Repository path: workshop/translations/dakghar/R05-v1/translation.md · rendered 2026-09-09

«ডাকঘর» — The Post Office, Rabindranath Tagore (1912) — R05-v1

Source. Rabindranath Tagore, «ডাকঘর». Copy-text: the Indian Publishing House (22 Cornwallis Street, Calcutta) printing digitised by the Digital Library of India and transcribed at Bengali Wikisource, page images at File:ডাকঘর - রবীন্দ্রনাথ ঠাকুর.pdf (Commons, public domain). The printing carries no year on cover, publisher's page or title page — see collation.md §1. Stored whole at workshop/translations/dakghar/source-ipublishinghouse.txt, 430 numbered units, 5,458 Bengali speech-words, three sections, printed pp. 1–56.

Regime. R05 (serial long-work, source-only, cumulative). Binding register: workshop/translations/dakghar/register.md.

Span A — section ১ whole, units [1]–[86], printed pp. 1–11, 1,147 Bengali words → 1,699 English words. Frozen with the log below before any study limb was designed.

Span B — section ২ whole, units [87]–[260], printed pp. 12–33, 2,140 Bengali words → 2,986 English words (words in the translated text, speech-heads excluded; the same count applied to span A gives 1,661, so span A's figure of 1,699 above was reached by a slightly different count and the two are not compared). Frozen with the cumulative log below before any study limb was designed and before Mukherjea 1914 was opened. The Bengali word-count is 97 higher than the arm page declared: the copy-text was missing ten whole speeches, 101 words, until this session's gate restored them, and four of the gate's emendations joined words the transcription had split (collation.md §5–§6, log D24).

Span C — section ৩ whole, units [261]–[430], printed pp. 34–56, 2,501 Bengali words → 3,462 English words. Frozen with the cumulative log below and committed at f7121eb before the study limb was designed and before Mukherjea 1914 was fetched. The Bengali count is 233 higher than the arm page declared: fourteen whole speeches, 234 words, were missing from the copy-text until this session's gate restored them, and one emendation joined two words the transcription had split (collation.md §7A–§7B, log D49). Span C is contamination: none on its own account, and the declaration is measured: 0 shared twelve-grams and a longest common run of 9 tokens against the comparator (RS-20260812h-dakghar-grade §6).

Span B is contamination: none on its own account, and the page's front matter stays high for the artifact as a whole. The declared priming event (below) covered the dramatis personae and units [1]–[16] only; no part of section ২ was ever exposed, and the comparator was not in the repository at any point during this session — it is re-fetchable from Project Gutenberg #6523 and was not fetched before the freeze.

Cost. $0 — lead translation, never ledgered (charter §3, A4).

Contamination: high, and the basis is a declared priming event, not an inference. While establishing that a free English of the whole play exists — before any translating and before the span was chosen — the lead read the opening of Devabrata Mukherjea's English (Macmillan, 1914, Project Gutenberg #6523): its DRAMATIS PERSONÆ and its Act I down to the Physician's line "The more he winces, the surer is the effect". In this play's numbering that is the dramatis personae plus units [1]–[16], sixteen of span A's eighty-six units. The file was then quarantined and was not opened again before this freeze. Two consequences are recorded rather than argued away:

1. The exposure is bounded and its boundary is known, so overlap can be measured on the exposed sixteen units and the unexposed seventy separately. That measurement is RS-20260811f-dakghar-address §5.
2. One decision is knowingly downstream of the exposure: the dramatis personae gave the lead Mukherjea's GAFFER for ঠাকুর্দ্দা. The rendering chosen here (Grandad) was chosen on V3, which was written before the character was reached, but the lead cannot claim it did not know that a one-word English kin-name was available. Logged at D9.

The lead does not judge this translation (charter §5). Every evaluative sentence in the log below carries internal-judgment-only, which the front matter asserts for the page.

The translation — span A

১

MADHABDATTA. I'm in a fix. When he wasn't here he simply wasn't — there was nothing to think about. Now he's turned up from goodness knows where and settled himself all over my house; and if he goes, this house of mine won't be a house any more. Kabiraj, what do you think — is he—

KABIRAJ. If there's life left in his fate he may last a long while yet. But going by what the Ayurveda has down—

MADHABDATTA. What are you saying?

KABIRAJ. The śāstras tell us —

paittikān sannipātajān kaphavātasamudbhavān—

MADHABDATTA. Stop, stop — don't reel your verses off at me, they only frighten me worse. Just tell me what has to be done.

KABIRAJ (taking snuff). He must be kept with the greatest care.

MADHABDATTA. That's true enough — but settle it for me before you go: care about what?

KABIRAJ. I told you at the very start. You cannot let him go outside at all.

MADHABDATTA. He's a child. Holding him indoors day and night is a very hard thing.

KABIRAJ. Well, what else can you do? This autumn sun and this autumn air are poison, the pair of them, to that boy — for the śāstras say, do you see —

apasmāre jvare kāśe kāmalāyāṃ halīmake—

MADHABDATTA. Stop, stop, let your śāstras be. Then he's to be shut up and kept shut up — there's no other way?

KABIRAJ. None whatever, because — pavane tapane caiva—

MADHAB. And what am I to do with your caiva, will you tell me! Let it be — just say what has to be done! But your regimen is very hard. All the misery of the illness the poor thing bears quietly — but when the time comes to take your medicine, watching what it costs him splits my heart.

KABIRAJ. The fiercer the suffering the greater its fruit — which is why the great sage Chyavana said

bheṣajaṃ hitavākyañca tiktaṃ āśu phalapradaṃ.

I'll get up and go for today, then, Mr Datta!

(Exit.)

(Enter Grandad.)

MADHAB. There now, Grandad's here! That's the end of us.

GRANDAD. Why? What have you to fear from me?

MADHAB. You're the ringleader of everyone who sends children wild.

GRANDAD. But you're not a child, and there's no child in your house — and you're past the age for going wild yourself. What have you to worry about?

MADHAB. I've brought a child into the house.

GRANDAD. How's that?

MADHAB. My wife had got herself into a state about adopting a son.

GRANDAD. I've been hearing that for a long time — but it was you who wouldn't have one.

MADHAB. Look, brother, I made my money with a great deal of trouble. That somebody else's boy should come from nowhere and start wearing away, without any trouble, what I earned with so much of it — the thought alone used to turn me against it. But how I've taken to this child of ours—

GRANDAD. Just so — and the more money you spend on him the more you feel it's the money's great good fortune!

MADHAB. I used to earn money before, and it was no more than a habit — I couldn't have stopped, whatever I did. But now, knowing that all the money I make will come to that boy, I get a real pleasure out of earning it.

GRANDAD. Good, good, brother. Tell me now — where did you come by the child?

MADHAB. My wife's nephew, by village reckoning. The poor thing has had no mother since he was small. And then the other day his father died as well.

GRANDAD. Ah! Then it's me he has need of.

MADHAB. The kabiraj says wind and bile and phlegm have all risen at once in that small body of his, so badly that there's not much hope for him. The one course left is to save him somehow from this autumn sun and air and keep him shut in the house. And getting boys out of the house is the sport of your old age — which is why I'm afraid of you.

GRANDAD. You're not wrong there — I've grown into an absolute terror, exactly like the autumn sun and wind. But brother, I know one or two games for keeping them indoors as well. Let me get my bit of business done, and after that I'll go and make friends with that boy of yours.

(Exit.)

(Enter Amalgupta.)

AMAL. Uncle!

MADHAB. What is it, Amal.

AMAL. Can't I even go out into that courtyard?

MADHAB. No, my child.

AMAL. That place there, where Auntie splits the pulses with the grindstone? Look — where the squirrel picks up the broken grits in its two front paws and sits back on its tail and eats them, kutus, kutus — can't I go there any more?

MADHAB. No, my child!

AMAL. If I were a squirrel, now, that would be fine! But Uncle, why won't you let me out?

MADHAB. Because the kabiraj has said that if you go outside it will make you ill.

AMAL. How does the kabiraj know?

MADHAB. What are you saying, Amal? The kabiraj not know? Why, he's got through such great fat books.

AMAL. Does reading books let you know everything?

MADHAB. Well! Fancy your not knowing that.

AMAL (with a long sigh). It's that I haven't read any books at all — that's why I don't know.

MADHAB. Look here, all the great learned men are just like you — they don't come out of the house either.

AMAL. They don't come out?

MADHAB. No — when would they come out, tell me? They sit and sit and do nothing but read their books — they haven't an eye to spare for anything else.

Amal-babu, when you're grown you'll be a learned man too — you'll sit and read all these great fat books, and everyone will look at you and be astonished!

AMAL. No, no, Uncle, I beg you on your two feet, I won't be a learned man, Uncle, I won't be a learned man!

MADHAB. What talk is this, Amal? If I could have been a learned man I'd have been saved.

AMAL. I'll see everything there is — I'll do nothing but go about looking.

MADHAB. Listen to him! See what? What is there so much of, to see?

AMAL. Sitting by our window there's that hill you can see far off — I want so badly to cross over that hill and go away.

MADHAB. What mad talk! No work, no business, and off over the hill for nothing at all! There's no sense in what you say. When the hill stands up as high as an enormous fence, then surely you're meant to understand that crossing it is forbidden — or what need was there to pile up such great stones and make such a great business of it?

