Page 190 - DENG203_ELECTIVE_ENGLISH_IV

Unit 10: Once There was a King by Rabindranath Tagore

When we were young, we understood all sweet things; and we could detect the sweets of a fairy Notes
story by an unerring science of our own. We never cared for such useless things as knowledge.
We only cared for truth. And our unsophisticated little hearts knew well where the Crystal
Palace of Truth lay and how to reach it. But today we are expected to write pages of facts, while
the truth is simply this:

“There was a king.”
I remember vividly that evening in Calcutta when the fairy story began. The rain and the storm
had been incessant. The whole of the city was flooded. The water was knee-deep in our lane.
I had a straining hope, which was almost a certainty, that my tutor would be prevented from
coming that evening. I sat on the stool in the far corner of the verandah looking down the lane,
with a heart beating faster and faster. Every minute I kept my eye on the rain, and when it began
to diminish I prayed with all my might: “Please, God, send some more rain till half-past seven
is over.” For I was quite ready to believe that there was no other need for rain except to protect
one helpless boy one evening in one corner of Calcutta from the deadly clutches of his tutor.
If not in answer to my prayer, at any rate according to some grosser law of nature, the rain did
not give up.
But, alas, nor did my teacher!
Exactly to the minute, in the bend of the lane, I saw his approaching umbrella. The great bubble
of hope burst in my breast, and my heart collapsed. Truly, if there is a punishment to fit the
crime after death, then my tutor will be born again as me, and I shall be born as my tutor.
As soon as I saw his umbrella I ran as hard as I could to my mother’s room. My mother and my
grandmother were sitting opposite one another playing cards by the light of a lamp. I ran into
the room, and flung myself on the bed beside my mother, and said:
“Mother, the tutor has come, and I have such a bad headache; couldn’t I have no lessons today?”
I hope no child of immature age will be allowed to read this story, and I sincerely trust it will not
be used in text-books or primers for junior classes. For what I did was dreadfully bad, and I
received no punishment whatever. On the contrary, my wickedness was crowned with success.

My mother said to me: “All right,” and turning to the servant added: “Tell the tutor that he can
go back home.”
It was perfectly plain that she didn’t think my illness very serious, as she went on with her game
as before and took no further notice. And I also, burying my head in the pillow, laughed to my
heart’s content. We perfectly understood one another, my mother and I.
But everyone must know how hard it is for a boy of seven years old to keep up the illusion of
illness for a long time. After about a minute I got hold of Grandmother and said: “Grannie, do
tell me a story.”
I had to ask this many times. Grannie and Mother went on playing cards and took no notice. At
last Mother said to me: “Child, don’t bother. Wait till we’ve finished our game.” But I persisted:
“Grannie, do tell me a story.” I told Mother she could finish her game tomorrow, but she must
let Grannie tell me a story there and then.
At last Mother threw down the cards and said: “You had better do what he wants. I can’t manage
him.” Perhaps she had it in her mind that she would have no tiresome tutor on the morrow,
while I should be obliged to be back at those stupid lessons.
As soon as ever Mother had given way, I rushed at Grannie. I got hold of her hand, and, dancing
with delight, dragged her inside my mosquito curtain on to the bed. I clutched hold of the
bolster with both hands in my excitement, and jumped up and down with joy, and when I had
got a little quieter said: “Now, Grannie, let’s have the story!”

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