The Postmaster -- Famous story in english

 

Shortly after his appointment, the post-manager for the service was sent to the village of Ulapur. It was an ordinary city. There was an indigo factory nearby and, with its influence, its English owners had managed to set up a post office in the village.

From the city of Kolkata, our postmaster was found as fish from the water in its new rustic setting. His office was in a filthy cottage, adjacent to a viscous pond full of water hyacinth and surrounded by bushy trees on all four sides. The factory clerks had little or no training to associate with this gentleman.

The young man of the urban race also lacked social skills. Every time he went to a new place, he looked confused or arrogant and could hardly interact with the villagers. On the other hand, I didn't have much work in the office. He sometimes wrote poems that had a romantic sense of happiness on the sight of floating clouds and floating shrubs, but God knew that when a genius of Arab tales came and turned the bushes in cobbled streets during the night and Built up high rises, which kept the clouds out of sight, then the life of this sensitive person, who marked emotionally, would be reborn.

The post manager worked on a low salary, so he had to cook his own meals. He was helped in his home by a homeless orphan, in exchange for a little food. The girl's name was Ratan. The prospects of getting married soon looked low.

At night, the smoke-grinding of the spiral spray of the stables, the crickets sang cheerfully in the thicket, the noisy in the distant villages began to play in Tom-toms and cymbals and sing in an acute tone. Sitting on the porch in the dark, the Poet's lonely heart was slightly shaken, at the sight of the trembling twigs. At this hour, standing in a corner of the house, the head of the post would light a dark lamp and call it "Ratan." She was sitting at the door waiting for that call, but she never came into the house immediately. Instead, she answered, "Sir, do you need help?"

"What are you doing?"

"I'll turn on the chimney." "I have work in the kitchen," replied Ratan.

"Your kitchen work can wait." "Can you make me the tobacco pipe first?"

Soon Ratan would come into the house with puffy cheek, getting into the bladder in a bowl on the tobacco. He took him from his hand, the head of the post abruptly asked him: "Ratan, do you remember your mother?" It was a long story that she could remember and that she could not, but her father loved her more than her mother and still remembered her father. After a long day, his father would return at night, and the scattered images of some of these evenings were somehow still fixed in his mind. In the midst of his chatter, Ratan gradually settled down on the floor of the mud of the house, at the foot of the postmaster. He remembered that he had a little brother, and long ago the two had played together, fishing in a nearby pond with broken twigs of trees such as fishing. More than any serious incidents, this particular memory is often cut off in your mind. Sometimes they stopped chatting late at night and the postmaster would be too lazy to cook until then, so the two of them finish their dinner with the outdated morning curry and pastries, the rat prepared to make a rap-fire IDE.

On some evenings sat in his office chair in a corner of the hut, the postmaster reminded of the memories of his own family-his mother, his brother and his older sister. These pleasant memories filled his lonely heart away from home with pain. The painful thoughts he could never share with the employees of the Indigo factory was repeated in his mind, and he told them freely to this little girl, without ever considering that she is inadequate. Finally it happened that during their conversations, the girl to call her parents in their own way, treats her as Ma (mother), Didi (elder sister), Dada (older brother), as if she knew her forever. In her little heart, the girl even imagined the imaginary faces of these people.

 

It was the rainy season and a warm soft wind blew gently on a sunny afternoon. A fragrance emitted by the sunny vegetation, as if the breath of a flag land blew directly on the body, and a stubborn foreign bird sang all afternoon, complaining several times to the world. The post master was relatively free that day. The leaves of the rain-washed, bright and whispering trees and, in the white light of a partly sunny day, piled up the clouds that gathered in the layers in the sky, after the rain was really a spectacle to see. The postmaster noticed with attention that the look and asked what if he loved someone who he was at the time, someone whose heart was at his, and who was the idol of his soul. It happened to him that the plaintive monotony of the bird and the growing noise of the foliage in a nocturnal landscape, empty of human presence, also perhaps counted a similar story. No one knew that he did not even suspect that the heart of the master of the small town, who lived on a low wage, was full of thoughts of agony and nostalgia in the silent evenings, especially during the festive holidays.

With a deep sigh, the postmaster called "Ratan".

Ratan was sitting at the foot of a Guava, his legs stretched, eating a raw fruit. He heard his master voice, he ran into it and asked him: "Dada Babu, did you call me?"

"I will teach you to read something of little every day," replied the postmaster. With this he spent the whole afternoon teaching him the alphabets, and in a few days he finally taught the composite letters.

There was no end of the rainy season, and soon filled all rivers, brooks and marsh lands; The Frogs day and night snoring and the rain struck. Most of the roads were flooded, and the boats were used to get to the market.

