Delos Santos, Karen Mae C.

INTROLIT
Short Stories

My Father Goes to Court

By: Carlos Bulusan

When I was four, I lived with my mother and brothers and sisters in a small town on the island of
Luzon. Father’s farm had been destroyed in 1918 by one of our sudden Philippine floods, so for
several years afterward we all lived in the town, though he preffered living in the country. We
had a next-door neighbor, a very rich man, whose sons and daughters seldom came out of the
house. While we boys and girls played and sand in the sun, his children stayed inside and kept
the windows closed. His house was so tall that his children could look in the windows of our
house and watch us as we played, or slept, or ate, when there was any food in the house to eat.

Now, this rich man’s servants were always frying and cooking something good, and the aroma of
the food was wafted down to us from the windows of the big house. We hung about and took all
the wonderful smell of the food into our beings. Sometimes, in the morning, our whole family
stood outside the windows of the rich man’s house and listened to the musical sizzling of thick
strips of bacon or ham. I can remember one afternoon when our neighbor’s servants roasted three
chickens. The chickens were young and tender and the fat that dripped into the burning coals
gave off an enchanting odor. We watched the servants turn the beautiful birds and inhaled the
heavenly spirit that drifted out to us.

Some days the rich man appeared at a window and glowered down at us. He looked at us one by
one, as though he were condemning us. We were all healthy because we went out in the sun
every day and bathed in the cool water of the river that flowed from the mountains into the sea.
Sometimes we wrestled with one another in the house before we went out to play.

We were always in the best of spirits and our laughter was contagious. Other neighbors who
passed by our house often stopped in our yard and joined us in our laughter.

Laughter was our only wealth. Father was a laughing man. He would go in to the living room
and stand in front of the tall mirror, stretching his mouth into grotesque shapes with his fingers
and making faces at himself, and then he would rush into the kitchen, roaring with laughter.

There was plenty to make us laugh. There was, for instance, the day one of my brothers came
home and brought a small bundle under his arm, pretending that he brought something to eat,
maybe a leg of lamb or something as extravagant as that to make our mouths water. He rushed to
mother and through the bundle into her lap. We all stood around, watching mother undo the
complicated strings. Suddenly a black cat leaped out of the bundle and ran wildly around the
house. Mother chased my brother and beat him with her little fists, while the rest of us bent
double, choking with laughter.

