ICSE Class 10- Literature — Cabuliwallah

The Cabuliwallah [The Fruitseller from Kabul]
Rabindranath Tagore

My five years’ old daughter Mini cannot live without chattering. I really believe that in all her life she has not wasted a minute in silence. Her mother is often vexed at this, and would stop her prattle, but I would not. To see Mini quiet is unnatural, and I cannot bear it long. And so my own talk with her is always lively. One morning, for instance, when I was in the midst of the seventeenth chapter of my new novel, my little Mini stole into the room, and putting her hand into mine, said: “Father! Ramdayal the door-keeper calls a crow a krow! He doesn’t know anything, does he?” Before I could explain to her the differences of language in this world, she was embarked on the full tide of another subject. “What do you think, Father? Bhola says there is an elephant in the clouds, blowing water out of his trunk, and that is why it rains!” And then, darting off anew, while I sat still making ready some reply to this last saying, “Father! what relation is Mother to you?”

In different words .. My little 5-year-old daughter Mini is, no doubt, a chatterbox. Her inquisitiveness about worldly things is limitless, but her patience to hear out the reply is equally limited. She darts in and out of my room, and shoots questions that bear the mark of her childlike simplicity. Staying quiet is not in her grain. Listlessness is alien to her nature. One morning, when I was deeply engrossed in my thought about a plot of my novel, she tiptoed into my room and fired her questions in rapid succession. Why did Dindayal call a crow a ‘ krow’, and was Bhola’s contention that an elephant in the cloud poured rains on earth not an absurd idea? Finally, Mini wanted to know how her mother was related to me! I knew her innate exuberance makes her so agile. So, seeing her quiet saddens me, although her mother finds her ebullience somewhat annoying.

“My dear little sister in the law!” I murmured involuntarily to myself, but with a grave face contrived to answer: “Go and play with Bhola, Mini! I am busy!”

The window of my room overlooks the road. The child had seated herself at my feet near my table, and was playing softly, drumming on her knees. I was hard at work on my seventeenth chapter, where Protrap Singh, the hero, had just caught Kanchanlata, the heroine, in his arms, and was about to escape with her by the third story window of the castle, when all of a sudden Mini left her play, and ran to the window, crying, “A Cabuliwallah! a Cabuliwallah!” Sure enough in the street below was a Cabuliwallah, passing slowly along. He wore the loose soiled clothing of his people, with a tall turban; there was a bag on his back, and he carried boxes of grapes in his hand.
In different words … The question about my relationship with Mini’s mother caught me unaware. She was too young to understand marital matters. To skirt the question I thought of saying ‘My little sister in law’. But, I chose to ward off the embarrassment by asking Mini, rather sternly, to go and play with Bhola.
Mini sat there near my feet playing something on her own. I was lost in my thought trying to figure out how Proptap Singh, with her beloved Kanchanlata in her arms, was trying to flee the castle from the third storey. Suddenly, Mini sprang to her feet shouting ‘ Cabuliwalah, Cabuliwalah’. Through the window that gave a clear view of the road, she had actually seen one walking on the road. The man was attired in baggy, soiled clothes, with a huge turban on the head. A bag hung from his shoulders. He looked so different, so quintessentially Afghan. He held some packets of grapes in his hand.

I cannot tell what were my daughter’s feelings at the sight of this man, but she began to call him loudly. “Ah!” I thought, “he will come in, and my seventeenth chapter will never be finished!” At which exact moment the Cabuliwallah turned, and looked up at the child. When she saw this, overcome by terror, she fled to her mother’s protection, and disappeared. She had a blind belief that inside the bag, which the big man carried, there were perhaps two or three other children like herself. The pedlar meanwhile entered my doorway, and greeted me with a smiling face.