AMAL. Uncle, does it seem to you that it's forbidding us? It seems quite plain to me that the earth can't speak, and so it lifts its hands up like that into the blue sky and calls. People far away who sit inside their houses can hear that call too, at noon, sitting alone by the window! I suppose the learned men can't hear it!

MADHAB. They're not cracked the way you are — they don't want to hear it either.

AMAL. Someone as cracked as I am — I saw one yesterday.

MADHAB. Really! Let me hear what he was like.

AMAL. He had a bamboo stick over his shoulder. A bundle tied at the end of the stick. A water-pot in his left hand. He had an old pair of nagra shoes on, and he was going along this field path, straight towards that hill. I called out and asked him, where are you going? He said, who knows — wherever it turns out! I asked, why are you going? He said, I'm going to look for work. Tell me, Uncle — is work something you have to look for?

MADHAB. Of course it is! Any number of people go about looking for work!

AMAL. How fine! I'll go about looking for work too, like them!

MADHAB. And if you look and don't find it!

AMAL. If I look and don't find it, I'll look again. — And then that man in the nagra shoes went on, and I stood in the doorway and stood there watching. Where the stream runs under the fig tree, there he put his stick down and washed his feet slowly in the stream water — then he untied his bundle and took out his chhatu and mixed it with water and began to eat. When he'd eaten he tied the bundle up again and got it onto his shoulder — he hitched up his cloth and went down into the stream and cut through the water and crossed over and went away, just like that. I've told Auntie: one day I'll go to that stream and eat chhatu.

MADHAB. What did Auntie say?

AMAL. Auntie said, you get well, and after that I'll take you to that stream and give you chhatu to eat. When will I get well?

MADHAB. It won't be long now, my child.

AMAL. It won't be long? But as soon as I'm well I'll go away.

MADHAB. Go where?

AMAL. I'll go crossing and crossing, dipping my feet in ever so many winding streams — at noon, when everyone's shut their doors and lying down, then I'll go away, off somewhere far, doing nothing but looking and looking for work.

MADHAB. Very well, then; first you get well, and after that you—

AMAL. After that don't tell me to be a learned man, Uncle!

MADHAB. Tell me what you do want to be.

AMAL. Nothing comes to my mind just now — I'll think, and tell you.

MADHAB. But you're not to go calling out like that to any stranger who passes and talking to him.

AMAL. I like strangers very much.

MADHAB. What if one of them carried you off?

AMAL. Then that would be fine! But nobody ever carries me off — they all just sit me down and leave me.

MADHAB. I've work to do, I'm off — but mind, my child, don't you go outside.

AMAL. I won't. But Uncle, I'll sit in this room here by the road.

The translation — span B

২

CURD-SELLER. Curds — curds — good curds!

AMAL. Curd-seller, curd-seller, oh curd-seller!

CURD-SELLER. What are you calling for? Will you buy curds?

AMAL. How can I buy any? I haven't any money.

CURD-SELLER. What sort of boy are you! If you're not buying, why do you let my morning run away for me?

AMAL. If I could go away with you I'd go.

CURD-SELLER. With me?

AMAL. Yes. Hearing you go by from so far off, calling and calling — it makes my heart go strange.

CURD-SELLER (setting down his yoke of curds). What are you doing sitting here, my child?

AMAL. The kabiraj has forbidden me to go out, so I sit here all day long.

CURD-SELLER. Ah, my dear — what has happened to you!

AMAL. I don't know. I haven't read anything at all, so I don't know what has happened to me. Curd-seller, where do you come from?

CURD-SELLER. I come from our village.

AMAL. Your village? Is your village ver—y far away?

CURD-SELLER. Our village is down at the foot of Panchmura hill. On the bank of the Shamli river.

AMAL. Panchmura hill — the Shamli river — I wonder, — perhaps I've seen your village — I can't remember when.

CURD-SELLER. You've seen it? Did you ever go down to the foot of the hill?

AMAL. No, I never went. But I feel as if I'd seen it. Your village is under great big trees of very old times — beside a road of red earth. Isn't it?

CURD-SELLER. You've said it exactly, my child.

AMAL. And there are cows grazing all over the side of the hill there.

CURD-SELLER. What a wonder! You're saying it exactly. Cows graze in our village, don't they just — they graze in plenty!

AMAL. The women all draw water from the river and carry it away in jars on their heads — and they're wearing red saris!

CURD-SELLER. Well! Well! Quite right! Of course the women of our whole cowherds' quarter draw water from the river and carry it away! Only, mind you, it isn't that they all wear red saris — but my child, you must certainly have gone there once on a visit.

AMAL. I'm telling you the truth, curd-seller, I've not been there one single day. The day the kabiraj tells me I may go out, will you take me to your village?

CURD-SELLER. Take you? Of course I will, my child — I'll take you gladly.

AMAL. And teach me to sell curds that way, the way you do. With a yoke like that on my shoulder — along a road as far off as that.

CURD-SELLER. I could die! Why should you go selling curds, my child? You'll read all those books and grow up a learned man.

AMAL. No, no, I'll never be a learned man. I'll fetch curds from the cowherds' quarter and go about selling them from village to far-off village, by your red road, under your old banyan tree. How is it you call it — curds, curds, curds — good curds! Teach me the tune!

CURD-SELLER. Oh, my wretched luck! Is that a tune anyone learns!

AMAL. No, no, I love to hear it. The way a bird's call from the very end of the sky sets your mind wandering — just so, when your call came from that turn of the road, in through that line of trees, I felt — I don't know what I felt.

CURD-SELLER. My child, have a pot of curds!

AMAL. But I haven't any money.

CURD-SELLER. No no no no — don't talk about money. If you'll eat a little of my curds, how glad I shall be.

AMAL. Have I kept you very long?

CURD-SELLER. Not long at all, my child; I've lost nothing by it. What happiness there is in selling curds — that I've learnt from you.

(Exit.)

AMAL (giving it the tune). Curds, curds, curds, good curds! Curds from the cowherds' houses down at the foot of Panchmura hill, on the bank of the Shamli river. At dawn they stand the cows under the trees and milk them; in the evening the women set the curds — those curds.

Curds, curds, cur—ds, good curds! — Here's the watchman pacing up and down the road! Watchman, watchman, come and listen a minute, do, watchman.

WATCHMAN. What are you shouting like that for? Aren't you afraid of me?

AMAL. Why? Why should I be afraid of you?

WATCHMAN. What if I seized you and carried you off?

AMAL. Where would you carry me off to? Very far? Over that hill?

WATCHMAN. What if I took you straight to the king?

AMAL. To the king? Take me, do! But the kabiraj has forbidden me to go out. Nobody can carry me off anywhere — I've only to sit here, day and night.

WATCHMAN. The kabiraj has forbidden it? Ah, so he has — your face has gone quite white. There are shadows under your eyes. The veins are showing in both your hands.

AMAL. Won't you ring your bell, watchman?

WATCHMAN. It isn't time yet!

AMAL. Some say time is running away, some say it isn't time. Well then — if you ring the bell it will be time, won't it?

WATCHMAN. How can that be? Only when it is time do I ring the bell.

AMAL. Your bell is a fine thing — I do love to hear it. At noon, when everyone at home has finished eating and Uncle has gone off somewhere to his work, and Auntie has fallen asleep over her reading, and our little dog gets up and goes into the shade of that corner and sleeps with his nose in his tail — then that bell of yours rings out, dong dong dong, dong dong dong! Why does yours ring?

WATCHMAN. The bell tells everyone this: time is not sitting still, time is going away.

AMAL. Going away where? To what country?

WATCHMAN. Nobody knows that.

AMAL. Then I suppose nobody has seen that country and come back? I want to go away with time — to the country nobody knows of, ever so far away!

WATCHMAN. Everyone has to go to that country, my child!

AMAL. Have I to go too?

WATCHMAN. Indeed you have.

AMAL. But the kabiraj has forbidden me to go out.

WATCHMAN. One day the kabiraj himself may take you by the hand and lead you there.

AMAL. No, no, you don't know him; all he ever does is keep hold of me.

WATCHMAN. There is a better kabiraj than he, and he comes and lets people go.

AMAL. When will that good kabiraj come to me? I don't like sitting here any longer.

WATCHMAN. You mustn't say such things, my child.

AMAL. No — I am sitting still — I don't stir out of the place they've set me in — only that bell of yours rings dong dong dong, and it makes my heart go strange! I say, watchman!

WATCHMAN. Yes, my child?

AMAL. Tell me — that big house across the road, where they've run up a flag, and where all those people keep coming and going — what has happened there?

WATCHMAN. The new post office has been set up there.

AMAL. Post office? Whose post office?

WATCHMAN. Whose should a post office be? The king's post office. — This boy is a rare one!

AMAL. Do all the letters come from the king to the king's post office?

WATCHMAN. Of course they do. You'll see — one day a letter will come for you too!

AMAL. A letter for me too? But I'm only a child!

WATCHMAN. To children the king writes teeny tiny little letters.

AMAL. How fine that would be! When shall I get my letter? How do you know he will write to me as well?

WATCHMAN. Or else why would he go opening a post office right in front of this open window of yours, with a great golden flag flying over it? — I do like this boy.

AMAL. Tell me — when my letter comes from the king, who will bring it to me?

WATCHMAN. The king has any number of postmen — haven't you seen them going about with round gold badges on their breasts?

AMAL. Tell me, where do they go about?