Another time one of my sisters suddenly started screaming in the middle of the night. Mother
reached her first and tried to calm her. My sister criedand groaned. When father lifted the lamp,
my sister stared at us with shame in her eyes.
“What is it?”
“I’m pregnant!” she cried.
“Don’t be a fool!” Father shouted.
“You’re only a child,” Mother said.
“I’m pregnant, I tell you!” she cried.
Father knelt by my sister. He put his hand on her belly and rubbed it gently. “How do you know
you are pregnant?” he asked.
“Feel it!” she cried.
We put our hands on her belly. There was something moving inside. Father was frightened.
Mother was shocked. “Who’s the man?” she asked.
“There’s no man,” my sister said.
‘What is it then?” Father asked.
Suddenly my sister opened her blouse and a bullfrog jumped out. Mother fainted, father dropped
the lamp, the oil spilled on the floor, and my sister’s blanket caught fire. One of my brothers
laughed so hard he rolled on the floor.
When the fire was extinguished and Mother was revived, we turned to bed and tried to sleep, but
Father kept on laughing so loud we could not sleep any more. Mother got up again and lighted
the oil lamp; we rolled up the mats on the floor and began dancing about and laughing with all
our might. We made so much noise that all our neighbors except the rich family came into the
yard and joined us in loud, genuine laughter.
It was like that for years.
As time went on, the rich man’s children became thin and anemic, while we grew even more
robust and full of fire. Our faces were bright and rosy, but theirs were pale and sad. The rich man
started to cough at night; then he coughed day and night. His wife began coughing too. Then the
children started to cough one after the other. At night their coughing sounded like barking of a
herd of seals. We hung outside their windows and listened to them. We wondered what had
happened to them. We knew that they were not sick from lack of nourishing food because they
were still always frying something delicious to eat.
One day the rich man appeared at a window and stood there a long time. He looked at my sisters,
who had grown fat with laughing, then at my brothers, whose arms and legs were like the
molave, which is the sturdiest tree in the Philippines. He banged down the window and ran
through the house, shutting all the windows.
From that day on, the windows of our neighbor’s house were closed. The children did not come
outdoors anymore. We could still hear the servants cooking in the kitchen, and no matter how
tight the windows were shut, the aroma of the food came to us in the wind and drifted
gratuitously into our house.
One morning a policeman from the presidencia came to our house with a sealed paper. The rich
man had filled a complaint against us. Father took me with him when he went to the town clerk
and asked him what it was all about. He told Father the man claimed that for years we had been
stealing the spirit of his wealth and food.
When the day came for us to appear in court, Father brushed his old army uniform and borrowed
a pair of shoes from one of my brothers. We were the first to arrive. Father sat on a chair in the
center of the courtroom. Mother occupied a chair by the door. We children sat on a long bench
by the wall. Father kept jumping up his chair and stabbing the air with his arms, as though he
were defending himself before an imaginary jury.
The rich man arrived. He had grown old and feeble; his face was scarred with deep lines. With
him was his young lawyer. Spectators came in and almost filled the chairs. The judge entered the
room and sat on a high chair. We stood up in a hurry and sat down again.
After the courtroom preliminaries, the judge took at father. “Do you have a lawyer?” he asked.
“I don’t need a lawyer judge.” He said.
“Proceed,” said the judge.
The rich man’s lawyer jumped and pointed his finger at Father, “Do you or do you not agree that
you have been stealing the spirit of the complainant’s wealth and food?”
“I do not!” Father said.
“Do you or do you not agree that while the complainant’s servants cooked and fried fat legs of
lambs and young chicken breasts, you and your family hung outside your windows and inhaled
the heavenly spirit of the food?”
“I agree,” Father said.
“How do you account for that?”
Father got up and paced around, scratching his head thoughtfully. Then he said, “I would like to
see the children of the complainant, Judge.”
“Bring the children of the complainant.”
They came shyly. The spectators covered their mouths with their hands. They were so amazed to
see the children so thin and pale. The children walked silently to a bench and sat down without
looking up. They stared at the floor and moved their hands uneasily.
Father could not say anything at first. He just stood by his chair and looked at them. Finally he
said, “I should like to cross-examine the complainant.”
“Proceed.”
“Do you claim that we stole the spirit of your wealth and became a laughing family while yours
became morose and sad?” Father asked.
“Yes.”
“Then we are going to pay you right now,” Father said. He walked over to where we children
were sitting on the bench and took my straw hat off my lap and began filling it up with centavo
pieces that he took out his pockets. He went to Mother, who added a fistful of silver coins. My
brothers threw in their small change.
“May I walk to the room across the hall and stay there for a minutes, Judge?” Father asked.
“As you wish.”
“Thank you,” Father said. He strode into the other room with the hat in his hands. It was almost
full of coins. The doors of both rooms were wide open.
“Are you ready?” Father called.
“Proceed.” The judge said.
The sweet tinkle of coins carried beautifully into the room. The spectators turned their faces
toward the sound with wonder. Father came back and stood before the complainant.
“Did you hear it?” he asked.
“Hear what?” the man asked.
“The spirit of the money when I shook this hat?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Then you are paid.” Father said.
The rich man opened his mouth to speak and fell to the floor without a sound. The lawyer rushed
to his aid. The judge pounded his gravel.
“Case dismissed,” he said.
Father strutted around the courtroom. The judge even came down to his high chair to shake
hands with him. “By the way,” he whispered, “I had an uncle who died laughing.”
“You like to hear my family laugh, judge?” Father asked.
“Why not?”
Did you hear that children?” Father said.
My sister started it. The rest of us followed them and soon the spectators were laughing with us,
holding their bellies and bending over the chairs. And the laughter of the judge was the loudest
of all.

