The Homecoming

by Rabindranath Tagore

The Homecoming by Rabindranath Tagore

Phatik Chakravorti was the ringleader of the boys in the village. Today there was some new mischief in his head. There was a heavy log lying on the bank of the river, waiting to be made into a boat. He decided that they should all work together to move the log away. The owner would be angry and surprised and they would all enjoy the fun.

But just as the fun was about to begin, Makhan, Phatik's younger brother, wandered up and sat down on the log in front of them all, without a word. The boys were puzzled for a moment. He was pushed, rather hesitantly, by one of the boys and told to get up but he remained quite unconcerned. He appeared like a young philosopher meditating on the stupidity of games. Phatik was furious. "Makhan," he cried, "if you don't get down at once, I'll hit you!"

Makhan only moved to a more comfortable position.

Now, if Phatik was to keep his dignity in front of his friends, it was clear he ought to carry out his threat. But he didn’t have the courage at the moment he needed it. He soon came up with a new idea which would shame his brother and give his followers some fun. He gave the word of command to push the log and Makhan together. Makhan heard the order but would not move. But he overlooked the fact, like many who want earthly fame, that there was danger in it.

The boys began to push the log with all their strength, calling out, "One, two, three, go," At the word "go" the log went – and with it went Makhan's philosophy.

All the other boys laughed. But Phatik was a little frightened. He knew what was coming. And, sure enough, Makhan got up from the ground screaming. He rushed at Phatik and scratched his face and hit him and kicked him and then went home crying.

Phatik wiped his face and sat down on the river bank and put a blade of grass between his lips. A boat came up and a middle-aged man, with grey hair and dark moustache, stepped out. He saw the boy sitting there doing nothing and asked him where the Chakravort lived. Phatik went on biting the grass, and said: "Over there," but it was impossible to tell where he was pointing. The stranger asked him again. He just said; "Go and find out," and continued to bite the grass as before.

But now a servant came down from the house and told Phatik his mother wanted him. Phatik refused to move. But the servant was the master on this occasion. He picked Phatik up roughly and carried him, kicking and struggling with rage.

When Phatik came into the house, his mother saw him at once. She called out angrily: "So you’ve been hitting Makhan again?"

Phatik answered indignantly: "No, I haven't. Who told you that?"

His mother shouted: "Don't tell lies! You have."

Phatik said suddenly: "I tell you, I haven't. You ask Makhan!" But Makhan thought it best to stick to his previous statement. He said:

"Yes, mother. Phatik did hit me."

Phatik's patience was already exhausted. He could not accept this lie quietly. He rushed at Makhan and hammered him: "Take that" he cried, "and that, and that, for telling lies."

His mother took Makhan's side in a moment, and pulled Phatik away, hitting him with her hands. When Phatik pushed her away, she shouted out: “You little devil! Would you hit your own mother?"

It was just at this moment that the grey-haired stranger arrived. He asked what the matter was. Phatik looked sheepish.

But when his mother stepped back and looked at the stranger, her anger changed to surprise. She recognised her brother, and cried:

"Why, Bishamber! Where have you come from?" As she said these words, she bent to the ground and touched his feet. Her brother had gone away soon after she had married and started business in Bombay. His sister had lost her husband while he was away. Bishamber had now come back to Calcutta, and had immediately tried to find out about his sister. He hurried to see her as soon as he knew where she was.

The next few days were full of happiness. The brother asked about the two boys’ education. He was told that Phatik was a constant worry. He was lazy, disobedient and wild. But Makhan was as good as gold and very fond of reading. Bishamber kindly offered to take Phatik and educate him with his own children in Calcutta. The widowed mother readily agreed. When his uncle asked Phatik if he would like to go to Calcutta with him, the boy was delighted and said: "Oh, yes, uncle!" in a way that made it quite clear that he meant it.

It was a relief to the mother that Phatik was going away. No love was lost between the two brothers. She was always worried that Phatik would either drown Makhan some day in the river or break his head in a fight. At the same time she was rather upset to see Phatik's eagerness to get away.

Phatik, as soon as everything was settled, kept asking his uncle when they were to start. He was excited all day long and lay awake most of the night. He left Makhan his fishing rod and his big yellow kite. In fact, he had never been so generous to Makhan before.

When they reached Calcutta, Phatik met his aunt for the first time. She was not at all pleased with this unnecessary addition to her family. She found her own three boys quite enough to manage without taking anyone else. And to bring a village lad of fourteen into their home was terribly upsetting. Bishamber should really have thought twice before doing something so wild.