So precarious was the position of my hero and my heroine, that my first impulse was to stop and buy something, since the man had been called. I made some small purchases, and a conversation began about Abdurrahman, the Russians, she English, and the Frontier Policy.
In different words … My daughter appeared intrigued, possibly. I knew she would call him, and that would disrupt my continuing with the story. True to my apprehension, the strange-looking Cabuliwallah looked at Mini, as if to size her up. He terrified my child for sure for she scampered to the safety of her mother into the inner chambers of the house. Mini had imagined that the stranger had two or three hidden in the bag. That thought drove great fear into her. In the meanwhile, the Cabuliwallah came in and greeted me with a customary smile.
I had planned to bring the encounter to a quick end by buying something and letting him leave early, so that I could proceed with my writing. I bought some small quantity, but somehow a conversation ensued. We started talking about Abdurrahaman, the Russians, and the Frontier Policy.

As he was about to leave, he asked: “And where is the little girl, sir?”

And I, thinking that Mini must get rid of her false fear, had her brought out.

She stood by my chair, and looked at the Cabuliwallah and his bag. He offered her nuts and raisins, but she would not be tempted, and only clung the closer to me, with all her doubts increased.

This was their first meeting.

One morning, however, not many days later, as I was leaving the house, I was startled to find Mini, seated on a bench near the door, laughing and talking, with the great Cabuliwallah at her feet. In all her life, it appeared; my small daughter had never found so patient a listener, save her father. And already the corner of her little sari was stuffed with almonds and raisins, the gift of her visitor, “Why did you give her those?” I said, and taking out an eight-anna bit, I handed it to him. The man accepted the money without demur, and slipped it into his pocket.

Alas, on my return an hour later, I found the unfortunate coin had made twice its own worth of trouble! For the Cabuliwallah had given it to Mini, and her mother catching sight of the bright round object, had pounced on the child with: “Where did you get that eight-anna bit? ”

“The Cabuliwallah gave it me,” said Mini cheerfully.

“The Cabuliwallah gave it you!” cried her mother much shocked. “Oh, Mini! how could you take it from him?”

I, entering at the moment, saved her from impending disaster, and proceeded to make my own inquiries.

It was not the first or second time, I found, that the two had met. The Cabuliwallah had overcome the child’s first terror by a judicious bribery of nuts and almonds, and the two were now great friends.

They had many quaint jokes, which afforded them much amusement. Seated in front of him, looking down on his gigantic frame in all her tiny dignity, Mini would ripple her face with laughter, and begin: “O Cabuliwallah, Cabuliwallah, what have you got in your bag?”

And he would reply, in the nasal accents of the mountaineer: “An elephant!” Not much cause for merriment, perhaps; but how they both enjoyed the witticism! And for me, this child’s talk with a grown-up man had always in it something strangely fascinating.

Then the Cabuliwallah, not to be behindhand, would take his turn: “Well, little one, and when are you going to the father-in-law’s house?”

Now most small Bengali maidens have heard long ago about the father-in-law’s house; but we, being a little new-fangled, had kept these things from our child, and 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?”

In different words … As the Cabuliwallah lifted his large frame to leave, he inquired about Mini. I thought my daughter must get rid of her irrational fear of a fellow human being. I called her to my presence. The visitor wanted to befriend her by offering her raisin and nuts. But, she remained indifferent to the gesture of the stranger. Instead, she clung to me harder, determined to remain at a safe distance from him. The meeting ended with Mini’s suspicion of him not the least lessened.

One morning I was taken aback to see my daughter sitting on the bench with the tall, lanky bearded visitor seated near her feet. The duo seemed to be in great mood. The initial sulking had been replaced by bonhomie. He appeared to have unusual patience for her endless chatter. I found some raisin and nuts tied to the end of my daughter’s little saree. I frowned to see this and decided to give an eight-anna coin to him. He took it and slipped it into his pocket.

When I returned an hour later, the innocuous eight-anna coin seemed to have kicked up a fiasco. Apparently, the Cabuliwallah had given back the coin to her, and she had flaunted the ‘gift’ to her mother. She was aghast to discover that her little daughter had accepted money from an unknown man from a ‘foreign’ land. She was screaming in disapproval.

