My eyes filled up with tears. I forgot that he was a poor Kabuli
fruit-seller, while I was…. But no, how was I better than him? He
also was a father and the tiny palm imprints of his little Parbati
back home in the distant mountains reminded me of my own little
Mini.
Amidst many protests from family members, I sent for Mini
immediately from the inner apartment. Clad in the red silk of her
wedding-day, with the sandal paste on her forehead, and adorned
as a young bride, Mini came in and stood bashfully before me.
The Kabuliwallah looked a little staggered when he saw Mini and
realised that he could not revive their old friendship. However,
he smiled and said: "Little one, are you going to your father-inlaw's house?"
But Mini now only understood the true meaning of the word
"father-in-law," and she could not answer as she did when she
was little. She flushed at the question, and stood before him with
her bride-like face turned down.
At that moment, I remembered the day when the Kabuliwallah
and my Mini had first met, and I felt a sense of sadness. When
she left the room, Abdur Rahmun heaved a deep sigh, and sat
down on the floor. It had suddenly dawned on him that his
daughter too must have grown up during these long years, and
that he would have to make friends with her anew. Assuredly he
knew that he would not find her, as he used to know her. And
besides, what might not have happened to her in these eight
years?
Suddenly the marriage-pipes sounded, and the mild autumn sun
streamed round us. But Rahmun sat in the little Calcutta house
and saw before him the barren mountains of Afghanistan.
I took out a bank-note, and gave it to him, saying: "Go back to
your own daughter, Rahmun, in your own country, and may the
happiness of your meeting bring good fortune to my child!"
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