Stories from Tagore

by Rabindranath Tagore

topsy-turvy. This probably is a shortened form of topside-turvy,—"turvy" being a colloquial corruption for "turned" or "turned over."

Like a lamp with too many wicks burning, the oil flared away quickly, and the light went out.

Crisp bank-notes in my safe are dearer to me than a long pedigree in an empty family chest.

My moral character was flawless. In addition, my outward appearance was so handsome, that if I were to call myself beautiful, it might be thought a mark of self-estimation, but could not be considered an untruth.

We are told that when the gods withhold their boons from mortals they still expect their worshippers to pay them fervent honour and are angry if it is withheld.

had never mistaken her for beautiful.

As lightning accompanies thunder, so in my character a flash of humour was mingled with the mutterings of my wrath.

it may be taken for granted that many Chota Lâts and Burra Lâts also would come and go, and much water would pass down the Hoogly, before the family coach of Nayanjore would be furbished up to pay a visit to Government House.

most of all his own ignorance of English. How on earth was that difficulty to be met? I told him there was no difficulty at all: it was aristocratic not to know English:

But now I found, with a shock of surprise, that in the corner of that room a human heart was beating.

According to our ugly modern custom, I had been in the habit of making no greeting at all to this old man when I came into the room.

It has now travelled all round the world, and has gained a place in all the Indian vernaculars as well as in the Further East.

so precarious.] The writer amusingly imagines the hero and heroine actually swinging by the rope until he can get back to his desk and finish writing about how they escaped.

vegetable existence.] Vegetables are rooted to the ground. So Rabindranath is rooted to his desk and cannot make long journeys.

I hope no child.] The author here amusingly pretends that the child's way of getting out of his lessons was too shocking for young boys in the junior school to read about.

If my grandmother were an author.] Here Rabindranath returns to his mocking humour. A modern author, he says, would be obliged to explain all sorts of details in the story.

luckless grandson.] A humorous way of referring to himself. The author had the misfortune to be born in the modern age of science.

no grandmother of a grandmother.] No one, however old.

To change the unspoken language of thought into the spoken language of words is like translating the mother tongue into a foreign language. Much of the beauty is lost.