WATCHMAN. From house to house, from country to country. — His questions make me want to laugh.

AMAL. When I'm grown I'll be one of the king's postmen.

WATCHMAN. Ha ha ha ha! A postman! That's a mighty great business! Sun or no sun, rain or no rain, poor man or great man, going from house to house delivering letters to everybody — a very grand business indeed!

AMAL. Why are you laughing? That's the work I like best of all. No, no, your work is very good too — at noon, when the sun beats down blazing, the bell rings dong dong dong — and then some nights I wake up suddenly in bed and find the lamp in the room has gone out, and out of some darkness outside the bell is ringing, dong dong dong!

WATCHMAN. There's the headman coming — I'll make myself scarce. If he sees me chatting with you he'll make trouble of it.

AMAL. Where's the headman, where, where?

WATCHMAN. There, a long way off. With a great palm-leaf umbrella over his head.

AMAL. I suppose the king made him headman?

WATCHMAN. Not a bit of it. He's headman on his own account. Anybody who won't bow to him he goes at, day and night, till everybody's afraid of him. Making enemies of everyone is his whole trade. Well, I'll be off for today; my work's going undone. I'll come again tomorrow morning and tell you all the news of the town.

(Exit.)

AMAL. If I got a letter every day from the king, that would be fine — I'd sit here by this window and read them. But I can't read. Who would read them to me? Auntie reads the Ramayana! Can Auntie read the king's writing? If nobody can read them I'll save them up and read them when I'm grown. But what if the postman doesn't know me! Headman, oh Headman — hear one thing before you go!

HEADMAN. Who's that! Shouting at me in the middle of the road! Where's this monkey sprung from!

AMAL. You're the Headman — everybody bows to you!

HEADMAN (pleased). Yes, yes, of course they bow! They bow indeed!

AMAL. The king's postmen do as you say!

HEADMAN. Would their lives be worth anything if they didn't! Good gracious! As if they dared!

AMAL. Will you tell the postman my name is Amal — that I sit here by this window?

HEADMAN. And why, pray?

AMAL. In case a letter comes for me —

HEADMAN. A letter for you! Who's going to write you a letter?

AMAL. If the king writes me a letter, then —

HEADMAN. Ha ha ha ha! This boy's a good one! Ha ha ha ha! The king write you a letter! And why not, to be sure! You're his bosom friend! He's been pining away these few days for want of a sight of you — I've had the news! It won't be long now; the letter may come today or it may come tomorrow!

AMAL. Headman, why do you talk like that? Are you angry with me?

HEADMAN. Good gracious! I, angry with you! Should I dare! Letters passing between you and the king! — Madhabdatta has grown very big in the world, I see! He's put by a couple of coins, and now there's no talk in his house but of kings and emperors. Just wait, I'll show him some sport! Here, boy — very well: I'll see to it that the king's letter comes to your house, and comes quickly.

AMAL. No, no, you needn't do anything.

HEADMAN. And why not, boy! I'll send word of you to the king — then he won't be able to hold off any longer; he'll send a bailiff this very minute to enquire after you all! — No, Madhabdatta has a deal too much impudence — once this gets to the king's ear he'll be brought to heel.

(Exit.)

AMAL. Who are you, going along with your anklets jingling, jingling — stop a moment, won't you.

(Enter a little girl.)

LITTLE GIRL. How can I stop! The morning's running away.

AMAL. You don't want to stop — and I don't want to sit here any longer either.

LITTLE GIRL. Looking at you I think of the morning star — tell me, what has happened to you!

AMAL. I don't know what has happened; the kabiraj has forbidden me to go out.

LITTLE GIRL. Ah, then don't go out — one must do as the kabiraj says — you mustn't be wild, or people will call you naughty! Looking outside makes your heart restless; I'd better shut this half-door of yours for you.

AMAL. No, no, don't shut it — everything else here of mine is shut; only this little bit is open. Tell me who you are — I don't know you.

LITTLE GIRL. I'm Sudha.

AMAL. Sudha!

SUDHA. Don't you know — I'm the flower-woman's daughter, from here.

AMAL. What do you do?

SUDHA. I fill my basket with flowers and bring them home and string garlands. I'm going to pick flowers now.

AMAL. Going to pick flowers? That's why your two feet have grown so happy — the more you walk the more your anklets ring, jing, jing, jing. If I could go with you I'd pick you flowers from the high branches, from up where you can't even be seen.

SUDHA. Oh, indeed! As if you knew more about flowers than I do!

AMAL. I do, I know a great deal. I know about the seven Champa brothers! I feel that if everyone would let me go I could go away — into the thick of the forest where no path can be found. At the very tips of the thin branches, where the manua bird sits and swings, there I could open as a champa flower. Will you be my sister Parul?

SUDHA. What notions you have! How can I be sister Parul! I'm Sudha — I'm Shashi the flower-woman's daughter. I have to string ever so many garlands every day. If I could sit here like you, what fun it would be!

AMAL. Then what would you do all day?

SUDHA. I have a bride-doll; I'd marry her off. I have my Pussy-cat, and with her — I must go, the morning's running away; if I'm late there'll be no flowers left.

AMAL. Talk with me a little longer, do — I'm liking it so much.

SUDHA. Very well, then; don't be naughty, be a good boy and sit here quietly, and when I come back from picking flowers I'll stop and talk with you.

AMAL. And will you leave me a flower?

SUDHA. How can I give a flower for nothing? It has to be paid for.

AMAL. When I'm grown I'll pay you. I'll go away to look for work, across that stream, and I'll pay you before I go.

SUDHA. Very well, then.

AMAL. So you'll come back when you've picked your flowers?

SUDHA. I'll come.

AMAL. You'll come?

SUDHA. I'll come.

AMAL. You won't forget me? My name is Amal. Will you remember?

SUDHA. No, I won't forget. You'll see — I'll remember.

(Exit.)

(Enter a band of boys.)

AMAL. Brothers, where are you all going, brothers? Stop here just a moment, do!

BOYS. We're going to play.

AMAL. What will you play, brothers?

BOYS. We'll play at farming.

FIRST BOY (showing a stick). Here's our plough.

SECOND BOY. We two will be the two bullocks.

AMAL. Will you play all day?

BOYS. Yes, all da—y.

AMAL. And then in the evening you'll come home along the river bank?

BOYS. Yes, we'll come back in the evening.

AMAL. Come back past this room of mine, brothers.

BOYS. Come out, why don't you — come and play!

AMAL. The kabiraj has forbidden me to go out.

BOYS. The kabiraj! So you do what the kabiraj forbids, do you. Come on, brother, come on — we're getting late.

AMAL. No, brothers — stand in the road in front of this window of mine and play a little there — let me watch a bit.

BOYS. What are we to play with here!

AMAL. Here are all my toys lying about — take them, all of them, brothers — playing alone indoors is no good — they lie scattered in the dust — they're of no use to me.

BOYS. Oh, oh, oh, what splendid toys! Here's a ship! Here's the old witch with the matted hair! Look, brother, what a fine soldier. You're giving us all this? Doesn't it hurt you?

AMAL. No, it doesn't hurt at all; I've given you the lot!

BOYS. But we shan't give them back, mind.

AMAL. No, you needn't give them back.

BOYS. Nobody will scold, will they.

AMAL. Nobody, nobody! Only every morning bring these toys and play with them a while in front of this door of mine. And when they get old I'll have new ones brought for you.

BOYS. Very well, brother, we'll come and play here every day. Here, brother, set the soldiers up in their ranks — let's play at battles. Where shall we get guns? — There's a great reed lying there — let's break it up and make guns of it. But, brother, you're falling asleep!

AMAL. Yes, I'm growing very sleepy. I don't know why sleep keeps coming over me. I've been sitting a long time; I can't sit any longer — my back aches.

BOYS. It's only the first watch of the day — why are you sleepy already? Listen, there's the bell for the first watch ringing.

AMAL. Yes, there it goes, dong dong dong — calling me to go to sleep.

BOYS. Then we'll go now, and come again tomorrow morning.

AMAL. Before you go let me ask you one thing, brothers. You're outside, aren't you — do you know the postmen of that king's post office?

BOYS. Yes, of course we know them; we know them well.

AMAL. Who are they, what are their names?

BOYS. There's one Badal the runner, and one Sharat — and ever so many more.

AMAL. Tell me — if a letter comes in my name, will they know me?

BOYS. Why shouldn't they? If your name is on the letter they'll know you well enough.

AMAL. When you come tomorrow morning, call one of them over and point me out to him, won't you!

BOYS. Very well, we will.

The translation — span C

৩

(Amal in bed.)

AMAL. Uncle, can't I go over to that window of mine today either? Has the Kabiraj forbidden it?

MADHAB. Yes, my child. It's from sitting there day after day that your illness has got worse.

AMAL. No, Uncle, no — I know nothing at all about my illness, but when I'm there I feel very well.

MADHAB. Sitting there, sitting there, you've made friends with every child and greybeard in the whole town — there's a great fair setting itself up outside my door every day of the week. How is a body to stand it! Just look at you — how pale your face has gone today!

AMAL. Uncle, that fakir of mine may go away today when he doesn't see me at the window.

MADHAB. What fakir is this of yours now?

AMAL. The one who comes to me every day and tells me about all sorts of countries far away — I love listening to him.

MADHAB. I know nothing of any fakir.

