Plain Tales from the Hills

  THE STORY OF MUHAMMAD DIN.

  "Who is the happy man? He that sees in his own house at home little children crowned with dust, leaping and falling and crying."

  Munichandra, translated by Professor Peterson.

  The polo-ball was an old one, scarred, chipped, and dinted. It stoodon the mantelpiece among the pipe-stems which Imam Din, khitmatgar, wascleaning for me.

  "Does the Heaven-born want this ball?" said Imam Din, deferentially.

  The Heaven-born set no particular store by it; but of what use was apolo-ball to a khitmatgar?

  "By Your Honor's favor, I have a little son. He has seen this ball, anddesires it to play with. I do not want it for myself."

  No one would for an instant accuse portly old Imam Din of wantingto play with polo-balls. He carried out the battered thing into theverandah; and there followed a hurricane of joyful squeaks, a patter ofsmall feet, and the thud-thud-thud of the ball rolling along the ground.Evidently the little son had been waiting outside the door to secure histreasure. But how had he managed to see that polo-ball?

  Next day, coming back from office half an hour earlier than usual, I wasaware of a small figure in the dining-room--a tiny, plump figure in aridiculously inadequate shirt which came, perhaps, half-way down thetubby stomach. It wandered round the room, thumb in mouth, crooningto itself as it took stock of the pictures. Undoubtedly this was the"little son."

  He had no business in my room, of course; but was so deeply absorbed inhis discoveries that he never noticed me in the doorway. I stepped intothe room and startled him nearly into a fit. He sat down on the groundwith a gasp. His eyes opened, and his mouth followed suit. I knew whatwas coming, and fled, followed by a long, dry howl which reached theservants' quarters far more quickly than any command of mine had everdone. In ten seconds Imam Din was in the dining-room. Then despairingsobs arose, and I returned to find Imam Din admonishing the small sinnerwho was using most of his shirt as a handkerchief.

  "This boy," said Imam Din, judicially, "is a budmash, a big budmash.He will, without doubt, go to the jail-khana for his behavior." Renewedyells from the penitent, and an elaborate apology to myself from ImamDin.

  "Tell the baby," said I, "that the Sahib is not angry, and take himaway." Imam Din conveyed my forgiveness to the offender, who hadnow gathered all his shirt round his neck, string-wise, and the yellsubsided into a sob. The two set off for the door. "His name," said ImamDin, as though the name were part of the crime, "is Muhammad Din, and heis a budmash." Freed from present danger, Muhammad Din turned round,in his father's arms, and said gravely:--"It is true that my name isMuhammad Din, Tahib, but I am not a budmash. I am a MAN!"

  From that day dated my acquaintance with Muhammad Din. Never again didhe come into my dining-room, but on the neutral ground of the compound,we greeted each other with much state, though our conversation wasconfined to "Talaam, Tahib" from his side and "Salaam Muhammad Din" frommine. Daily on my return from office, the little white shirt, and thefat little body used to rise from the shade of the creeper-coveredtrellis where they had been hid; and daily I checked my horse here, thatmy salutation might not be slurred over or given unseemly.

  Muhammad Din never had any companions. He used to trot about thecompound, in and out of the castor-oil bushes, on mysterious errandsof his own. One day I stumbled upon some of his handiwork far downthe ground. He had half buried the polo-ball in dust, and stuck sixshrivelled old marigold flowers in a circle round it. Outside thatcircle again, was a rude square, traced out in bits of red brickalternating with fragments of broken china; the whole bounded by alittle bank of dust. The bhistie from the well-curb put in a plea forthe small architect, saying that it was only the play of a baby and didnot much disfigure my garden.

  Heaven knows that I had no intention of touching the child's work thenor later; but, that evening, a stroll through the garden brought meunawares full on it; so that I trampled, before I knew, marigold-heads,dust-bank, and fragments of broken soap-dish into confusion past allhope of mending. Next morning I came upon Muhammad Din crying softly tohimself over the ruin I had wrought. Some one had cruelly told himthat the Sahib was very angry with him for spoiling the garden, and hadscattered his rubbish using bad language the while. Muhammad Dinlabored for an hour at effacing every trace of the dust-bank and potteryfragments, and it was with a tearful apologetic face that he said,"Talaam Tahib," when I came home from the office. A hasty inquiryresulted in Imam Din informing Muhammad Din that by my singular favor hewas permitted to disport himself as he pleased. Whereat the child tookheart and fell to tracing the ground-plan of an edifice which was toeclipse the marigold-polo-ball creation.

  For some months, the chubby little eccentricity revolved in his humbleorbit among the castor-oil bushes and in the dust; always fashioningmagnificent palaces from stale flowers thrown away by the bearer, smoothwater-worn pebbles, bits of broken glass, and feathers pulled, I fancy,from my fowls--always alone and always crooning to himself.

  A gayly-spotted sea-shell was dropped one day close to the last of hislittle buildings; and I looked that Muhammad Din should build somethingmore than ordinarily splendid on the strength of it. Nor was Idisappointed. He meditated for the better part of an hour, and hiscrooning rose to a jubilant song. Then he began tracing in dust. Itwould certainly be a wondrous palace, this one, for it was twoyards long and a yard broad in ground-plan. But the palace was nevercompleted.

  Next day there was no Muhammad Din at the head of the carriage-drive,and no "Talaam Tahib" to welcome my return. I had grown accustomed tothe greeting, and its omission troubled me. Next day, Imam Din told methat the child was suffering slightly from fever and needed quinine. Hegot the medicine, and an English Doctor.

  "They have no stamina, these brats," said the Doctor, as he left ImamDin's quarters.

  A week later, though I would have given much to have avoided it, I meton the road to the Mussulman burying-ground Imam Din, accompanied by oneother friend, carrying in his arms, wrapped in a white cloth, all thatwas left of little Muhammad Din.