My brother’s Peculiar Chicken by Alejandro R. Roces

My brother Kiko once had a very peculiar chicken. It was peculiar because no one could tell
whether it was a rooster or a hen. My brother claimed it was a rooster. I claimed it was a hen. We
almost got whipped because we argued too much.
The whole question began early one morning. Kiko and I were driving the chickens from the
cornfield. The corn had just been planted, and the chickens were scratching the seeds out for
food. Suddenly we heard the rapid flapping of wings. We turned in the direction of the sound and
saw two chickens fighting in the far end of the field. We could not see the birds clearly as they
were lunging at each other in a whirlwind of feathers and dust.
“Look at that rooster fight!” my brother said, pointing exactly at one of the chickens. “Why, if I
had a rooster like that, I could get rich in the cockpits.”
“Let’s go and catch it,” I suggested.
“No, you stay here. I will go and catch it,” Kiko said.
My brother slowly approached the battling chickens. They were so busy fighting that they did
not notice him. When he got near them, he dived and caught one of them by the leg. It struggled
and squawked. Kiko finally held it by both wings and it became still. I ran over where he was
and took a good look at the chicken.
“Why, it is a hen,” I said.
“What is the matter with you?” my brother asked. “Is the heat making you sick?”
“No. Look at its face. It has no comb or wattles.”
“No comb and wattles! Who cares about its comb or wattles? Didn’t you see it in fight?”
“Sure, I saw it in fight. But I still say it is a hen.”
“Ahem! Did you ever see a hen with spurs on its legs like these? Or a hen with a tail like this?”
“I don’t care about its spurs or tail. I tell you it is a hen. Why, look at it.”
The argument went on in the fields the whole morning. At noon we went to eat lunch. We argued
about it on the way home. When we arrived at our house Kiko tied the chicken to a peg. The
chicken flapped its wings and then crowed.
“There! Did you hear that?” my brother exclaimed triumphantly. “I suppose you are going to tell
me now that hens crow and that carabaos fly.”
“I don’t care if it crows or not,” I said. “That chicken is a hen.”
We went into the house, and the discussion continued during lunch.
“It is not a hen,” Kiko said. “It is a rooster.”
“It is a hen,” I said.
“It is not.”
“It is.”
“Now, now,” Mother interrupted, “how many times must Father tell you, boys, not to argue
during lunch? What is the argument about this time?”
We told Mother, and she went out look at the chicken.
“That chicken,” she said, “is a binabae. It is a rooster that looks like a hen.”
That should have ended the argument. But Father also went out to see the chicken, and he said,
“Have you been drinking again?” Mother asked.
“No,” Father answered.
“Then what makes you say that that is a hen? Have you ever seen a hen with feathers like that?”
“Listen. I have handled fighting cocks since I was a boy, and you cannot tell me that that thing is
a rooster.”
Before Kiko and I realized what had happened, Father and Mother were arguing about the
chicken by themselves. Soon Mother was crying. She always cried when she argued with Father.
“You know very well that that is a rooster,” she said. “You are just being mean and stubborn.”
“I am sorry,” Father said. “But I know a hen when I see one.”
“I know who can settle this question,” my brother said.
“Who?” I asked.
“The teniente del Barrio, chief of the village.”
The chief was the oldest man in the village. That did not mean that he was the wisest, but
anything always carried more weight if it is said by a man with gray hair. So my brother untied
the chicken and we took it to the chief.
