The Cabuliwallah is a story written by the legendary Bengali writer Rabindranath Tagore. The Cabuliwallah revolves around the stories of two friends: a peddler and a small stunning girl Mini. The peddler, Abdur Rahman is from Kabul, Afghanistan and he used to sell seasonal goods in India.
The objectives of technical writing are: clarity, conciseness, accurate, organisation and ethics. But this text doesn't seem to follow all the objectives. So the conversation between Mini and Rahaman after they were great friends is re-illustrated as follows:
They had unusual jokes, which amused them in great way. Mini would wait for him and look down on his large frame in all her tiny dignity. With laughter on her face, she would begin: "O Cabuliwallah! Cabuliwallah: What have you got in your bag?"
And he would reply, in the nasal accent of the mountaineer: "An elephant!" Not much cause for merriment, perhaps: but how they both enjoyed the fun. And for me, this child's talk with a grown-up man fascinates in strange way.
Then the Cabuliwallah, not being late, would take his turn: "Well, little one, and when are you going to your father-in-law's house?"
Now almost every small Bengali maiden had heard long ago about her father-in-law's house. However, we were a little new, and had kept these things from our child. As a result, Mini at this question must have been a trifle bewildered. But she would not show it, and with ready tact replied: "Are you going there?"
Amongst men of the Cabuliwallah's class, however, it is well known that the words father-in-law's house have a double meaning. It is a euphemism for jail, the place where we are well cared for, at no expense to ourselves. The other meaning is simple; the house belonging to groom's father is called father in law's house.
In this sense would the strong peddler take my daughter's question. "Ah," he would say, shaking his fist at an invisible policeman. "I will thrash my father-in-law!" Hearing this, and picturing the poor embarrassed relative, Mini would go off into peals of laughter in which her formidable friend would join.
These were autumn mornings, the very time of year when kings of old went forth to conquest. I without stirring from my little corner in Calcutta, would let my mind wander over the whole world. At the very name of another country, my heart would go out to it, and at the sight of a foreigner in the streets, I would fall to weaving a network of dreams—the mountains, the glens, and the forests of his distant land. Perhaps scenes of travel are conjured up before me and pass and re-pass in my imagination in vivid way. Because I lead an existence so like a vegetable that a call to travel would fall upon me like a thunder-bolt.
In the presence of this Cabuliwallah, I was immediately transported to the foot of arid mountain peaks. I could see the string of camels bearing the merchandise, and the company of turbaned merchants. Some carrying their queer old firearms, and some their spears, journeying downward towards the plains. I could see. But at some such point Mini's mother would intervene, and warn me to "beware of that man."
Mini's mother is timid. Whenever she sees people coming towards the house, she always jumps to the conclusion that they are either thieves, or drunkards. Even after all these years of experience, she is not able to overcome her terror. Because of which she was full of doubts about the Cabuliwallah, and used to beg me to keep an eye on him.
If I tried to laugh her fear in gentle way, she would turn round seriously, and ask me questions:
Were children never kidnapped?
Was it not true that there was slavery in Kabul?
Was it so very absurd that this big man should be able to carry off a tiny child?
I urged that, though not impossible, it was very improbable. But this was not enough, and her dread persisted. But as it was a very vague dread, it did not seem right to forbid the man the house. The intimacy went on unchecked.
Once a year, in the middle of January, Rahman, the Cabuliwallah, used to return to his own country. As the time approached, he would be very busy, going from house to house collecting his debts. This year, however, he could always find time to come and see Mini. It might have seemed to a stranger that there was some conspiracy between the two. For when he could not come in the morning, he would appear in the evening.
Even to me it was a little startling now and then suddenly to surprise this tall, loose-garmented man with his bags. But when Mini ran in smiling, with her "O Cabuliwallah! Cabuliwallah" and the two friends, subsided into their old laughter and jokes. I felt reassured.
The objectives of technical writing are: clarity, conciseness, accurate, organisation and ethics. But this text doesn't seem to follow all the objectives. So the conversation between Mini and Rahaman after they were great friends is re-illustrated as follows:
They had unusual jokes, which amused them in great way. Mini would wait for him and look down on his large frame in all her tiny dignity. With laughter on her face, she would begin: "O Cabuliwallah! Cabuliwallah: What have you got in your bag?"
And he would reply, in the nasal accent of the mountaineer: "An elephant!" Not much cause for merriment, perhaps: but how they both enjoyed the fun. And for me, this child's talk with a grown-up man fascinates in strange way.
Then the Cabuliwallah, not being late, would take his turn: "Well, little one, and when are you going to your father-in-law's house?"
Now almost every small Bengali maiden had heard long ago about her father-in-law's house. However, we were a little new, and had kept these things from our child. As a result, Mini at this question must have been a trifle bewildered. But she would not show it, and with ready tact replied: "Are you going there?"
Amongst men of the Cabuliwallah's class, however, it is well known that the words father-in-law's house have a double meaning. It is a euphemism for jail, the place where we are well cared for, at no expense to ourselves. The other meaning is simple; the house belonging to groom's father is called father in law's house.
In this sense would the strong peddler take my daughter's question. "Ah," he would say, shaking his fist at an invisible policeman. "I will thrash my father-in-law!" Hearing this, and picturing the poor embarrassed relative, Mini would go off into peals of laughter in which her formidable friend would join.
These were autumn mornings, the very time of year when kings of old went forth to conquest. I without stirring from my little corner in Calcutta, would let my mind wander over the whole world. At the very name of another country, my heart would go out to it, and at the sight of a foreigner in the streets, I would fall to weaving a network of dreams—the mountains, the glens, and the forests of his distant land. Perhaps scenes of travel are conjured up before me and pass and re-pass in my imagination in vivid way. Because I lead an existence so like a vegetable that a call to travel would fall upon me like a thunder-bolt.
In the presence of this Cabuliwallah, I was immediately transported to the foot of arid mountain peaks. I could see the string of camels bearing the merchandise, and the company of turbaned merchants. Some carrying their queer old firearms, and some their spears, journeying downward towards the plains. I could see. But at some such point Mini's mother would intervene, and warn me to "beware of that man."
Mini's mother is timid. Whenever she sees people coming towards the house, she always jumps to the conclusion that they are either thieves, or drunkards. Even after all these years of experience, she is not able to overcome her terror. Because of which she was full of doubts about the Cabuliwallah, and used to beg me to keep an eye on him.
If I tried to laugh her fear in gentle way, she would turn round seriously, and ask me questions:
Were children never kidnapped?
Was it not true that there was slavery in Kabul?
Was it so very absurd that this big man should be able to carry off a tiny child?
I urged that, though not impossible, it was very improbable. But this was not enough, and her dread persisted. But as it was a very vague dread, it did not seem right to forbid the man the house. The intimacy went on unchecked.
Once a year, in the middle of January, Rahman, the Cabuliwallah, used to return to his own country. As the time approached, he would be very busy, going from house to house collecting his debts. This year, however, he could always find time to come and see Mini. It might have seemed to a stranger that there was some conspiracy between the two. For when he could not come in the morning, he would appear in the evening.
Even to me it was a little startling now and then suddenly to surprise this tall, loose-garmented man with his bags. But when Mini ran in smiling, with her "O Cabuliwallah! Cabuliwallah" and the two friends, subsided into their old laughter and jokes. I felt reassured.
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