Physician. None at all: for, "In the wind and in the sun-"
Madhav. What will your "in this and in that" do for me now? Why don't you let them alone and come straight to the point? What's to be done then? Your system is very, very hard for the poor boy; and he is so quiet too with all his pain and sickness. It tears my heart to see him wince, as he takes your medicine.
Physician. effect. That's why the sage Chyabana observes: "In medicine as in good advices, the least palatable ones are the truest." Ah, well! I must be trotting now. [Exit]
[Gaffer enters]
Madhav. Well, I'm jiggered, there's Gaffer now.
Gaffer. Why, why, I won't bite you.
Madhav. No, but you are a devil to send children off their heads.
Gaffer. But you aren't a child, and you've no child in the house; why worry then?
Madhav. Oh, but I have brought a child into the house.
Gaffer. Indeed, how so?
Madhav. You remember how my wife was dying to adopt a child?
Gaffer. Yes, but that's an old story; you didn't like the idea.
Madhav. You know, brother, how hard all this getting money in has been. That somebody else's child would sail in and waste all this money earned with so much trouble-Oh, I hated the idea. But this boy clings to my heart in such a queer sort of way- Gaffer. So that's the trouble! and your money goes all for him and feels jolly lucky it does go at all.
Madhav. Formerly, earning was a sort of passion with me; I simply couldn't help working for money. Now, I make money and as I know it is all for this dear boy, earning becomes a joy to me.
Gaffer. Ah, well, and where did you pick him up?
Madhav. He is the son of a man who was a brother to my wife by village ties. He has had no mother since infancy; and now the other day he lost his father as well.
Gaffer. Poor thing: and so he needs me all the more.
Madhav. The doctor says all the organs of his little body are at loggerheads with each other, and there isn't much hope for his life. There is only one way to save him and that is to keep him out of this autumn wind and sun. But you are such a terror! What with this game of yours at your age, too, to get children out of doors!
Gaffer. God bless my soul! So I'm already as bad as autumn wind and sun, eh! But, friend, I know something, too, of the game of keeping them indoors. When my day's work is over I am coming in to make friends with this child of yours. [Exit]
[Amal enters]
Amal. Uncle, I say, Uncle!
Madhav. Hullo! Is that you, Amal?
Amal. Mayn't I be out of the courtyard at all?
Madhav. No, my dear, no.
Amal. See, there where Auntie grinds lentils in the quirn, the squirrel is sitting with his tail up and with his wee hands he's picking up the broken grains of lentils and crunching them. Can't I run up there?
Madhav. No, my darling, no.
Amal. Wish I were a squirrel!-it would be lovely. Uncle, why won't you let me go about?
Madhav. Doctor says it's bad for you to be out.
Amal. How can the doctor know?
Madhav. What a thing to say! The doctor can't know and he reads such huge books!
Amal. Does his book-learning tell him everything?
Madhav. Of course, don't you know!
Amal [With a sigh] Ah, I am so stupid! I don't read books.
Madhav. Now, think of it; very, very learned people are all like you; they are never out of doors.
Amal. Aren't they really?
Madhav. No, how can they? Early and late they toil and moil at their books, and they've eyes for nothing else. Now, my little man, you are going to be learned when you grow up; and then you will stay at home and read such big books, and people will notice you and say, "he's a wonder."
Amal. No, no, Uncle; I beg of you by your dear feet-I don't want to be learned, I won't.
Madhav. Dear, dear; it would have been my saving if I could have been learned.
Amal. No, I would rather go about and see everything that there is.
Madhav. Listen to that! See! What will you see, what is there so much to see?
Amal. See that far-away hill from our window-I often long to go beyond those hills and right away.
Madhav. Oh, you silly! As if there's nothing more to be done but just get up to the top of that hill and away! Eh! You don't talk sense, my boy. Now listen, since that hill stands there upright as a barrier, it means you can't get beyond it. Else, what was the use in heaping up so many large stones to make such a big affair of it, eh!
Amal. Uncle, do you think it is meant to prevent your crossing over? It seems to me because the earth can't speak it raises its hands into the sky and beckons. And those who live far and sit alone by their windows can see the signal. But I suppose the learned people- Madhav. No, they don't have time for that sort of nonsense. They are not crazy like you.
Amal. Do you know, yesterday I met someone quite as crazy as I am.
Madhav. Gracious me, really, how so?
Amal. He had a bamboo staff on his shoulder with a small bundle at the top, and a brass pot in his left hand, and an old pair of shoes on; he was making for those hills straight across that meadow there. I called out to him and asked, "Where are you going?" He answered, "I don't know, anywhere!" I asked again, "Why are you going?" He said, "I'm going out to seek work." Say, Uncle, have you to seek work?