“Is this a male or a female chicken?” Kiko asked.
“That is a question that should concern only another chicken,” the chief replied.
“My brother and I happen to have a special interest in this particular chicken. Please give us an
answer. Just say yes or no. Is this a rooster?”
“It does not look like any rooster I have ever seen,” the chief said.
“Is it a hen, then?” I asked.
“It does not look like any hen I have ever seen. No, that could not be a chicken. I have never seen
like that. It must be a bird of some other kind.”
“Oh, what’s the use!” Kiko said, and we walked away.
“Well, what shall we do now?” I said.
“I know that,” my brother said. “Let’s go to town and see Mr. Cruz. He would know.”
Mr. Eduardo Cruz lived in a nearby town of Katubusan. He had studied poultry raising in the
University of the Philippines. He owned and operated the largest poultry business in town. We
took the chicken to his office.
“Mr. Cruz,” Kiko said, “is this a hen or a rooster?”
Mr. Cruz looked at the bird curiously and then said:
“Hmmm. I don’t know. I couldn’t tell in one look. I have never run across a chicken like this
before.”
“Well, is there any way you can tell?”
“Why, sure. Look at the feathers on its back. If the feathers are round, then it’s a hen. If they are
pointed, it’s a rooster.”
The three of us examined the feathers closely. It had both.
“Hmmm. Very peculiar,” said Mr. Cruz.
“Is there any other way you can tell?”
“I could kill it and examined its insides.”
“No. I do not want it killed,” my brother said.
I took the rooster in my arms and we walked back to the barrio.
Kiko was silent most of the way. Then he said:
“I know how I can prove to you that this is a rooster.”
“How?” I asked.
“Would you agree that this is a rooster if I make it fight in the cockpit and it wins?”
“If this hen of yours can beat a gamecock, I will believe anything,” I said.
“All right,” he said. “We’ll take it to the cockpit this Sunday.”
So that Sunday we took the chicken to the cockpit. Kiko looked around for a suitable opponent.
He finally picked a red rooster.
“Don’t match your hen against that red rooster.” I told him. “That red rooster is not a native
chicken. It is from Texas.”
“I don’t care where it came from,” my brother said. “My rooster will kill it.”
“Don’t be a fool,” I said. “That red rooster is a killer. It has killed more chickens than the fox.
There is no rooster in this town that can stand against it. Pick a lesser rooster.”
My brother would not listen. The match was made and the birds were readied for the killing.
Sharp steel gaffs were tied to their left legs. Everyone wanted to bet on the red gamecock.
The fight was brief. Both birds were released in the centre of the arena. They circled around once
and then faced each other. I expected our chicken to die of fright. Instead, a strange thing
happened. A lovesick expression came into the red rooster’s eyes. Then it did a love dance. That
was all our chicken needed. It rushed at the red rooster with its neck feathers flaring. In one
lunge, it buried its spurs into its opponent’s chest. The fight was over.
“Tiope! Tiope! Fixed fight!” the crowd shouted.
Then a riot broke out. People tore bamboo benches apart and used them as clubs. My brother and
I had to leave through the back way. I had the chicken under my arm. We ran toward the coconut
groves and kept running till we lost the mob. As soon as we were safe, my brother said:
“Do you believe it is a rooster now?”
“Yes,” I answered.
I was glad the whole argument was over.
Just then the chicken began to quiver. It stood up in my arms and cackled with laughter.
Something warm and round dropped into my hand. It was an egg.
A letter to God by Gregorio Lopez Y Fuentes