AMAL. This is just the time he comes. I beg you — go out and tell him this once, won't you, to come into my room and sit here a while!

(Enter Grandad, dressed as a fakir.)

AMAL. Here he is, here's the Fakir — come and sit on my bed.

MADHAB. What's this! Why, this is—

GRANDAD (winking). I am the Fakir!

MADHAB. There's nothing I can think of that you're not.

AMAL. Where did you go this time, Fakir?

FAKIR. I went to Kraunchadwip — I've come straight from there this minute.

MADHAB. Kraunchadwip?

FAKIR. Why should that astonish you? Do you take me for one of your sort? Travelling costs me nothing at all. I can go wherever I please.

AMAL (clapping his hands). What fun you have! You said that when I got well you'd take me on as your disciple — do you remember, Fakir!

FAKIR. I remember very well. I'll teach you such spells for travelling that nothing anywhere — not sea, not mountain, not forest — will be able to stop you.

MADHAB. What is all this madman's talk between the two of you?

GRANDAD. Amal, my child, I'm not afraid of hills and mountains and seas — but if this uncle of yours gets the Kabiraj to join him, then my spells will have to own themselves beaten!

AMAL. No, no, Uncle, don't say anything to the Kabiraj! I'll lie here quietly now, I won't do anything — but the day I get well, that very day I'll take the Fakir's spells and go — rivers and hills and seas won't be able to hold me any more.

MADHAB. Hush, my child, you mustn't be for ever saying you're going, going — it makes me feel wretched to hear it.

AMAL. What sort of island is Kraunchadwip — won't you tell me, Fakir?

GRANDAD. It's a most wonderful place. It's the country of the birds — there are no people there. They don't talk, they don't walk; they sing and they fly.

AMAL. Oh, how splendid! Is it by the sea?

GRANDAD. By the sea, of course.

AMAL. Are the hills there all blue?

GRANDAD. It's in the blue hills that they nest. In the evening the sunset light comes down on those hills, and flock upon flock of green birds comes flying home to the nests — and with the colour of the sky and the colour of the birds and the colour of the hills it turns into something past telling.

AMAL. Are there waterfalls in the hills?

GRANDAD. Of course? How could it do without waterfalls! Pouring down like melted diamond! And the dance of it! Setting the pebbles going ting-tong, ting-tong, and all the time babbling and rushing, until the fall goes leaping into the middle of the sea. There's no kabiraj's father living who could hold it up anywhere for the space of a breath. If the birds hadn't put me out of caste as a mere nobody of a man, I'd have built myself a nest beside that waterfall at the edge of their thousands upon thousands of nests, and passed whole days watching the waves of the sea.

AMAL. If I were a bird, then—

GRANDAD. Then there'd be a fine to-do. I hear you've told the curd-seller you'll sell curds when you grow up — among the birds your curd business wouldn't do so very well. Most likely you'd take a loss on it!

MADHAB. Now I really can't go on! You two will send me out of my wits along with you, I can see! I'm off!

AMAL. Uncle, has my curd-seller been and gone?

MADHAB. Been and gone he has. Do you think his belly gets filled by carrying that pet fakir of yours pack and baggage and flying about the birds' nests of Kraunchadwip! He's left a pot of curds for you. He said there's a wedding in their village, his sister's girl, and he's off to Kalmipara to order the flutes — so he's very busy.

AMAL. He said he'd give me his little niece in marriage.

GRANDAD. Then we're in great difficulty, I see.

AMAL. He said she'd be my rosy little bride — a ring in her nose, a red striped sari. In the morning she'd milk the black cow with her own hands and give me the milk in a new clay pot with the froth still on it; and in the evening she'd show the lamp in the cowshed and come and sit by me and tell me the story of the seven Champa brothers.

GRANDAD. Well, well, a splendid bride! Fakir though I am, it makes me covetous myself. Never mind, my child, don't be afraid — let him marry her off this time; I tell you, whenever you have need of one there will be no shortage of nieces in that house.

MADHAB. Go on, go on! There's no bearing it.

(Exit.)

AMAL. Fakir, Uncle's gone now — tell me quietly, has the king's letter come to the post office in my name?

GRANDAD. I have heard that his letter has set out. It's on the road now.

AMAL. On the road? Which road? The one you can see a long way off through the thick forest, when the rain has fallen and the sky has cleared?

GRANDAD. So you know it all, I see. That's the very road.

AMAL. I know everything, Fakir.

GRANDAD. I can see you do — but how did you come to know?

AMAL. That I don't know. I seem to see it before my eyes — it feels as though I'd seen it many times, a long while ago — how long ago I can't remember. Shall I tell you? I can see the king's postman coming down alone from the hills, always coming down — his lantern in his left hand, his bag of letters on his shoulder. How many days and how many nights he has been coming down and coming down. Where the waterfall's path ends at the foot of the hill, he takes the winding river-path and keeps on coming — beside the river the millet fields, and through the narrow lanes of them he comes and comes — and then the cane fields — a high bank runs along the side of the cane fields and along that bank he comes and comes — night and day, all alone, he comes; the crickets are calling in the fields — there isn't a single person by the river, only the snipe going up and down flicking its tail — I can see all of it. And the more I see him coming, the happier and happier it grows inside my breast.

GRANDAD. I haven't such young eyes as those — and yet as you see it I can see it too.

AMAL. Tell me, Fakir — do you know the king whose post office it is?

GRANDAD. Know him? Of course. I go to him every day for alms.

AMAL. That's fine! When I'm well I'll go to him for alms too! I'll be able to go, shan't I?

GRANDAD. My child, you'll have no need to beg — whatever he means to give you he'll give of himself.

AMAL. No, no, I'll stand at the roadside in front of his door and beg, crying victory to the king — I'll beat a tambourine and dance — won't that be fine?

GRANDAD. That will be very fine. If I take you along with me I'll get a bellyful of alms myself. What will you beg for?

AMAL. I'll say, make me your postman — I'll go about house to house with a lantern in my hand delivering your letters. Do you know, Fakir, somebody has told me that when I'm well he'll teach me how to beg. I'll go begging about with him wherever we please.

GRANDAD. Who is it, tell me?

AMAL. Chhidam.

GRANDAD. Which Chhidam?

AMAL. The blind lame one. He comes to my window every day. A boy just like me pushes him about in a cart on wheels. I've told him that when I'm well I'll push him about.

GRANDAD. That will be rare fun, I can see.

AMAL. He's the one who has said he'll teach me how one ought to beg. I tell Uncle to give him alms and he says the man's a sham blind man, a sham cripple. Well, let him be a sham blind man — but he can't see, and that much is true.

GRANDAD. You've said it exactly, my child; the truth in him is just that much — that he can't see, whether you call him blind or don't. But if he gets no alms from you, what is he sitting there for?

AMAL. Why, I tell him what there is and where! Poor thing, he can't see. All the countries you tell me about, I tell over to him. The other day you told me about that light country, where nothing has any weight at all — where one little jump takes you clear over a hill; he was very happy when he heard about that light country. Tell me, Fakir, which way does one go to that country?

GRANDAD. There's a road to it that goes by the inside way; it may be hard to find.

AMAL. The poor fellow is blind, so most likely he'll never find it — he'll have to go on begging and nothing else. He was grieving over that — and I said to him, think how much travelling about you get out of begging; everybody doesn't get that.

GRANDAD. And what's so much to grieve about, my child, in sitting at home?

AMAL. No, no, there's nothing to grieve about. At first, when they set me down inside this room, I felt as though the day would never end; but ever since I saw our king's post office I like it better every day — sitting here inside this room I like it — as soon as I think that one day my letter will arrive, I can sit quite still and be very happy. But what will be written in the king's letter — that I don't know.

GRANDAD. Never mind not knowing. Your name will be written there — that's enough.

(Enter Madhab.)

MADHAB. What sort of mess have the two of you set going here, will you tell me!

GRANDAD. Why, what's happened?

MADHAB. I hear you've been spreading it about that the king has set up his post office to write letters to you two!

GRANDAD. And what of it?

MADHAB. Our Panchanan the Headman has carried the tale to the king and written him an anonymous letter about it.

GRANDAD. Everything reaches the king's ear — do you think we don't know that?

MADHAB. Then why can't you go carefully? Why take the names of kings and emperors and let any nonsense out of your mouth? You'll land me in trouble along with you!

AMAL. Fakir, will the king be angry!

GRANDAD. Angry, just because he says so! Let's see him be angry! Let's see what fine kingship he shows by being angry with a fakir like me and a boy like you!

AMAL. Look, Fakir — since this morning the dark keeps coming down over my eyes, on and on; it feels as though everything were a dream. I want to be perfectly quiet. I don't want to talk any more. Won't the king's letter come? If this room were all to melt away this moment — if—

GRANDAD (fanning Amal) It will come; the letter will come today.

(Enter the Kabiraj.)

KABIRAJ. How does it feel today?

AMAL. Kabiraj, I feel very well today — it feels as though all the pain had gone.

KABIRAJ (aside, to Madhab). That smile of his doesn't look good to me. His saying he feels very well is the bad sign itself. Our Chakradhar Datta says—

MADHAB. For pity's sake, Kabiraj, let Chakradhar Datta's sayings be. Tell me now what the matter is!

KABIRAJ. It seems he can't be held much longer. I did forbid it, but it seems the outside air has got to him.