I stepped in to sort out the ugly situation. To my bewilderment, I found from Mini that the duo had met several times before, and the clever Cabuliwalah had made her way to her heart through gifts of raisin and nut on each encounter. Now, the two were friends. The rapport was real. It seems the Cabuliwalah had no dearth of jokes that Mini relished. She would ask him, what he had in his bag. He would reply saying he had an elephant!

The bond between the tiny girl and the tall old bearded Cabuliwalah was as fascinating as it was intriguing.

At times, he would ask her when was she going to her father-in-law’s house. My conservative household kept such matters from her. She could hardly understand the import of his question. She would throw the question back at her and ask him when he was going to his in-law’s house.

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. In this sense would the sturdy pedlar 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 discomfited 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; and I, never 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 home, with his cottage in its setting, and the free and independent life of far-away wilds. Perhaps the scenes of travel conjure themselves up before me, and pass and repass in my imagination all the more vividly, because I lead such a vegetable existence, that a call to travel would fall upon me like a thunderbolt. In the presence of this Cabuliwallah, I was immediately transported to the foot of arid mountain peaks, with narrow little defiles twisting in and out amongst their towering heights. I could see the string of camels bearing the merchandise, and the company of turbaned merchants, carrying some of their queer old firearms, and some of their spears, journeying downward towards the plains. I could see–but at some such point Mini’s mother would intervene, imploring me to “beware of that man.”

In different words .. For the poor and the alien class to which the Cabuliwalah belonged, finding oneself in the wrong side of the law was not very uncommon. Very often such offenders go to jail during which time they got free food, dress and shelter, same as what one gets in the father-in-law’s house. The ignominy of incarceration hardly matters. For the Cabuliwalah’s class, the word ‘father-in-law’ is often used as synonym for captivity in prison.

The Cabuliwalah lighted up on being asked when he would visit his in-law’s home. He gesticulated showing his powerful fist and punching it against an imaginary policeman. Mini didn’t understand why he roared with such wrath, but she would nonetheless enjoy the theatrics of the Cabuliwalah. He would join her with peels of laughter.

It was autumn. This is the time of the year when kings in olden days used to go on their military campaigns. I was, however, confined to my home in Calcutta letting my mind wander all over the world. The sight of a foreigner in the street rekindles my fascination with the land of his origin. I conjure up visions of the landscape, its mountains, rivers and the dwellings where nomads live. The sight of the Cabuliwallah seemed to take me to his land of rocky mountains, narrow winding mountain passes, camels moving slowly with their loads of merchandize, turbaned merchants armed with antique-looking rifles. To interrupt my thought chain, comes Mini’s mother urging me to keep the Cabuliwalah at arm’s length.

Mini’s mother is unfortunately a very timid lady. Whenever she hears a noise in the street, or sees people coming towards the house, she always jumps to the conclusion that they are either thieves, or drunkards, or snakes, or tigers, or malaria or cockroaches, or caterpillars, or an English sailor. Even after all these years of experience, she is not able to overcome her terror. So she was full of doubts about the Cabuliwallah, and used to beg me to keep a watchful eye on him.

I tried to laugh her fear gently away, but then she would turn round on me seriously, and ask me solemn questions.

Were children never kidnapped?

Was it, then, not true that there was slavery in Cabul?

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 highly improbable. But this was not enough, and her dread persisted. As it was indefinite, however, it did not seem right to forbid the man the house, and the intimacy went on unchecked.

Once a year in the middle of January Rahmun, the Cabuliwallah, was in the habit of returning to his country, and 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 would have seemed to an outsider 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, in the corner of a dark room, suddenly to surprise this tall, loose-garmented, much bebagged man; but when Mini would run in smiling, with her, “O! Cabuliwallah! Cabuliwallah!” and the two friends, so far apart in age, would subside into their old laughter and their old jokes, I felt reassured.