A Letter to God
Gregorio Lopez y Fuentes
Translated by Donald A. Yates

The house – the only one in the entire valley – sat on the crest of a low hill. From this height one
could se the river and, next to the corral, the field of ripe corn dotted with the kidney bean
flowers that always promised a good harvest.
The only thing the earth needed was a rainfall, or at least a shower. Throughout the morning
Lencho – who knew his fields intimately – had done nothing else but scan the sky toward the
northeast.
“Now we’re really going to get some water, woman.”
The woman, who was preparing supper, replied: “Yes, God willing.”
The oldest boys were working in the field, while the smaller ones were playing near the house,
until the woman called to them all: “Come for dinner…”
It was during the meal that, just as Lencho had predicted, big drips of rain began to fall. In the
northeast huge mountains of clouds could be seen approaching. The air was fresh and sweet.
The man went out to look for something in the corral for no other reason than to allow himself
the pleasure of feeling the rain on his body, and when he returned he exclaimed: “those aren’t
raindrops falling from the sky, they’re new coins. The big drops are ten-centavo pieces and the
little ones are fives…”
With a satisfied expression he regarded the field of ripe corn with its kidney bean flowers,
draped in a curtain of rain. But suddenly a strong wind began to fall. These truly did resemble
new silver coins. The boys, exposing themselves to the rain, ran out to collect the frozen pearls.
“It’s really getting bad now,” exclaimed the man, mortified. “I hope it passes quickly.”
It did not pass quickly. For an hour the hail rained on the house, the garden, the hillside, the
cornfield, on the whole valley. The field was white, as if covered with salt. Not a leaf remained
on the trees. The corn was totally destroyed. The flowers were gone from the kidney bean plants.
Lencho’s soul was filled with sadness. When the storm had passed, he stood in the middle of the
field and said to his sons: “A plague of locusts would have left more than this… the hail has left
nothing: this year we will have no corn or beans…”
That night was a sorrowful one: “All our work, for nothing!”
“There’s no one who can help us!”
But in the hears of all who lived in that solitary house in the middle of the valley, there was a
single hope: help from God.
“Don’t be so upset, even though this seems like a total loss. Remember, no one dies of hunger!”
“That’s what they say: no one dies of hunger….”
All through the night, Lencho thought only of his one hoe: the help of God, whose eyes, as he
had been instructed, see everything, even what is deep in one’s conscience.
Lencho was an ox of a man, working like an animal in the fields, but still he knew how to write.
The following Sunday, at day break, after having convinced, himself that there is a protecting
spirit he bgan to write a letter which he himself would carry to town and place in the mail.
It was nothing less than a letter to God.
“God,” he wrote, “if you don’t help me, my family and I will go hungry this year. I need a
hundred pesos in order to resow the field and to live until the crop comes, because the
hailstorm…”
He wrote “To God” on the envelope, put the letter inside and, still troubled, went to town. At the
post office he placed a stamp on the letter and dropped it into the mailbox.
One of the employees, who was a postman and also helped at the post officer, went to his boss,
laughing heartily and showed him the letter to God. Never in his career as a postman had he
known that address. The postmaster – a fat amiable fellow – also broke out laughing, but almost
immediately he turned serious and, tapping the letter on his desk, commented: “what faith! I
wish I had the faith of the man who wrote this letter. To believe the way he believes. To hope
with the confidence that he knows how to hope with. Starting up a correspondence with God!”
So, in order not to disillusion that prodigy of faith, revealed by a letter that could not be
delivered, the postmaster cmae up with an idea: answer the letter. But when he opened it, it was
evident that to answer it he needed something more than good will, ink and paper. But he stuck
to his resolution: he asked for money from his employee, he himself gave part of his salary, and
several friends of his were obliged to give something “for an act of charity”.
It was impossible for him to gather together the hundred pesos requested by Lencho, so he was
able to send the farmer only a little more than half. He put the bills in an envelope addressed to
Lencho and with them a letter containing only a signature:
GOD

The following Sunday Lencho came a bit earlier than usual to ask if there was a letter for him. It
was the postman himself who handed the letter to him, while the postmaster, experiencing the
contentment of a man who ahs performed a good deed, looked on from the doorway of his office.
Lencho showed not the slightest surprise on seeing the bills – such was his confidence – but he
became angry when he counted the money. God could not have made a mistake, nor could he
have denied Lencho what he had requested!
Immediately, Lencho went up to the window to ask for paper and ink. On the public writing
table, he started to write with much wrinkling of his brow, caused by the effort he had to make to
express his ideas. When he finished, he went to the window to buy a stamp, which he licked and
then affixed to the envelope with a blow of his fist.
The moment that the letter fell into the mailbox the postmaster went to open it. It said;
“God: Of the money that I asked for only seventy pesos reached me. Send me the rest, since I
need it very much. But don’t send it to me through the mail, because the post office employees
are a bunch of crooks. Lencho.”