MADHAB. No, Kabiraj, I've kept him well shut in and guarded on every side. I don't let him out — I keep the door shut nearly all the time.

KABIRAJ. There's a strange wind got up today all of a sudden — I saw as I came that the wind is blowing right through your street door in gusts. That's altogether bad. Have that door well shut and locked. Better still, let there be no coming and going at all in your house for two or three days. If anyone must come, there's the back door. And that sunset glow coming in at the window there — close that too; it keeps a sick man far too wakeful.

MADHAB. Amal is lying with his eyes shut; I think he's asleep. Looking at his face one feels as though — Kabiraj, I brought into my house one who was not my own, and I loved him, and now it seems I shan't be able to keep him.

KABIRAJ. What's this! The Headman coming to your house! What a plague! I'll be off, brother. But go now, and shut that door properly! As soon as I get home I'll send over a poison-pill — try giving him that; if he's to be held at all, that will pull him back and hold him!

(Exeunt Madhab and the Kabiraj.)

(Enter the Headman.)

HEADMAN. Well, boy!

GRANDAD (rising hastily to his feet) Hush, hush, quiet!

AMAL. No, Fakir! You think I'm asleep! I haven't slept. I'm hearing everything. I can hear things even from very far away. It feels to me as though my mother and my father were talking at my pillow!

(Enter Madhab.)

HEADMAN. Well, Madhabdatta, they tell me you're keeping company with great folk nowadays!

MADHAB. What are you saying, Headman! Don't make such jokes. We're the most ordinary people.

HEADMAN. This boy of yours is waiting for a letter from the king.

MADHAB. He's a child, he's out of his mind; is anything he says to be taken up!

HEADMAN. No, no, what's so surprising in it! Where would the king find a house as fit as yours? That's the very reason, don't you see, that the king's new post office has been put up right in front of your window. Here, boy, a letter has come for you from the king!

AMAL (starting up). Truly?

HEADMAN. How could it not be true! You and the king, friends! (handing him a sheet of paper with no letters on it) Ha ha ha ha, here is his letter.

AMAL. Don't make fun of me. Fakir, Fakir, do you tell me — is this truly his letter?

GRANDAD. Yes, my child; I the Fakir tell you, this is truly his letter!

AMAL. But I can't see anything at all in it — everything has gone white before my eyes today! Headman, tell me what's written in this letter!

HEADMAN. The king writes: I am coming to your house one of these days; have my offering of rice-puffs and sugar-puffs made ready for me — the palace doesn't please me one moment longer. Ha ha ha ha.

MADHAB (with folded hands). Headman, for pity's sake, don't make a joke of these things!

GRANDAD. A joke! What joke! Has he the power in him to make a joke!

MADHAB. Come, Grandad, have you gone out of your wits as well!

GRANDAD. Yes, I've gone out of my wits! That's why today I can see letters on this white sheet. The king writes that he is coming himself to see Amal, and that he is bringing his royal kabiraj with him.

AMAL. Fakir, there — Fakir, his music is playing; can't you hear it?

HEADMAN. Ha ha ha ha! He'll not be able to hear it till he's a little madder yet.

AMAL. Headman, I used to think you were angry with me — that you didn't love me. I never thought you'd truly bring me the king's letter — give me the dust of your feet.

HEADMAN. No, there's reverence in this boy. No sense, to be sure, but a good heart.

AMAL. It must be the fourth watch by now, I think. There's the ding dong ding — ding dong ding! Has the evening star come out, Fakir? Why can't I see it?

GRANDAD. They've shut the window; I'll open it.

(A knocking at the door outside.)

MADHAB. What's that! Who's there! What a plague this is!

FROM OUTSIDE. Open the door.

MADHAB. Who are you?

FROM OUTSIDE. Open the door!

MADHAB. Headman! These can't be robbers!

HEADMAN. Who's there! I am Panchanan the Headman! Have you no fear in your hearts! Look at that — the noise has stopped! Once they hear Panchanan's voice there's no escape for them! However great a robber he may be—

MADHAB (putting his head out of the window). The door's broken down — that's why there's no more knocking!

(Enter the King's Messenger.)

ROYAL MESSENGER. His Majesty will come tonight.

HEADMAN. What a calamity!

AMAL. At what hour of the night, Messenger? At what hour?

MESSENGER. Tonight at the second watch.

AMAL. When my friend the watchman strikes the bell at the great gate of the city, ding dong, ding dong ding — then?

MESSENGER. Yes, then! To see the boy who is his friend, the king has sent the kabiraj who is greater than his age.

(Enter the Royal Kabiraj.)

ROYAL KABIRAJ. What's this! Everything shut up on every side! Open, open — every door and window there is, open them all! (laying a hand on Amal) My child, how do you feel?

AMAL. Very well, very well, Kabiraj! I have no sorrow left, no pain! Ah, you've opened it all — I can see all the stars — all the stars on the far side of the dark!

KABIRAJ. When the king comes at midnight, will you be able to leave your bed and go out with him?

AMAL. I'll be able to, I'll be able to! If I can get out I shall live. I'll ask the king to show me the Pole Star in this dark sky. I daresay I've seen that star many times, but which one it is I don't know.

KABIRAJ. He will show you everything. (to Madhab) Have this room cleaned for the king's coming and dressed with flowers! (indicating the Headman) That man can't be kept in this room!

AMAL. No, no, Kabiraj, he's my friend! When none of you had come it was he who brought me the king's letter.

KABIRAJ. Very well, my child; since he's your friend, let him stay in the room too.

MADHAB (in Amal's ear). My child, the king loves you — he's coming himself today; ask him for something today! Our circumstances aren't good — you know how it all is.

AMAL. I've settled that already, Uncle — you needn't worry about it.

MADHAB. What have you settled, my child?

AMAL. I'll ask him to make me the postman of his post office — I'll go from country to country, house to house, delivering his letters.

MADHAB (striking his forehead). Alas, my luck!

AMAL. Uncle, when the king comes, what offering will you have ready for him?

MESSENGER. He has sent word that here he will have his offering of rice-puffs and sugar-puffs.

AMAL. Rice-puffs and sugar-puffs! Headman, you told us so beforehand — you know everything about the king! And we knew nothing at all!

HEADMAN. If you'll send someone round to my house, then for the king something really good—

ROYAL KABIRAJ. There's no need! Now be still, all of you! It's coming, it's coming, his sleep is coming! I'll sit by the boy's pillow — his sleep is coming on. Put out the lamp — let the light come now from that star in the sky! His sleep has come.

MADHAB (to Grandad). Grandad, why are you standing there like an image with your hands folded, saying nothing? I'm afraid, somehow! Is what I'm seeing here a good sign? Why are they darkening my room? What good will the light of the stars do me!

GRANDAD. Be quiet, you unbeliever! Don't speak!

(Enter Sudha.)

SUDHA. Amal!

ROYAL KABIRAJ. He has fallen asleep.

SUDHA. I've brought flowers for him — mayn't I put them in his hand?

ROYAL KABIRAJ. Very well, give me your flowers!

SUDHA. When will he wake?

ROYAL KABIRAJ. Presently, when the king comes and calls him.

SUDHA. Then will you say one thing in his ear for me?

ROYAL KABIRAJ. What shall I say?

SUDHA. Say that Sudha has not forgotten you.

Translator's log — span A

Frozen 2026-08-11 before the study limb was designed and before the comparator was reopened. Decisions and alternatives, not quality claims. Continuously numbered across the whole work; span B begins at D24. Every evaluative sentence here is internal-judgment-only.

D1 — The play is in চলিত, and that is the register's founding fact. Tagore writes this play in colloquial Calcutta Bengali — যাচ্চ, করচি, বল্‌চে, হতুম, করলুম — and the only high register in span A is the kabiraj's four Sanskrit tags. The opposition is not decoration: the play's subject is a child who wants to go outside and the learned men who never leave the house, and the learned man on stage speaks the dead language. The English is therefore ordinary spoken English throughout, contracted, with no archaism anywhere, and the Sanskrit is the only marked stratum. Register rule V6.

D2 — The Sanskrit stays Sanskrit. পৈত্তিকান্‌ সন্নিপাতজান্‌…, অপস্মারে জ্বরে কাশে…, পবনে তপনে চৈব—, ভেষজং হিতবাক্যঞ্চ… are foreign inside the Bengali: a Bengali reader without Sanskrit gets sound and authority and no content, which is the joke. They are given in roman transliteration, unglossed, set off as quotations. Rendering them into English verse would destroy the device, because the device is that Madhab cannot understand them. Alternative considered and rejected: a footnote gloss.

D3 — চৈব is load-bearing and forces D2. At [15] Madhab seizes on one word out of the tag he has just been unable to follow: «আপনার ও চৈব নিয়ে আমার কি হবে» — what am I to do with your caiva. The line only works if চৈব has been printed two lines earlier as an untranslated word. This is the single site that makes D2 non-optional; if the ślokas were Englished, this joke would have to be rewritten wholesale.

D4 — V1, the rule the span was translated on: keep foreign only what the source itself marks as foreign. The Sanskrit is marked in the Bengali; পিসেমশায়, ঠাকুর্দ্দা, কবিরাজ, পুঁথি, ছাতু are not — they are the ordinary words of the world the play is set in, and a child says them without any sense of strangeness. Transliterating them all would invert the source's own distribution of markedness, making the everyday exotic and levelling the one genuinely foreign stratum with it. This is the decision the whole span hangs on and the one most open to challenge.

