Selected Stories Read Free Page A

before her time; and she died on a clean mat with a nicely wadded pillow, and the old man hung up her pipe just above the Joss. He was always fond of her, I fancy. But he took her bangles just the same.
    I should like to die like the bazar-woman – on a clean, cool mat with a pipe of good stuff between my lips. When I feel I’m going, I shall ask Tsin-ling for them, and he can draw my sixty rupees a month, fresh and fresh, as long as he pleases. Then I shall lie back, quiet and comfortable, and watch the black and red dragons have their last big fight together; and then…
    Well, it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters much to me – only I wish Tsin-ling wouldn’t put bran into the Black Smoke.

The Story of Muhammad Din 1
    Who is the happy man? He that sees in his own house at home, little
children crowned with dust, leaping and falling and crying.
    Munichandra
, translated by Professor Peterson. 2
    The polo-ball was an old one, scarred, chipped, and dinted. It stood on the mantelpiece among the pipe-stems which Imam Din,
khitmatgar
, 3 was cleaning for me.
    â€˜Does the Heaven-born want this ball?’ said Imam Din deferentially.
    The Heaven-born set no particular store by it; but of what use was a polo-ball to a
khitmatgar
?
    â€˜By Your Honour’s favour, I have a little son. He has seen this ball, and desires it to play with. I do not want it for myself.’
    No one would for an instant accuse portly old Imam Din of wanting to play with polo-balls. He carried out the battered thing into the verandah; and there followed a hurricane of joyful squeaks, a patter of small feet, and the
thud-thud-thud
of the ball rolling along the ground. Evidently the little son had been waiting outside the door to secure his treasure. But how had he managed to see that polo-ball?
    Next day, coming back from office half an hour earlier than usual, I was aware of a small figure in the dining-room – a tiny, plump figure in a ridiculously inadequate shirt which came, perhaps, half-way down the tubby stomach. It wandered round the room, thumb in mouth, crooning to itself as it took stock of the pictures. Undoubtedly this was the ‘little son’.
    He had no business in my room, of course; but was so deeply absorbed in his discoveries that he never noticed me in the doorway. I stepped into the room and startled him nearly into a fit. He sat down on the ground with a gasp. His eyes opened, and his mouth followed suit. I knew what was coming, and fled, followed by a long, dry howl which reached the servants’ quarters far more quickly than any command of mine had ever done. In ten seconds Imam Din was in the dining-room. Then despairing sobs arose, and I returned to find Imam Din admonishing the small sinner who was using most of his shirt as a handkerchief.
    â€˜This boy,’ said Imam Din judicially, ‘is a
budmash
4 – a big
budmash
.He will, without doubt, go to the
jail-khana
5 for his behaviour.’ Renewed yells from the penitent, and an elaborate apology to myself from Imam Din.
    â€˜Tell the baby,’ said I, ‘that the
Sahib
is not angry, and take him away.’ Imam Din conveyed my forgiveness to the offender, who had now gathered all his shirt round his neck, stringwise, and the yell subsided into a sob. The two set off for the door. ‘His name,’ said Imam Din, as though the name was part of the crime, ‘is Muhammad Din, and he is a
budmash
.’ Freed from present danger, Muhammad Din turned round in his father’s arms, and said gravely, ‘It is true that my name is Muhammad Din,
Tahib
, but I am not a
budmash
. I am a
man
!’
    From that day dated my acquaintance with Muhammad Din. Never again did he come into my dining-room, but on the neutral ground of the garden, we greeted each other with much state, though our conversation was confined to ‘
Talaam, Tahib
’ from his side, and ‘
Salaam, Muhammad Din
’ from mine. Daily on