My Lord, My Baby by Rabindranath Tagore

Part 1
Raicharan was twelve years old when he came as a servant to his master’s house. He belonged to
the same caste as his master, and was given his master’s little son to nurse. As time went on the
boy left Raicharan’s arms to go to school. From school he went on to college, and after college
he entered the judicial service. Always, until he married, Raicharan was his sole attendant.
But, when a mistress came into the house, Raicharan found two masters instead of one. All his
former influence passed to the new mistress. This was compensated for by a fresh arrival.
Anukul had a son born to him, and Raicharan by his unsparing attentions soon got a complete
hold over the child. He used to toss him up in his arms, call to him in absurd baby language, put
his face close to the baby’s and draw it away again with a grin.
Presently the child was able to crawl and cross the doorway. When Raicharan went to catch him,
he would scream with mischievous laughter and make for safety. Raicharan was amazed at the
profound skill and exact judgment the baby showed when pursued. He would say to his mistress
with a look of awe and mystery: “Your son will be a judge some day.”
New wonders came in their turn. When the baby began to toddle, that was to Raicharan an epoch
in human history. When he called his father Ba-ba and his mother Ma-ma and Raicharan Chan-
na, then Raicharan’s ecstasy knew no bounds. He went out to tell the news to all the world.
After a while Raicharan was asked to show his ingenuity in other ways. He had, for instance, to
play the part of a horse, holding the reins between his teeth and prancing with his feet. He had
also to wrestle with his little charge, and if he could not, by a wrestler’s trick, fall on his back
defeated at the end, a great outcry was certain.
About this time Anukul was transferred to a district on the banks of the Padma. On his way
through Calcutta he bought his son a little go-cart. He bought him also a yellow satin waistcoat, a
gold-laced cap, and some gold bracelets and anklets. Raicharan was wont to take these out, and
put them on his little charge with ceremonial pride, whenever they went for a walk.
Then came the rainy season, and day after day the rain poured down in torrents. The hungry
river, like an enormous serpent, swallowed down terraces, villages, cornfields, and covered with
its flood the tall grasses and wild casuarinas on the sand-banks. From time to time there was a
deep thud, as the river-banks crumbled. The unceasing roar of the rain current could be beard
from far away. Masses of foam, carried swiftly past, proved to the eye the swiftness of the
stream.
One afternoon the rain cleared. It was cloudy, but cool and bright. Raicharan’s little despot did
not want to stay in on such a fine afternoon. His lordship climbed into the go-cart. Raicharan,
between the shafts, dragged him slowly along till he reached the rice-fields on the banks of the
river. There was no one in the fields, and no boat on the stream. Across the water, on the farther
side, the clouds were rifted in the west. The silent ceremonial of the setting sun was revealed in
all its glowing splendor. In the midst of that stillness the child, all of a sudden, pointed with his
finger in front of him and cried: “Chan-nal Pitty fow.”
Close by on a mud-flat stood a large Kadamba tree in full flower. My lord, the baby, looked at it
with greedy eyes, and Raicharan knew his meaning. Only a short time before he had made, out of
these very flower balls, a small go-cart; and the child had been so entirely happy dragging it
about with a string, that for the whole day Raicharan was not made to put on the reins at all. He
was promoted from a horse into a groom.
But Raicharan had no wish that evening to go splashing knee-deep through the mud to reach the
flowers. So he quickly pointed his finger in the opposite direction, calling out: “Oh, look, baby,
look! Look at the bird.” And with all sorts of curious noises he pushed the go-cart rapidly away
from the tree.
But a child, destined to be a judge, cannot be put off so easily. And besides, there was at the time
nothing to attract his eyes. And you cannot keep up for ever the pretense of an imaginary bird.
The little Master’s mind was made up, and Raicharan was at his wits’ end. “Very well, baby,” he
said at last, “you sit still in the cart, and I’ll go and get you the pretty flower. Only mind you
don’t go near the water.”
As he said this, he made his legs bare to the knee, and waded through the oozing mud towards
the tree.
The moment Raicharan had gone, his little Master went off at racing speed to the forbidden
water. The baby saw the river rushing by, splashing and gurgling as it went. It seemed as though
the disobedient wavelets themselves were running away from some greater Raicharan with the
laughter of a thousand children. At the sight of their mischief, the heart of the human child grew
excited and restless. He got down stealthily from the go-cart and toddled off towards the river.
On his way he picked up a small stick, and leant over the bank of the stream pretending to fish.
The mischievous fairies of the river with their mysterious voices seemed inviting him into their
play-house.
Raicharan had plucked a handful of flowers from the tree, and was carrying them back in the end
of his cloth, with his face wreathed in smiles. But when he reached the go-cart, there was no one
there. He looked on all sides and there was no one there. He looked back at the cart and there
was no one there.
In that first terrible moment his blood froze within him. Before his eyes the whole universe
swam round like a dark mist. From the depth of his broken heart he gave one piercing cry;
“Master, Master, little Master.”
But no voice answered “Chan-na.” No child laughed mischievously back; no scream of baby
delight welcomed his return. Only the river ran on, with its splashing, gurgling noise as before,–
as though it knew nothing at all, and had no time to attend to such a tiny human event as the
death of a child.
As the evening passed by Raicharan’s mistress became very anxious. She sent men out on all
sides to search. They went with lanterns in their hands, and reached at last the banks of the
Padma. There they found Raicharan rushing up and down the fields, like a stormy wind, shouting
the cry of despair: “Master, Master, little Master!”
When they got Raicharan home at last, he fell prostrate at his mistress’s feet. They shook him,
and questioned him, and asked him repeatedly where he had left the child; but all he could say
was, that he knew nothing.
Though every one held the opinion that the Padma had swallowed the child, there was a lurking
doubt left in the mind. For a band of gipsies had been noticed outside the village that afternoon,
and some suspicion rested on them. The mother went so far in her wild grief as to think it
possible that Raicharan himself had stolen the child. She called him aside with piteous entreaty
and said: “Raicharan, give me back my baby. Oh ! give me back my child. Take from me any
money you ask, but give me back my child!”
Raicharan only beat his forehead in reply. His mistress ordered him out of the house.
Artukul tried to reason his wife out of this wholly unjust suspicion: “Why on earth,” he said,
“should he commit such a crime as that?”
The mother only replied: “The baby had gold ornaments on his body. Who knows?”
It was impossible to reason with her after that.