D5 — V2, what to do where English has no unmarked slot. V1 cannot be applied where English simply lacks the word. Three sites in span A: - কবিরাজ — a practitioner of Ayurveda who quotes śāstra. Doctor and physician both import a European clinician and make the Sanskrit-quoting unmotivated. Kept as kabiraj, lower case, as a common noun (the kabiraj says…), and used bare as address at [1] where the source has কবিরাজ মশায়. The speech-head is KABIRAJ. - ছাতু — roasted gram meal mixed with water; there is no English word and barley meal is both wrong and a description rather than a name. Kept, italic, chhatu. - নাগরা জুতো — kept, nagra shoes, with the English classifier doing the work the reader needs. This is a rule with a cost and the cost is stated: three foreign words in a span whose whole argument (D4) is against foreign words.

D6 — V3, kin-address takes unmarked English. পিসেমশায় → Uncle, পিসিমা → Auntie. What is lost is exact and worth naming: পিসে is the husband of one's father's sister and পিসিমা is the father's sister, so Bengali says in one word which side of the family the tie is on, and English cannot. It is lost fourteen times in this span. The loss is real and V1 accepts it, because the alternative is a child saying a four-syllable transliteration every time he speaks to the only adult he loves.

D7 — V4, imported from ARM-legend's V21: a designation the source varies is not collapsed. Span A varies three: - মাধবদত্ত (heads on printed pp. 1–3) → মাধব (from p. 3 to the end of the play). Kept: MADHABDATTA for the first eleven heads, MADHAB thereafter. The switch happens inside the kabiraj scene, at [15], the line where Madhab loses his temper with the Sanskrit — the formal full name goes at exactly the moment the formal visitor stops being humoured. Whether the compositor or the author did this cannot be told from one witness; it is kept because V4 does not require knowing. - অমল → অমলবাবু once, at [55], where Madhab imagines the child grown into a pandit. বাবু here is mock-formal, a father teasing a small boy with a grown man's title. Kept: Amal-babu. This is the one place V1 is overruled in favour of V4 — -babu is a foreign syllable, but Mr Amal and young man both lose that the joke is a title. - পিসে মশায় (4×) / পিসেমশায় (12×) — printed both ways, confirmed against the page image at four sites. Not carried: this is orthographic word-division in a printing with no year and no second witness, and English has no corresponding variable. Recorded here, not rendered. Contrast with the two above, which are lexical.

D8 — V7, মশায় splits by what it attaches to. On a surname it is Mr (দত্ত মশায় → Mr Datta, the kabiraj's exit line). On an office it is dropped (কবিরাজ মশায় → Kabiraj). On a kin term it is absorbed by V3 (পিসে মশায় → Uncle). One Bengali particle, three English treatments, and the split is by the host word.

D9 — ঠাকুর্দ্দা, and the decision the lead cannot claim was clean. He is nobody's grandfather; ঠাকুর্দ্দা is what a village calls an old man, exactly as English children call an unrelated old man Grandad. V3 gives Grandad, and it is used as the speech-head because it is his name in the play. The lead had seen GAFFER in Mukherjea's dramatis personae before translating (see the contamination note above). Grandad was not chosen to avoid Gaffer and it was not chosen because of it; but the lead knew a one-word English kin-name was available at this site, and that is not the same as arriving at one. Recorded as a compromised decision rather than as a convergence.

D10 — ( অমলগুপ্তের প্রবেশ ). The stage direction at [38] gives the child a surname — Amalgupta — and it is the only place in the play he has one; every speech-head and every line calls him অমল. It is very likely a compositor's error. Carried verbatim as Enter Amalgupta and flagged in collation.md §3, because a copy-text with one witness and no year is not a text this project may silently emend. Register question for span B: does the name recur?

D11 — না বাবা is not "no, father". Madhab says বাবা to Amal twice at [42], [44] and once at [85]; it is the standard Bengali of an older man to a small boy, an endearment with no paternity in it. Rendered my child. Son was considered and dropped: Madhab has spent the previous scene explaining that the boy is not his son and that he minded very much about it.

D12 — জাতা দিয়ে ডাল ভাঙেন [43], and the honorific verb. The aunt splits pulses with the grindstone; জাতা is the hand-quern, not a pestle. The verb ভাঙেন is honorific — the child gives his aunt the respectful conjugation. English has no slot and it is dropped here without compensation. It matters because of D13.

D13 — The site where the deference system is visible in two adjacent lines, and the English cannot hold it. [71] Madhab: পিসিমা কি বল্লে? — ordinary conjugation. [72] Amal: পিসিমা বল্লেন, — honorific conjugation. The same woman, two speakers, one verb, back to back: the child honours his aunt and her husband does not. Both come out in English as said. This is the sharpest single loss in span A and nothing in the English marks it. It is V5's founding site and the study limb is built on it.

D14 — V5 and why no device was invented. Span A's second-person forms are a complete small grid: Madhab↔kabiraj আপনি both ways, Madhab↔Grandad তুমি both ways, Madhab→Amal তুমি, Amal→Madhab তুমি (with পিসেমশায়), Amal→the stranger he quotes তুমি. English has one form. The decision is to mark none of it artificially — no thou, no compensating stiffness in the kabiraj's English beyond what his sentences already do. Alternative live and rejected: give the kabiraj a starchier syntax to carry আপনি. Rejected because it would put the mark on the wrong axis — it would make him pompous, which is a character judgement, where আপনি is a relation and is mutual. Logged as a loss, not as a solution.

D15 — ভাই between two old men. Madhab and Grandad call each other ভাই at [29], [32], [36]. It is not kinship and not "mate". Rendered brother, which in English is a shade more emphatic than the Bengali; my dear fellow was tried and made Madhab sound like a clubman.

D16 — সর্ব্বনাশ করলে! [21]. Literally he has done ruin. Rendered That's the end of us — Madhab is saying it half to himself in front of the man he is saying it about, which the English keeps.

D17 — ক্ষেপা / ক্ষ্যাপা and its family. ছেলে ক্ষেপাবার সদ্দার [23], তোমার ক্ষ্যাপবার বয়সও গেছে [24], ক্ষেপে উঠেছিল [27], তোমার মত ক্ষ্যাপা নয় [63], আমার মত ক্ষ্যাপা [64]. One root runs from driving children wild through your own age for going wild to cracked, and it is the word Amal finally claims for himself and for the wanderer. English has no single word that does all five, and I have used wild (×2), in a state, cracked (×2). The chain is broken and V4 is violated in spirit at the one place it would have cost most to keep. This is the span's largest unrepaired loss and it is not a slip: mad holds the chain but makes [27] (the wife wanting to adopt) grotesque and [64] (the wanderer) clinical.

D18 — কুটুস্ কুটুস্ [43]. A sound-symbolic reduplication for a small hard gnawing. Kept as kutus, kutus — this is V1-marked material, not everyday vocabulary: it is a noise, and the Bengali reader hears it rather than parses it. The one place in span A where a transliteration is not a concession.

D19 — পুঁথি [48], [49], [54], [55]. A পুঁথি is a manuscript codex, the physical form of traditional learning; book is a real loss of the object. Rendered great fat books / books under V1, since পুঁথি is unmarked to a Bengali child. What is lost is that the pandits' books are old, which the play cares about.

D20 — Amal's questions are questions, not exclamations. Ten of Amal's twenty-nine speeches in this span end in ?. In English the temptation is to make a dying child's lines wistful; the Bengali is interrogative and practical — কাজ কি খুঁজতে হয়?, কবিরাজ কেমন করে জানলে?, কবে আমি ভাল হব?. The English keeps the flat question form and adds no pathos-marking punctuation. internal-judgment-only.

D21 — আমি ত বেঁচে যেতুম [57]. Madhab: I would have been saved. Idiomatic Bengali for it would have got me out of all this, with no religious content. Kept as I'd have been saved because Madhab's whole scene is about being trapped, and the flatter I'd have been all right loses that.

D22 — Paragraph division inside one speech at [54]/[55]. The printing breaks Madhab's speech into two paragraphs with no new speech-head, and the second begins অমলবাবু. The break is kept (a blank line, no new head), because it is where he turns from talking about the pandits to talking to the child, and it is the same movement that produces the অমলবাবু of D7.

D23 — What span A did not settle, and what span B must. Four questions go forward to the register's Unresolved: 1. V5. Does any English device carry আপনি/তুমি at a site where the contrast is on stage, or is the honest answer that it is never carried? Section ২ brings six new speakers to Amal's window, each with a different footing, and will settle it or show it cannot be settled. 2. V2's list. Is kabiraj, chhatu, nagra the whole of it, or does the list grow? A V2 list that grows is V1 failing. 3. D17's broken chain. Section ৩ has ক্ষ্যাপা again; if the chain matters there, span A's English needs an erratum. 4. D10. Does অমলগুপ্ত recur, or is it unique and therefore a misprint?

Translator's log — span B

Cumulative, continuing span A's D1–D23. Frozen before any study limb was designed and before Mukherjea 1914 was opened. Every evaluative sentence here is internal-judgment-only, which the front matter asserts for the page.

D24 — The copy-text was not what span A believed it was, and the gate had to run twice. The arm's standing rule is a page-image gate before each span. Run on printed pp. 12–33 it produced two different classes of finding, and collation.md §5–§6 is the record.

