsome. His eyes, his cheeks, his chest had all sunk in and were like a carcass ready for destruction. Both from within and without Usman had beggared himself–had made his existence despicably destitute.

One step in the wrong direction. He went on from one wrong step to another. The ship of his life had lost not only its anchor but had lost its skipper. To suppress his misery Usman began to drown himself in whirlwind of wine and woman. He lost all restraint, all good impulse. There was nothing he would not put his hand to, no level he would not stoop to. He forgot totally his genius, his position and his future. He became blind to the life that might have been his. Any Company that could offer a glass of wine, a good looking mate could claim his service. He sank low day by day.

As a consequence of this awful living he had undergo some serious surgical operation.

Usman had successfully undergone the operation. During the hospital days the sight of the ever brimful motherly affection bestowed on a neighbouring patient had brought sunshine to Usman’s heart. All the hidden feelings and all the old memories began to wake up. He began to remember his past. The vision of his own innocent boyhood, and the picture of his father. The unselfish love, the boundless generosity and the magnanimous consideration for his welfare that his father was showering on him came vividly to his memory. He remembered and wept like a child. He would often sob and mumble "Dada, dada, dada". He saw how little, how small he was before the towering greatness of his father’s suffering. Though his eyes were burning with pain his heart had become as light as a feather.

He thought of his home and of his father. A great shame clouded him. He questioned himself as to what his father would think of him, who had so miserably failed. But the thought that he was going to his father who loved him and had brought him up from his infancy, brought him a great consolation.

He started home.

V

From Calcutta Muhamad returned to his town. His weakened over-burned frame yielded before the strain of his great sorrow at being unable to meet his son. The disappointment had made him so weak that he had hardly any strength left to drag himself home. As he was wending his way from the platform Muhamad fell and was picked up unconscious. Some kind passerby and had him removed to the Hospital. From here information was sent to his neighbours, who often visited him in the Hospital.

Muhamad was in a precarious condition as if his soul was unwilling to leave its abode. The doctors who attend him shook their heads gnowingly when they saw him on their rounds.

Conscious or in delirium, Muhamad had only one refrain "Usman mera–beta". At the time, in the intense agony of his suffering he did not forget the merciful Creator. He would often address the All-merciful and whisper. "Khuda, why have you blessed me with this love for my Usman?" The next moment he would express his confidence in his Maker with the questions: "It is because my son and my Khuda are the manifestations of one and the same?"

The doctors, as usual, differed in the diagnosis. One of them analysed the case as heart trouble and the other contested it was lung trouble. After some heated discussion they consented to agree that it was galloping consumption. Muhamad as a patient was a great mystery to them. He would often warmly hold the hands of the nurse when she came near him to give him the teaspoonful of medicine and pitifully ask: "Why this medicine, my daughter? If you would only get me my Usman, I shall see him once and then finish the pilgrimage of life in peace." His sad calmness greatly moved the doctors and the nurses.

One morning the sombre sky had assumed a deep frown. There were no clouds but yet the whole aspect was sadly oppressive. Muhamad was deeply merged in prayers. The reflection of his soul’s peace was visible on his worn-out face. After finishing his prayer Muhamad got into his bed with the aid of a ward-boy. He then turned to the doctor:

"Doctor sahib, My Khuda has spoken to me"

"What is the message my friend?"

"That my Usman will come to me"

"It is perfectly true." This was, by the way, to keep him calm.

"How can it be true, doctor sahib? Am I really going to see him–my Usman?"

"Don’t worry my friend. I shall bring him to you myself."

"Then you will show him to me?"

"Yes, but do not excite yourself. Have your tea and we shall see what happens later."

Muhamad pulled his body to a reclining position and took the cup in his hand. He slowly drank it. A feeling of rest came over him. He closed his eyes.

He opened them a few minutes later. It was not the doctor who was standing before him. It was someone vaguely familiar and even personally intimate. He asked, "Who are you?"

"I"

He recognised his kindly neighbour beside the stranger who had answered him. He half hazarded a guess that this one might be a friend of his. Then the stranger bent his head and said, "Khan Sahib"

Muhamad raised his head and looked steadily at him.

"Dada"

That was a familiar voice. Muhamad stared at him. Recognition dawned on his eyes. He cried, "Oh my boy, you have come."

Muhamad could not say any more. Father and son lost themselves in a deep embrace.

Some time elapsed. Usman’s companion separated them and slowly helped Muhamad into the bed. Usman sat beside his father, caressed the wrinkled face, stroked the silvery beard, wiped the tears from the eyes with the end of his sleeves. Then he said, "Dada, at last I have seen you."

"Beta you have come in time. I cannot believe it. Come, come nearer and embrace me. May God bless you. Now you should not leave me again. Oh, my Amina, if only she were alive to see you again now."

He could not say any more. His voice was choking up. He mutely embraced Usman with great warmth. After a while Usman awoke from the trance-like silence. He turned towards his fathers face and gazed at it. The same peaceful, smiling face. The same play of sacrifice and self-abnegation but…………

The Bird had flown. Usman cried:

"Dada, dada, dada,–Ya Khuda." Only the distant echo came to him as if in a caress.

"Beta Usman, Khuda."

 

"Chinese culture does not indulge in the purely metaphysical, or the vague and aloof. Nor does it engage itself in study merely for the sake of study, but for the expression and perfection and simplification of human life. It attempts to reconcile the countless entities composing the universe by finding a balance between extremes. It does not seek to question nature’s verdict upon man, but to understand how to effect self-control and mutual tolerance. Above all, it identifies the beautiful with the true and the wise"–Madame Chiang Kai-Shek in "China Shall Rise Again."