Part 2
Raicharan went back to his own village. Up to this time he had had no son, and there was no
hope that any child would now be born to him. But it came about before the end of a year that his
wife gave birth to a son and died.
All overwhelming resentment at first grew up in Raicharan’s heart at the sight of this new baby.
At the back of his mind was resentful suspicion that it had come as a usurper in place of the little
Master. He also thought it would be a grave offence to be happy with a son of his own after what
had happened to his master’s little child. Indeed, if it had not been for a widowed sister, who
mothered the new baby, it would not have lived long.
But a change gradually came over Raicharan’s mind. A wonderful thing happened. This new
baby in turn began to crawl about, and cross the doorway with mischief in its face. It also
showed an amusing cleverness in making its escape to safety. Its voice, its sounds of laughter
and tears, its gestures, were those of the little Master. On some days, when Raicharan listened to
its crying, his heart suddenly began thumping wildly against his ribs, and it seemed to him that
his former little Master was crying somewhere in the unknown land of death because he had lost
his Chan-na.
Phailna (for that was the name Raicharan’s sister gave to the new baby) soon began to talk. It
learnt to say Ba-ba and Ma-ma with a baby accent. When Raicharan heard those familiar sounds
the mystery suddenly became clear. The little Master could not cast off the spell of his Chan-na,
and therefore he had been reborn in his own house.
The arguments in favor of this were, to Raicharan, altogether beyond dispute:
I The new baby was born soon after his little master’s death.
II His wife could never have accumulated such merit as to give birth to a son in middle age.
III The new baby walked with a toddle and called out Ba-ba and Ma- ma. There was no sign
lacking which marked out the future judge.
Then suddenly Raicharan remembered that terrible accusation of the mother. “Ah,” he said to
himself with amazement, “the mother’s heart was right. She knew I had stolen her child.” When
once he had come to this conclusion, he was filled with remorse for his past neglect. He now
gave himself over, body and soul, to the new baby, and became its devoted attendant. He began
to bring it up, as if it were the son of a rich man. He bought a go-cart, a yellow satin waistcoat,
and a gold- embroidered cap. He melted down the ornaments of his dead wife, and made gold
bangles and anklets. He refused to let the little child play with any one of the neighborhood, and
became himself its sole companion day and night. As the baby grew up to boyhood, he was so
petted and spoilt and clad in such finery that the village children would call him “Your
Lordship,” and jeer at him; and older people regarded Raicharan as unaccountably crazy about
the child.
At last the time came for the boy to go to school. Raicharan sold his small piece of land, and
went to Calcutta. There he got employment with great difficulty as a servant, and sent Phailna to
school. He spared no pains to give him the best education, the best clothes, the best food.
Meanwhile he lived himself on a mere handful of rice, and would say in secret: “Ah! my little
Master, my dear little Master, you loved me so much that you came back to my house. You shall
never suffer from any neglect of mine.”
Twelve years passed away in this manner. The boy was able to read and write well. He was
bright and healthy and good-looking. He paid a great deal of attention to his personal
appearance, and was specially careful in parting his hair. He was inclined to extravagance and
finery, and spent money freely. He could never quite look on Raicharan as a father, because,
though fatherly in affection, he had the manner of a servant. A further fault was this, that
Raicharan kept secret from every one that himself was the father of the child.
The students of the hostel, where Phailna was a boarder, were greatly amused by Raicharan’s
country manners, and I have to confess that behind his father’s back Phailna joined in their fun.
But, in the bottom of their hearts, all the students loved the innocent and tender-hearted old man,
and Phailna was very fond of him also. But, as I have said before, he loved him with a kind of
condescension.
Raicharan grew older and older, and his employer was continually finding fault with him for his