Madhav. Of course I have to. There's many about looking for jobs.
Amal. How lovely! I'll go about, like them too, finding things to do.
Madhav. Suppose you seek and don't find. Then- Amal. Wouldn't that be jolly? Then I should go farther! I watched that man slowly walking on with his pair of worn out shoes. And when he got to where the water flows under the fig tree, he stopped and washed his feet in the stream. Then he took out from his bundle some gram-flour, moistened it with water and began to eat. Then he tied up his bundle and shouldered it again; tucked up his cloth above his knees and crossed the stream. I've asked Auntie to let me go up to the stream, and eat my gram-flour just like him.
Madhav. And what did your Auntie say to that?
Amal. Auntie said, "Get well and then I'll take you over there." Please, Uncle, when shall I get well?
Madhav. It won't be long, dear.
Amal. Really, but then I shall go right away the moment I'm well again.
Madhav. And where will you go?
Amal. Oh, I will walk on, crossing so many streams, wading through water. Everybody will be asleep with their doors shut in the heat of the day and I will tramp on and on seeking work far, very far.
Madhav. I see! I think you had better be getting well first; then- Amal. But then you won't want me to be learned, will you, Uncle?
Madhav. What would you rather be then?
Amal. I can't think of anything just now; but I'll tell you later on.
Madhav. Very well. But mind you, you aren't to call out and talk to strangers again.
Amal. But I love to talk to strangers!
Madhav. Suppose they had kidnapped you?
Amal. That would have been splendid! But no one ever takes me away. They all want me to stay in here.
Madhav. I am off to my work-but, darling, you won't go out, will you?
Amal. No, I won't. But, Uncle, you'll let me be in this room by the roadside.
[Exit Madhav]
Dairyman. Curds, curds, good nice curds.
Amal. Curdseller, I say, Curdseller.
Dairyman. Why do you call me? Will you buy some curds?
Amal. How can I buy? I have no money.
Dairyman. What a boy! Why call out then? Ugh! What a waste of time.
Amal. I would go with you if I could.
Dairyman. With me?
Amal. Yes, I seem to feel homesick when I hear you call from far down the road.
Dairyman [Lowering his yoke-pole] Whatever are you doing here, my child?
Amal. The doctor says I'm not to be out, so I sit here all day long.
Dairyman. My poor child, whatever has happened to you?
Amal. I can't tell. You see I am not learned, so I don't know what's the matter with me. Say, Dairyman, where do you come from?
Dairyman. From our village.
Amal. Your village? Is it very far?
Dairyman. Our village lies on the river Shamli at the foot of the Panch-mura hills.
Amal. Panch-mura hills! Shamli river! I wonder. I may have seen your village. I can't think when though!
Dairyman. Have you seen it? Been to the foot of those hills?
Amal. Never. But I seem to remember having seen it. Your village is under some very old big trees, just by the side of the red road-isn't that so?
Dairyman. That's right, child.
Amal. And on the slope of the hill cattle grazing.
Dairyman. How wonderful! Aren't there cattle grazing in our village! Indeed, there are!
Amal. And your women with red sarees fill their pitchers from the river and carry them on their heads.
Dairyman. Good, that's right. Women from our dairy village do come and draw their water from the river; but then it isn't everyone who has a red saree to put on. But, my dear child, surely you must have been there for a walk some time.
Amal. Really, Dairyman, never been there at all. But the first day doctor lets me go out, you are going to take me to your village.
Dairyman. I will, my child, with pleasure.
Amal. And you'll teach me to cry curds and shoulder the yoke like you and walk the long, long road?
Dairyman. Dear, dear, did you ever? Why should you sell curds? No, you will read big books and be learned.
Amal. No, I never want to be learned-I'll be like you and take my curds from the village by the red road near the old banyan tree, and I will hawk it from cottage to cottage. Oh, how do you cry-"Curd, curd, good nice curd!" Teach me the tune, will you?
Dairyman. Dear, dear, teach you the tune; what an idea!
Amal. Please do. I love to hear it. I can't tell you how queer I feel when I hear you cry out from the bend of that road, through the line of those trees! Do you know I feel like that when I hear the shrill cry of kites from almost the end of the sky?
Dairyman. Dear child, will you have some curds? Yes, do.
Amal. But I have no money.
Dairyman. No, no, no, don't talk of money! You'll make me so happy if you have a little curds from me.
Amal. Say, have I kept you too long?
Dairyman. Not a bit; it has been no loss to me at all; you have taught me how to be happy selling curds. [Exit]