In this world, there is no worse nuisance than a boy at the age of fourteen. He is neither decorative nor useful. It is impossible to love him like a little boy; and he is always getting in the way. If he talks sweetly, he is called a baby, and if he answers in a grown-up way he is called rude. In fact, nobody wants him to talk at all. Then he is at that unattractive, growing age. He grows out of his clothes much too fast; his voice grows hoarse; his face gets spotty. It is easy to excuse the shortcomings of early childhood, but it is hard to forgive a boy of fourteen. The lad himself becomes painfully self-conscious. When he talks with adults, he is either too forward, or so shy that he seems ashamed to exist.

Yet it is at exactly this age when a young lad most needs love and acceptance; and he becomes the slave of anyone who shows him consideration. But no-one dares openly love him, for that would be bad for the boy. So, because of all the scolding, he becomes like a stray dog that has lost his master.

For a boy of fourteen, his own home is the only paradise. It was painful to Phatik to be an unwelcome guest in his aunt's house, despised by the woman and made to look small on every occasion. If she ever asked him to do anything for her, he would be so pleased that he’d overdo it; and then she would tell him not to be so stupid, but to get on with his lessons.

The neglect in his aunt's house oppressed Phatik so much that he felt he could hardly breathe. He wanted to go out into the open country and breathe freely. But there was no open country to go to. Surrounded on all sides by Calcutta houses and walls, he would dream night after night of his village home and of being back there. He remembered the fields where he used to fly his kite all day long, the countryside where he would walk about singing and shouting for happiness; the river where he could go and dive and swim at any time he liked. He thought of his friends and his dictatorship over them; and, above all, the memory of that tyrant mother of his, who had such a prejudice against him. A kind of physical love like that of animals; a need to be loved; a silent cry from his heart for his mother – this love bothered the shy, nervous and ugly boy. No-one could understand it, but it never left his mind.

There was no more backward boy in the whole school than Phatik. He remained silent when the teacher asked him a question and patiently suffered all the ridicule that came down on him. When other boys were out playing, he stood by the window and gazed at the roofs of the houses.

One day he summoned up his courage and asked his uncle: "Uncle, when can I go home?"

His uncle answered, "Wait till the holidays come." But the holidays would not come till November and there was a long time still to wait.

One day Phatik lost his lesson-book. Even with the help of books he had found it very difficult to prepare his lesson. Now it was impossible. Day after day the teacher would hit him unmercifully. He became so miserable that even his cousins were ashamed of him. They began to insult him more than the other boys. He went to his aunt at last and told her that he had lost his book.

His aunt said: "How can I afford, with all my family, to buy you new books five times a month?"

That night, on his way back from school, Phatik had a bad headache and started shivering. He felt he was going to have an attack of malaria. His one great fear was that he would be a nuisance to his aunt.

The next morning Phatik was nowhere to be seen. They searched all the neighbourhood without success. It had been pouring with rain all night and those who went out in search of the boy got very wet. At last Bishamber asked help from the police.

At the end of the day a police van stopped at the door of the house. It was still raining and the streets were flooded. Two police officers brought Phatik out in their arms and placed him in front of Bishamber. He was wet from head to foot, dirty all over, his face and eyes red with fever and trembling all over. Bishamber carried him in his arms, and took him into the house. When his wife saw him, she screamed: "What a lot of trouble this boy has given us. Hadn't you better send him home?"

Phatik heard her words and sobbed out loud: "I was just going home, but they brought me back again."

All that night the boy was delirious. Bishamber brought in a doctor. Phatik opened his eyes and looked up, and said: "Uncle, have the holidays come yet? May I go home?"

Bishamber wiped the tears from his own eyes, and took Phatik's thin, burning hands in his own, and sat by him through the night. The boy began to mutter again. At last his voice became excited: "Mother," he cried, "don't beat me like that! Mother! I am telling the truth!"

The next day Phatik became conscious for a short time. He moved his eyes about the room, as if expecting someone to come. At last, with a look of disappointment, his head fell back on the pillow. He turned his face to the wall with a deep sigh.

Bishamber knew his thoughts and whispered: "Phatik, I have sent for your mother." The day went by. The doctor said in a troubled voice that the boy's condition was critical.

Later in the day, Phatik's mother rushed into the room like a storm. Bishamber tried to calm her, but she threw herself on the bed and cried: "Phatik, my darling, my darling."

Phatik’s hands stopped moving up and down. He said: "Eh?"

The mother cried again: "Phatik, my darling, my darling."

Phatik very slowly turned his head and, without seeing anybody, said: "Mother, the holidays have come."