incompetent work. He had been starving himself for the boy’s sake. So he had grown physically
weak, and no longer up to his work. He would forget things, and his mind became dull and
stupid. But his employer expected a full servant’s work out of him, and would not brook excuses.
The money that Raicharan had brought with him from the sale of his land was exhausted. The
boy was continually grumbling about his clothes, and asking for more money.
Raicharan made up his mind. He gave up the situation where he was working as a servant, and
left some money with Phailna and said: “I have some business to do at home in my village, and
shall be back soon.”
He went off at once to Baraset where Anukul was magistrate. Anukul’s wife was still broken
down with grief. She had had no other child.
One day Anukul was resting after a long and weary day in court. His wife was buying, at an
exorbitant price, a herb from a mendicant quack, which was said to ensure the birth of a child. A
voice of greeting was heard in the courtyard. Anukul went out to see who was there. It was
Raicharan. Anukul’s heart was softened when he saw his old servant. He asked him many
questions, and offered to take him back into service.
Raicharan smiled faintly, and said in reply; “I want to make obeisance to my mistress.”
Anukul went with Raicharan into the house, where the mistress did not receive him as warmly as
his old master. Raicharan took no notice of this, but folded his hands, and said: “It was not the
Padma that stole your baby. It was I.”
Anukul exclaimed: “Great God! Eh! What! Where is he ? “Raicharan replied: “He is with me, I
will bring him the day after to-morrow.”
It was Sunday. There was no magistrate’s court sitting. Both husband and wife were looking
expectantly along the road, waiting from early morning for Raicharan’s appearance. At ten
o’clock he came, leading Phailna by the hand.
Anukul’s wife, without a question, took the boy into her lap, and was wild with excitement,
sometimes laughing, sometimes weeping, touching him, kissing his hair and his forehead, and
gazing into his face with hungry, eager eyes. The boy was very good-looking and dressed like a
gentleman’s son. The heart of Anukul brimmed over with a sudden rush of affection.
Nevertheless the magistrate in him asked: “Have you any proofs? “Raicharan said: “How could
there be any proof of such a deed? God alone knows that I stole your boy, and no one else in the
world.”
When Anukul saw how eagerly his wife was clinging to the boy, he realized the futility of asking
for proofs. It would be wiser to believe. And then–where could an old man like Raicharan get
such a boy from? And why should his faithful servant deceive him for nothing?
“But,” he added severely, “Raicharan, you must not stay here.”
“Where shall I go, Master?” said Raicharan, in a choking voice, folding his hands; “I am old.
Who will take in an old man as a servant?”
The mistress said: “Let him stay. My child will be pleased. I forgive him.”
But Anukul’s magisterial conscience would not allow him. “No,” he said, “he cannot be forgiven
for what he has done.”
Raicharan bowed to the ground, and clasped Anukul’s feet. “Master,” he cried, “let me stay. It
was not I who did it. It was God.”
Anukul’s conscience was worse stricken than ever, when Raicharan tried to put the blame on
God’s shoulders.
“No,” he said, “I could not allow it. I cannot trust you any more. You have done an act of
treachery.”
Raicharan rose to his feet and said: “It was not I who did it.”
“Who was it then?” asked Anukul.
Raicharan replied: “It was my fate.”
But no educated man could take this for an excuse. Anukul remained obdurate.
When Phailna saw that he was the wealthy magistrate’s son, and not Raicharan’s, be was angry
at first, thinking that he had been cheated all this time of his birthright. But seeing Raicharan in
distress, he generously said to his father: “Father, forgive him. Even if you don’t let him live
with us, let him have a small monthly pension.”
After hearing this, Raicharan did not utter another word. He looked for the last time on the face
of his son; he made obeisance to his old master and mistress. Then he went out, and was mingled
with the numberless people of the world.
At the end of the month Anukul sent him some money to his village. But the money came back.
There was no one there of the name of Raicharan.

My Lord, The Baby – Rabindranath Tagore