One morning, a few days before he had made up his mind to go, I was correcting my proof sheets in my study. It was chilly weather. Through the window the rays of the sun touched my feet, and the slight warmth was very welcome. It was almost eight o’clock, and the early pedestrians were returning home, with their heads covered. All at once, I heard an uproar in the street, and, looking out, saw Rahmun being led away bound between two policemen, and behind them a crowd of curious boys. There were blood-stains on the clothes of the Cabuliwallah, and one of the policemen carried a knife. Hurrying out, I stopped them, and enquired what it all meant. Partly from one, partly from another, I gathered that a certain neighbour had owed the pedlar something for a Rampuri shawl, but had falsely denied having bought it, and that in the course of the quarrel, Rahmun had struck him. Now in the heat of his excitement, the prisoner began calling his enemy all sorts of names, when suddenly in a verandah of my house appeared my little Mini, with her usual exclamation: “O Cabuliwallah! Cabuliwallah!” Rahmun’s face lighted up as he turned to her. He had no bag under his arm today, so she could not discuss the elephant with him. She at once therefore proceeded to the next question: “Are you going to the father-in-law’s house?” Rahmun laughed and said: “Just where I am going, little one!” Then seeing that the reply did not amuse the child, he held up his fettered hands. ” Ali,” he said, ” I would have thrashed that old father-in-law, but my hands are bound!”

On a charge of murderous assault, Rahmun was sentenced to some years’ imprisonment.

In different words .. Mini’s mother is a meek and fearful person. She gets unduly apprehensive on seeing any sort of commotion outside our home. She concludes that something ominous is going to happen. From thieves to drunkards to tigers to caterpillars, she imagines endless types of dangers coming to our doorstep. So many years in our house has somehow not rid her of such irrational fear. From the beginning, she has been wary of the Cabuliwallah and has beseeched me to keep a strict eye on him.

No amount of patient persuasion succeeded to convince her that there was little reason to suspect the Cabuliwallah of having any hostile intent. She would counter me by asking if kidnapping of children was not common or there were no slaves languishing in Cabul. She would argue that anything was possible for the burly Cabuliwallah, and our Mini was an easy target for him.

Despite my pleadings, she never could drive the fear of the Cabuliwallah from her mind.

Around mid January each year, the Cabuliwallah used to make his long journey back home. It was a hectic time for him as he got busy collecting his dues. Despite his busy schedule, he comes to our house daily to see Mini. If he can not make it in the morning, he comes in the evening. Such acquaintance did cause some doubts, but Mini’s spontaneous pleasure on seeing him did dispel my fears. It was strange how the old, boorish-looking, large-framed man from a distant land, and our tiny Mini have developed such an emotional bond.

One morning, I was correcting the proofs of my writing. Cabuliwallah’s time to return home was drawing near. It was chilly outside, and the warmth of the early Sun light was so comforting. People walked on the road with their heads covered.

I was a bit taken aback to hear the sound of a ruction from my neighbourhood. I saw two policemen taking away the handcuffed Cabuliwallah. A bunch of boys followed the trio in great curiosity. Later it emerged that a neighbour had failed to pay off the debt to Rahmun, the Cabuliwallah. It had caused an altercation between the two that turned ugly as the impatient lender, Rahmun, turned on the borrower with his knife. The police man had seized the knife and there were blood stains on Rahmun’s clothes. I saw all these with great horror when I came out to see what had caused the raucous.

Our Mini appeared on the verandah. Seeing Rahmun, she carried out in her childlike zeal, ‘O, Cabuliwallah, Cabuliwallah, are you going to your father-in-law’s house?” The unruffled Rahmun smiled beamingly and replied that he was indeed going there. He held up his handcuffed hand, so that Mini could see it. In his characteristic defiant way, he declared that he would have thrashed his father-in-law if the handcuff had not been there.

After trial, Rahmun went to jail for a few years.