One day, as it rains a lot since the morning, the teacher, Ratan waited for the door for a long time for the routine reputation of his master. But when she heard nothing, she slowly stepped into the house, with her book and the handwriting of the slate in her hand. She saw the postmaster lying in her bed, and thought she rested, was left in silence when suddenly she heard the call, "Ratan".

She turned quickly and asked, "Dada Babu, were you asleep?"

The postmaster answered in a faint voice: "I don't feel good." Can you look at the temperature palm on your forehead?

Sick on a rainy day, in a secluded place away from home, would prolong the comfort of loving care. One could imagine the soft touch of a woman's hand, wearing bracelets, on the burning forehead. Plagued by poor health in this isolated life, one would aspire to be a mother or a sister at the side of the bed in the form of a loving woman, and the desire that lonely person was not in vain. The young rat was no longer a child. Immediately took the role of the mother-called the doctor, gave him the medicine at the right time, waited for her bed all night, prepared his diet in his own accord, and asked him over again: "Do you feel a little better, Dada Babu?"

After many days, fragile in the body, the postmaster left the bed sick and decided it was enough. You need to get a transfer from the place. Regarding the unhealthy environment of the village, he hastily wrote a petition to the Kolkata authorities demanding a referral.

Relieved of his duties, Ratan returned to his former seat at the door of the house. Sometimes she was inside and saw the master lying on the bed or sitting on a bench, distracted. While Ratan was sitting there waiting for a call from him, the postmaster waited anxiously for a response to his request for transmission. Crouching in his seat outside the house, the girl approached her old innumerable lessons once so that all the words mixed in the event, which was unexpectedly called and asked to lecture her from the heart. Finally, the call came one evening after a week, and, in the house with a heartfelt heart, Ratan asked: "Dada Babu, have you called me?"

"Rat, I'm leaving tomorrow," replied the postmaster.

"Where, Dada Babu?" RATN asked.

"I'm going home."

"When are you coming back?"

"Never".

 

"How can I do that?" said the postmaster with a smile. He never bothered to explain to the girl why it wasn't possible.

Throughout the night, in her sleep and vigil, the girl heard the laughter of the postmaster and his succinct answer: "How can I do that?"

In the morning the postmaster saw his water bathing in the bucket as every day, a habit of bathing with water transported from the river home in a bucket which he had made in Kolkata. For some reason, the girl had never asked her about her release time, but in case she needed the water in the morning she went to the river late at night to fill the bucket. Concluding his bath, the postmaster called to Rat, and entered the house quietly, Ratan looking at the face of his quiet Mas ' r for his mandate. The master said: "Ratan, I will be the person who comes to replace me to take care of you, as I do." "You don't have to worry about leaving me." There was no doubt that these words came from a loving and friendly heart, but that I could understand the spirit of a woman! Ratan had swallowed many accusations of his master in the past, but she could not accept these sweet words. Shouting, she said: "No, no, it is not necessary that you say something." I don't want to be here.

The postmaster was dumb for his answer because he had never seen Ratan behave that way.

The new head of the Post Office is here. Delivery of duties to him, the outgoing master ready to go. At the time of his departure he called Ratan and said: "Ratan, I have never been able to give him anything, but today I leave behind a little money that she will support for a few days."

Saving money for himself, he drew all the money he had saved from his salary from his pocket. Ratan fell on his feet and pleading: Dada Babu, I implore you, there is no need to give me anything; No one should take care of me, please. Then he left the house.

The postmaster sigh, and with his suitcase in his hand, an umbrella raised on his shoulder, his blue and white trunk at the top of his carrier, to go on the boat quietly.

When he entered the boat and began to coming out of the landing, the tide of the river of rain seemed to be soaked as the eyes of the earth with tears, and to feel an emergency in his heart--the melancholy face of a young girl from the the ordinary village seemed to the Tory s of an L To tell oaths from all over the world. A passionate thought crossed his mind, "Let me come back and bring this sad girl with me." But the candle had been set; The currents in the river flow rapidly. Over the village, they were already in sight of the burning grounds, and an idea arose in the spirit of the apathetic traveller drifting into the creek-the separation and death are a recurring fact of life. What's the point of coming back? Are we not alone on this earth?

But this idea did not come into the mind of the rat. He only kept wandering around the house with tears in his eyes. Perhaps she had a faint hope that Dada Babu could come back--she could not leave the place, and break this magical connection. Oh, fragile human heart! Their illusions are endless; Sense comes at a slow pace in the human mind; He clings to false hopes, which resist the strongest of the evidence, until one day the hopes flee and suck the last drop of blood from the heart. Only then is the return of consciousness short before the heart is aroused again to enter into a new deception.