Not mean but be

by Rabindranath Tagore

An idle, useless fellow he could never keep a job. But of his whims and fancies there was no end.

For instance, in small little wooden frames he would make lovely shell-patterns which, from a distance, looked like some ill-assorted painting: here a flight of birds; or a rough, uneven landscape, with cows grazing in the fields; or a low hill, with maybe a fountain hanging from the side or some lonely bypath lost in the horizon.

In the family circles humiliation piled high. From time to time he himself would resolve to get rid of his wayward ways. But the whims would not leave him.

II

There are boys who neglect their studies all the year round and yet, for no good reason, pass their examinations all right. So it was with our man.

All his life he had done no work, but at the end of it he was told that he would have to go to Heaven.

But even there fate dogged him. By mistake the messenger left him at the wrong place — the place meant for busy souls.

In that Heaven there was everything — except leisure.

Here the men cried “No time to rest.” The women: “Ah, there is still so much to do.” “Lord, how tired I feel,” so they all moaned and all the while felt the glow of happiness within. “After so much work one feels exhausted,” that complaint was the only music in that place.

This fellow could find no gap anywhere, where he could fit in. He walked along the streets absent-mindedly only to hold up the rush of traffic. Whenever he spread his tunic, he was told that this was a cornfield and the seeds had already been sown. So he had to get up and move away — always a misfit.

III

Every day a very, very busy girl came to fetch water from the fountain of Heaven. Her feet ran along the road like the sharp notes of the strings of sitar. She had tied her hair in a hasty knot, yet a few loose locks fell across the brow, perhaps to pry into the dark of her eyes.

Like the tree by the waterfall, this fellow was standing by.

Just as looking through the window a princess might feel pity for a beggar, so it was with this girl. “Alas, have you no work to do?” she asked.

With a sigh answered the unemployed man, “Here there is no time to do any work.”

The girl did not understand a word of what he had said. “Would you like to take some work off me?” she inquired.

“Yes, that’s what I am here for.”

“What would you like to do?”

“Give me one of those pitchers that you carry to the fountain.”

“What will you do with that? draw water?”

“No, I shall make some patterns.”

“Patterns? I have no time to waste. I am going,” the girl replied, annoyed.

But how long can a busy person hold out against an idler? Every day they met near the fountain and every day the same conversation was repeated. “Give me one of your pitchers, I shall make some patterns on it.”

At last she had to yield.

And soon a mysterious maze of lines and colours spread all over the pitcher.

When it was completed the girl took it up, turned it round and round, looked at it from all sides. Raising her eyebrow she finally asked: “What does it mean”?

“It has no meaning,” the artist replied.

The girl left. But at night when the others had gone to bed, she, the silent one, lighted her lamp and looked at the pitcher yet once again. She looked at it from all sides. This was the first time in her life that she had come across something that had no meaning.

Next day as she came again to the fountain her feet had last their habitual rapid run. It was as though she fumbled and had grown absent-minded — thinking, without purpose and without meaning.

He was still there.

“What do you want?”

“I want more work from you.”

“What work?”

“If you allow me, I shall weave a few coloured strings into a ribbon to bind your hair.”

“What’s the need for it?”

“Oh, none whatsoever,” the fellow readily agreed.

Eventually, the many-coloured ribbon was ready. And from then on she would spend a great deal of her time before the mirror, doing her hair. The work remained undone, the hours passed.

IV

On the other hand for the first time in that busy Heaven huge gaps began to appear — gaps filled with songs and tears.

The Heavenly Elders were faced with a problem. They met in council. Such a thing had never happened in the whole history of that busy paradise, they all agreed.

The messenger confessed his guilt. “I have brought the wrong person to the right place.”

The chief of the Elders told him: “You must go back to the earth from where you have come.”

“I am ready,” said he, tying his satchel of colours and brush around the waist.

“I too will go with him,” the girl joined in.

The chief of the Elders felt totally lost. This was the first time in his experience that something had happened that just did not make any sense.

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