Time passed away, and he was not remembered. The accustomed work in the accustomed place was ours, and the thought of the once-free mountaineer spending his years in prison seldom or never occurred to us. Even my light-hearted Mini, I am ashamed to say, forgot her old friend. New companions filled her life. As she grew older, she spent more of her time with girls. So much time indeed did she spend with them that she came no more, as she used to do, to her father’s room. I was scarcely on speaking terms with her.

Years had passed away. It was once more autumn and we had made arrangements for our Mini’s marriage. It was to take place during the Puja Holidays. With Durga returning to Kailas, the light of our home also was to depart to her husband’s house, and leave her father’s in the shadow.

In other words .. As days, weeks and months went by, Cabuliwallah’s memory faded off. Few among us seldom bothered to imagine what the tall gutsy mountain tribesman must be doing inside the four walls of the jail. Mini was no exception. She grew up, spending most of her time with other girls of her age. The childlike innocence that used to filmy heart deserted her. She hardly came to my chamber to have a chit chat.

It was autumn. Mini’s marriage was on the cards. We had made the usual arrangements for her marriage, scheduled for the Pujah holidays. She would go to her husband’s home leaving us forlorn and heart-broken.

The morning was bright. After the rains, there was a sense of ablution in the air, and the sun-rays looked like pure gold. So bright were they that they gave a beautiful radiance even to the sordid brick walls of our Calcutta lanes. Since early dawn to-day the wedding-pipes had been sounding, and at each beat my own heart throbbed. The wail of the tune, Bhairavi, seemed to intensify my pain at the approaching separation. My Mini was to be married to-night.

From early morning noise and bustle had pervaded the house. In the courtyard the canopy had to be slung on its bamboo poles; the chandeliers with their tinkling sound must be hung in each room and verandah. There was no end of hurry and excitement. I was sitting in my study, looking through the accounts, when some one entered, saluting respectfully, and stood before me. It was Rahmun the Cabuliwallah. At first I did not recognise him. He had no bag, nor the long hair, nor the same vigour that he used to have. But he smiled, and I knew him again.

In other words .. The Sun rays in the morning were golden and radiant. The air was fresh and the ambience was enlivening. Even the old walls of the nearby lanes seemed to spring back to life when the sunlight fell on them.  The drums and the wedding pipes sang the tunes befitting for festive occasion. I somehow felt somewhat nervous. The Bhairavo tune played by the band made me gloomy. I knew Mini would leave us for good that night.

The samiana came up in the courtyard. A strange hustle and bustle gripped the household. I was in my study looking into the expenditures and the budget when I could sense that a visitor had come in. It was the same old Rahmun the Cabuliwallah. He bowed respectfully and stood near me. Bereft of his beard, bag and other paraphernalia, he was barely recognizable. The years in prison had made him look haggard and old. He smiled.

“When did you come, Rahmun?” I asked him.

“Last evening,” he said, “I was released from jail.”

The words struck harsh upon my ears. I had never before talked with one who had wounded his fellow, and my heart shrank within itself, when I realised this, for I felt that the day would have been better-omened had he not turned up.

“There are ceremonies going on,” I said, “and I am busy. Could you perhaps come another day?”

At once he turned to go; but as he reached the door he hesitated, and said: “May I not see the little one, sir, for a moment?” It was his belief that Mini was still the same. He had pictured her running to him as she used, calling “O Cabuliwallah! Cabuliwallah!” He had imagined too that they would laugh and talk together, just as of old. In fact, in memory of former days he had brought, carefully wrapped up in paper, a few almonds and raisins and grapes, obtained somehow from a countryman, for his own little fund was dispersed.

I said again: “There is a ceremony in the house, and you will not be able to see any one to-day.”

In other words ... He had been released from jail the previous evening. For a moment I was flummoxed. N ex-convict, a criminal who had used his knife to fellow human being stood before me. It was so very un-settling. ‘What an ominous thing to happen in an auspicious day!’ I wondered.