1. The file was missing ten whole speeches — 101 Bengali words, 4.7% of the span — one at the foot of each of ten pages. This was not a Wikisource defect: every one of the ten is present in the Wikisource page text. It was lost by the project's own extraction at S160, and it is invisible in the file except as an empty speech-head. Span B could not have been translated from the file as it stood. The ten are restored.
2. Twenty-six emendations in twenty-one speeches, from the printed page against the transcription, of which the load-bearing one is [188] বাজার for রাজার — bazaar for king — in the headman's most important line. [140] নাই for যাই turns I want to go away with time into nonsense. [175]'s speech-head reads আমল for অমল, the same class of error as span A's ঠাকুদ্দা.
3. And span A's own record needs a correction. collation.md §2 called this a text marked Validated. That is an Index-level claim. Page by page, 9 of span A's 11 pages are validated (level 4); 20 of span B's 22 are level 3, proofread only. Span A's 3.5-per-thousand figure was measured on the validated part of the book; span B's rate is not comparable to it and is not compared.

D25 — দইওয়ালা → CURD-SELLER, and the cry has to be singable. V1 forbids keeping an unmarked source word, and দইওয়ালা is as unmarked in Bengali as milkman is in English. The constraint that decided the rendering is not lexical but musical: Amal asks to be taught the tune — আমাকে সুরটা শিখিয়ে দাও — and then sings it himself. So the English had to be a street cry a child could imitate. Curds — curds — good curds! carries the three-stress shape of দই—দই—ভাল দই, and curd-seller then follows as the only name that keeps the cry and the man the same word. Dairyman was live and was dropped: it names a trade the play does not describe, and it breaks the cry.

D26 — বাবা and বাছা from adults who are not kin: my child, my dear. In span A বাবা was Madhab's word for Amal (D6 territory, V3). In span B the curd-seller and the watchman — both strangers — use it constantly, and বাছা once. V3 covers kin-address; this is not kin. The decision extends V3's principle rather than its letter: unmarked English for an unmarked source address, and the same English for the same Bengali word regardless of speaker, because that sameness is the point — the play gives every adult in the street the same tenderness for the child.

D27 — মন কেমন করে is fixed as makes my heart go strange. It occurs at [94] (the fading cry) and [150] (the bell), in both cases at the moment the outside reaches Amal, and V4 forbids varying what the source repeats. Every idiomatic English equivalent — makes me feel odd, gives me a pang, makes me long for something — either fixes the feeling too precisely or sounds adult. Go strange is flat and slightly wrong in English, which is what the Bengali is.

D28 — V2's list did not grow, and this is the span that could have broken it. Section ২ is almost entirely trades and village objects, which is exactly where V1 was expected to fail. It did not. Every one took unmarked English: প্রহরী watchman, মোড়ল headman, মালিনী flower-woman, ডাকহরকরা postman, পাইক bailiff, নিশেন flag, তকমা badge, সাজি basket, মল anklets, বাঁক yoke, কল্‌সি jar, ভাঁড় pot, গোলপাতার ছাতি palm-leaf umbrella, শরকাঠি reed, সিপাই soldier, প্রহর watch. The list stays at three — kabiraj, chhatu, nagra — and all three are span A's. V1's alarm did not fire.

D29 — প্রহর and প্রহরী are one word in Bengali and two in English, and the bell scene needs both. প্রহরী is the man who keeps the প্রহর, the three-hour watch his bell strikes; at [250] the boys say এক প্রহর বেলা and এক প্রহরের ঘণ্টা. English watchman / watch keeps the tie, and it is the one place in span B where English happens to have the same joint the Bengali has.

D30 — ভাই, and the first outright conflict between two register rules. Span A fixed ভাই as brother (Madhab and Grandad, [29], [36]). V4 says a word the source repeats is not varied. At [192] Amal calls ভাই to a passer-by he cannot see, who turns out to be a girl; brother there is not a stylistic loss but a factual error in English, which has no generic sibling vocative. V4 is broken knowingly at one site: ভাই is brother at all twelve sites with the boys and is dropped at [192], where the English carries only won't you. This is V4's second knowing breach in this work (D17 was the first) and both are on the same axis — English lacks a slot the Bengali fills without effort.

D31 — জটাইবুড়ি is described, পারুল দিদি is named. Both are figures out of Bengali children's tales and V1 would keep neither as a foreign word. They are treated differently because the play uses them differently. জটাইবুড়ি at [242] is a toy being recognised — the boys shout what it is — so the English has to make an English child see the object: the old witch with the matted hair. পারুল দিদি at [207] is a role Amal asks Sudha to take, out of the tale of the seven champa brothers whose sister calls them out of the flowers; a description there would destroy the request. The name is kept, with the tale named in the same breath as the source names it. The rule this yields: a folk figure invoked as an object is described; a folk figure invoked as a role keeps its name.

D32 — V5 cannot be answered in section ২ as the register framed it, and the reason is a fact about the play. The register sent span B one binding question: does any English device carry the আপনি/তুমি contrast at a site where the contrast is on stage? Section ২ contains no deferential আপনি at all. The single আপনি in the span, at [173], is the reflexive — ও আপনি মোড়লি করে, he is headman on his own account — and the honorific verbs (যান, পড়েন, লেখেন, যাবেন, আছেন) are every one of them third-person: about the king, about the kabiraj, about Amal's uncle and aunt. Not one is addressed to anyone standing on the stage. Span A had four আপনি speeches in eighty-six units, all from Madhab to the kabiraj; span B has none in one hundred and seventy-four.

What is on stage instead is the opposite direction. The grid in section ২ runs তুমি/তুই — the neutral second person against the intimate-or-contemptuous one — and it is dramatised three times:

• the headman addresses Amal as তুমি while he is being flattered and drops to তুই the moment he is angry (ওরে ছোড়া, কেনরে!, তোর খবর, তোদের বাড়িতে), then climbs back to তুমি inside the same speech at [190] (তোমাদের খবর নেওয়ার জন্যে);
• he opens at [176] with কে রে! before he knows who is calling, and shifts up to তুমি at [178] as soon as he is called Headman;
• the boys address Amal as তুমি and each other as তুই within single speeches — [238] কবিরাজের মানা তুমি শোন বুঝি। চল্ ভাই চল্, [242] *এ সব তুমি আমাদের দিয়ে দিলে? beside দেখছিস্ ভাই*.

That last is the cleanest site the play offers: one speaker, one breath, two addressees, two grades, with no other cue. V5's question was the right question asked of the wrong direction. The register is amended at §Unresolved rather than here, and the study limb takes the amended question.

D33 — What this English does with তুই, sealed before it was counted. V5 and V6 between them forbid the obvious device: no thou, no invented archaism, no stiffening. The English therefore carries the shift only where the source also marks it lexically, and drops it where the source marks it only in the grammar. Before counting, the claim recorded here is: the downward shift survives at [176] (monkey) and [188] (Here, boy), and is lost at [190], [238] and [242]. The count is in the study limb, not here — it is a count of devices, not a judgement of quality.

D34 — Three lacunae in the copy-text that the images cannot close, and none of them is emended. The scan loses the gutter margin on printed pp. 14, 16, 18 and 20 and the outer margin on p. 33. Three readings fall in the lost strip:

• [136] পিসিমা রা পড়তে পড়তে ঘুমিয়ে পড়েন — Auntie falls asleep over her রা, a word cut off mid-line. Something is missing and the sense requires a book. The English says asleep over her reading, which commits to nothing the copy-text does not have.
• [140] যে দেশের জানে না — ungrammatical as it stands; a word is gone. Rendered the country nobody knows of.
• [259] কে চিনিয়ে দিয়ো না — the object of point out is in the cut margin. Rendered point me out to him, on the scene's logic, and flagged.

A one-witness undated copy-text is not a text this project may silently mend (collation.md §1). Each is translated to the minimum the surviving text supports and recorded here.

D35 — মোড়ল মশায় → Headman, under V7. V7 splits মশায় by its host: on an office it is dropped (কবিরাজ মশায় → Kabiraj, span A D8). মোড়ল is an office, so the vocative is Headman, capitalised as an address. The print varies মোড়ল মশায় / মোড়লমশায় exactly as it varied পিসে মশায় / পিসেমশায় in span A: word-division, recorded in collation.md §3, not rendered.

D36 — What span B did not settle, and what span C must.

1. V5, amended. Section ৩ brings the king's herald, the physician and Sudha's return. If আপনি appears there addressed to anyone on stage, the original question is live again and span C must answer it. If it does not, the honest finding is that this play's deference is almost entirely downward, and V5 should be rewritten to say so.
2. D17's broken chain. ক্ষ্যাপা did not recur in span B. Section ৩ is its last chance; if it is load-bearing there, span A's English needs the erratum.
3. D10. অমলগুপ্ত did not recur in span B either. One section left before it is confirmed a misprint.
4. The ten dropped speeches are a warning about span C. Section ৩ has sixteen empty speeches in the file by the same test. They must be restored from the Wikisource page text and gated against the images before span C is translated — the same two-stage gate, in the same order.

Translator's log — span C

Frozen 2026-08-12 before the study limb was designed and before Mukherjea 1914 was opened. Decisions and alternatives, not quality claims; the numbering continues from span B. Span C is contamination: none on its own account — the declared priming event covered the dramatis personae and units [1]–[16] only, no part of section ৩ was ever exposed, and the comparator was not in the repository at any point before this freeze.

