Translated from the Original Hindi by
Kanwar Dinesh Singh
The sun came out of the horizon’s lap, the child from the cradle―the same warmth, the same gusto, the same intoxication, the same glow.
I was sitting in the veranda. The child peeped through the door. I called him with a smile. He came out and sat on my lap.
He began his naughty activity. Sometimes he would lay his hand on the pen, sometimes on the paper. I took him off my lap. He stood there holding on to a leg of the table. He did not go inside the house. The door was open.
A bird came hopping and settled in the front yard. It was a new object of amusement for the child. He stepped towards it. The bird was not scared at all. The child took it as a winged toy. He beckoned the bird with both hands. The bird flew away. The disappointed child started crying. But he did not even glance at the door. The door was open.
Then there was a sweet beckoning for the warm halva. The little child’s face lit up with fervour. In the meantime a hawker passed by on the street in front of us. The child looked at me with pleading eyes. As the hawker went farther away from us, the pleading in his eyes turned into rage. When the hawker reached the corner of the street and went out of sight, the rage took the form of a strong complaint. But I forbade children from eating street-food. The child’s complaint did not affect me. Thinking of its future consequences, I became even more rigid than before. I cannot say whether the child thought it necessary to appeal to his mother’s court. Children usually appeal to their mothers in such situations. Perhaps he had deferred the appeal for a while. He did not turn towards the door. The door was open.
I put my fountain-pen in the child’s hand to wipe his tears. It seemed as if the child had got all the wealth in the world. All his senses were engaged in solving this new problem. Suddenly a gust of the wind slammed the door shut. The sound of the door slamming fell upon the child’s ears. He looked towards the door.
His activity at once came to an end. He flung down the fountain-pen and crying, walked up to the door because the door had closed.
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Correspondence Address:Dr. Kanwar Dinesh Singh(Poet, Storyteller, Critic & Associate Professor of English)
# 3, Cecil Quarters, Chaura Maidan, Shimla: 171004 H.P. India
Email: kanwardineshsingh@gmail.com
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