D37 — ফকির is governed by V8, not by V2, and that is why the list stays at three. The word runs through this section twenty-eight times and is Amal's ordinary name for the man: মনে আছে ফকির!, আচ্ছা ফকির, জান ফকির. V1 says use unmarked English for what the Bengali leaves unmarked, and ফকির is an unmarked Bengali word; but holy man and beggar-monk are two-word descriptions and this word is a vocative, used as a name, forty times a scene. V8 — written at span B on পারুল দিদি — already decides this case: a folk figure invoked as a role keeps its name. Grandad is not a fakir; he is playing one, exactly as Sudha was asked to play Parul. So Fakir, roman and capitalised where it is the assumed identity or the address, lower-case where it is the common noun (dressed as a fakir, a fakir like me, fakir though I am). V2's list does not grow: it is still kabiraj, chhatu, nagra, all three of them span A's. This is the first time V8 has governed anything outside the fairy-tale it was written on.

D38 — V4 gets its cleanest site in the whole play, and its ugliest. Cleanest: for three speeches — [277], [279], [281] — the print heads the same man ফকির and then goes back to ঠাকুর্দ্দা at [283], inside one continuous scene. That alternation is the disguise working on the page, and V4 forbids collapsing it, so the English heads alternate FAKIR / GRANDAD exactly where the print does. Ugliest: from [404] the print heads the newly arrived রাজকবিরাজ as plain কবিরাজ at [404], [406], [408] — the same head it has used all play for the village physician, who left at [357]. A reader can take it for the village man coming back. V4 says carry it, so the English heads read ROYAL KABIRAJ and KABIRAJ as printed, and the confusion is the print's.

D39 — V5's original question is answered, and the answer is yes. The register asked whether a deferential আপনি is addressed to anyone on stage in section ৩, after the span-B census found none anywhere in section ২. It is. Madhab uses the আপনি grade to the Kabiraj as he did in section ১ ([351] রেখে দিন, বলুন), and — this is new — to the Headman: [366] বলেন কি, মোড়লমশায়! এমন পরিহাস করবেন না, and at [376], hands folded, the pronoun itself, দোহাই আপনার. The play therefore has both grades on stage, and section ২ has neither. V5 stands: no English device is invented at any of these sites, and each is a logged loss. What English keeps is the vocative Headman and the stage direction with folded hands; what it loses is that Madhab's verbs change shape.

D40 — somebody addresses Amal as তুই, and it is the Headman. [359] কি রে ছোঁড়া! and [369] ওরে ছোঁড়া, তোর নামে রাজার চিঠি এসেছে যে! Nobody else in the play does this — not the curd-seller, not the watchman, not the boys, not Madhab. See the erratum at D51: this entry first said "for the first time in the play" and "nobody does this in sections ১ or ২", following register.md, and both were false. Here English is not wholly empty-handed: ছোঁড়া is lexical, so boy carries part of it (Well, boy!, Here, boy), and V5 is satisfied without invention. The grammatical half — তোর for তোমার — is lost, and it is the half that does the work, because the same speech hands the child a blank sheet of paper. He also uses তোদের to the unseen men at the door [392]. Every downward form in section ৩ is the Headman's, and he is the only character in the play who both mocks Amal and is deferred to.

D41 — D17's broken chain is not repaired, and section ৩ shows why it could not be. ক্ষেপ- recurs four times here: [296] আমাকে সুদ্ধ তোমরা ক্ষেপিয়ে দেবে (Madhab, of the two of them), [378] তুমিও ক্ষেপে গেলে নাকি, [379] হাঁ, আমি ক্ষেপেছি!, [381] উনি আরো একটু না ক্ষেপলে. I have used send me out of my wits, gone out of your wits, I've gone out of my wits, a little madder yet. So the English chain in section ৩ is intact and idiomatic — and it does not join span A's wild / in a state / cracked. The root is one word across 56 pages and my English is six. The erratum span A's list allowed for is therefore not issued: repairing it now would mean going back and making [23]–[64] say out of his wits, which makes the wife wanting to adopt Amal grotesque, which is exactly the reason the chain was broken in the first place. It is recorded as the work's largest standing loss, spanning all three spans, and the craft report owes it a paragraph.

D42 — D10 is closed: অমলগুপ্ত does not recur. The surname appears once in 430 units, in the stage direction at [38], and nowhere in sections ২ or ৩. It is a misprint. It is still carried verbatim, because a one-witness undated copy-text is not silently mended (collation.md §1), and the record can now say misprint rather than probable misprint.

D43 — মুড়িমুড়কি → rice-puffs and sugar-puffs. The king's promised feast is the cheapest snack in the village, and the joke needs three things: the pairing, the jingle, and shortness, because Amal says it back as an exclamation at [416]. মুড়ি is puffed rice and মুড়কি is puffed rice in molasses, so puffed rice and sweetened puffed rice is accurate and kills all three. Rice-puffs and sugar-puffs keeps the rhyme the Bengali has and is unmarked English; it costs the molasses. V2 was not used and the loss is a small one. ভোগ is offering rather than feast: the word is the food set before a god, and the play means the king to be one.

D44 — ক্রৌঞ্চদ্বীপ → Kraunchadwip, unglossed, one word. Precedent is V1 and the span-A treatment of পাঁচমুড়া and শামলী: place names go over untranslated and unexplained. Glossing it as the Isle of Krauncha would tell an English reader that it is a mythological island out of the Puranas, which no word of Tagore's tells a Bengali child. Grandad has just made up a journey to it; the name should be as bare in English as it is on stage.

D45 — খঞ্জনি → tambourine, and this is the span's clearest V1 loss. Amal will stand at the king's door and খঞ্জনি বাজিয়ে নাচব. The খঞ্জনি is the small jingling hand-frame a Bengali mendicant plays; V1 requires unmarked English, and the only unmarked English frame-with-jingles is tambourine, which is European and belongs to a different beggar. I have taken the loss rather than open V2 for a single occurrence — but the rule that produced it is the same rule that produced chhatu, and here it went the other way. It is the kind of site the craft report should count.

D46 — বিষবড়ি → poison-pill, literally and deliberately. It is a real Ayurvedic preparation and a Bengali reader hears a medicine; an English reader hears a physician sending poison to a dying child. I have kept the literal compound. The play is at the point where the Kabiraj's medicine and the boy's death have become the same object, and softening it to a strong dose would be the translator deciding a thing the scene is about.

D47 — the print's own oddities, carried. [293] বিলক্ষণ ? is printed with a question mark where the sense is an exclamation; the English reads Of course? and looks like a slip, which is what the copy-text has. [298] গেছে বই কি। takes a daṇḍa where the transcription had supplied an exclamation mark, and the flatter reading is the printed one. collation.md §1's rule holds: this project does not silently mend a one-witness undated text, and it does not silently mend it in English either.

D48 — two readings the gate could not settle, and both are visible in the English. At [400] the messenger says the king has sent তাঁর কালের চেয়ে বড় কবিরাজকে; the inner margin of printed p. 52 is lost in the scan, and I have rendered the kabiraj who is greater than his age on the reading that is there. At [430], the play's last line, the print is at its faintest and I cannot separate বলো from বোলো — a difference of politeness, not of sense, and Say that Sudha has not forgotten you is neutral between them. Neither is emended; both are on collation.md §7B.

D49 — what the two-stage gate changed about this span before a word was translated. Fourteen whole speeches, 234 Bengali words, 9.4% of the span, were absent from the file (collation.md §7A); forty-five emendations followed from the page images (§7B). Three of the fourteen are load-bearing, and one of them — [343], the dark keeps coming down over my eyes… everything feels like a dream — is the line on which the play turns from waiting to dying. Without the gate I would have translated a section ৩ in which Grandad fans a boy who has said nothing, and nothing in the file would have shown it. Nine of the forty-five emendations restore the honorific তাঁ- to a pronoun for the king or the fakir; since আপনি never reaches those two, তাঁর is the only deference mark left in the text about them, and the transcription was flattening it at every ninth site.

D50 — what the third span makes visible that the first two did not. Sections ১ and ২ are a house and a street; section ৩ is a deathbed with officials arriving in order — headman, physician, messenger, royal physician. The register instrument R05 §4 was built for a narrator's voice and has governed no narration at all in this work, and here it governs the one thing a play can do that prose must report: people entering. Nine of the section's units are stage directions of entrance or exit, and every social grade in the play is set by who has just come through the door. That, and not any word, is what English cannot carry over from আপনি: the grammar changed when the Headman walked in.

D51 — erratum to D40, raised by the study limb's own census and not by the comparator. D40 as first written said that the Headman's তুই to Amal was the first in the play and that nobody does it in sections ১ or ২. Both statements are false, and both were inherited from register.md §Unresolved, which asserted the same thing at span B. The Headman uses তোর to Amal at [190], in section ২, in the speech that ends I'll send word of you to the king. The correct statement — from a census of all 430 units, run before the comparator was opened — is that every তুই-family form in the play is the Headman's ([176], [190], [359], [369], [392]) and every আপনি is Madhab's ([1], [6], [13], [15], [376]), with no other speaker ever leaving তুমি. The register is corrected. This entry is added after the span-C freeze and is marked as such; it changes no rendering.