I wanted to make him leave. I told him to come some other day as I said I was busy. He began to go, but turned around. He begged to see the ‘Little One’, implying Mini of the older years. He had imagined Mini to be the same sweet little one. Borrowing some money from a fellow country man, he had brought some almonds and raisins nicely wrapped in a paper. After serving the jail term, he had become penniless.

It was an awkward request. I told there was a festival in the house, so I couldn’t keep his request.

The man’s face fell. He looked wistfully at me for a moment, said “Good morning,” and went out. I felt a little sorry, and would have called him back, but I found he was returning of his own accord. He came close up to me holding out his offerings and said: “I brought these few things, sir, for the little one. Will you give them to her?”

I took them and was going to pay him, but he caught my hand and said: “You are very kind, sir! Keep me in your recollection. Do not offer me money!–You have a little girl, I too have one like her in my own home. I think of her, and bring fruits to your child, not to make a profit for myself.”

Saying this, he put his hand inside his big loose robe, and brought out a small and dirty piece of paper. With great care he unfolded this, and smoothed it out with both hands on my table. It bore the impression of a little band. Not a photograph. Not a drawing. The impression of an ink-smeared hand laid flat on the paper. This touch of his own little daughter had been always on his heart, as he had come year after year to Calcutta, to sell his wares in the streets.

In other words .. My refusal hit him hard. His face became downcast. He took a few steps, and then turned around with the gift packet for Mini in his hand. He begged me to give the packet to her.
When I started to pay him, he politely but firmly refused to take any money. He said that he had a similar young daughter at home, and it is her memory that makes him to see Mini happy.
Then, he proceeded to take out a small worn-out, but carefully preserved piece of paper from his deep pocket. With tender care he opened it. It had the impressions of the hand of a young child. He had preserved the impression as a token of love and longing for his little daughter.

Tears came to my eyes. I forgot that he was a poor Cabuli fruit-seller, while I was–but no, what was I more than he? He also was a father. That impression of the hand of his little Parbati in her distant mountain home reminded me of my own little Mini.

I sent for Mini immediately from the inner apartment. Many difficulties were raised, but I would not listen. Clad in the red silk of her wedding-day, with the sandal paste on her forehead, and adorned as a young bride, Mini came, and stood bashfully before me.

The Cabuliwallah looked a little staggered at the apparition. He could not revive their old friendship. At last he smiled and said: “Little one, are you going to your father-in-law’s house?”

But Mini now understood the meaning of the word “father-in-law,” and she
could not reply to him as of old. She flushed up at the question, and stood before him with her bride-like face turned down.

I remembered the day when the Cabuliwallah and my Mini had first met, and I felt sad. When she had gone, Rahmun heaved a deep sigh, and sat down on the floor. The idea had suddenly come to him that his daughter too must have grown in this long time, and that he would have to make friends with her anew. Assuredly he would not find her, as he used to know her. And besides, what might not have happened to her in these eight years?

The marriage-pipes sounded, and the mild autumn sun streamed round us. But Rahmun sat in the little Calcutta lane, 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!”

Having made this present, I had to curtail some of the festivities. I could not have the electric lights I had intended, nor the military band, and the ladies of the house were despondent at it. But to me the wedding feast was all the brighter for the thought that in a distant land a long-lost father met again with his only child.

In other words … The Cabuliwallah’s words struck a raw nerve in my heart. My eyes welled up as I struggled to rein in my torrent of emotions.

I saw no difference in the love between the Cabuliwallah and his daughter Parbati, and my Mini and me. The barrier caused economic well being and social status between him and me vanished instantly.

I sent for Mini. I couldn’t refuse a grieving pining father. I brushed aside the fuss created by the womenfolk of my family to make Mini come. She was clad in a red silk Saree. She was decked up as a bride with sandal paste in her forehead. She appeared and stood self-consciously by my side.

The Cabuliwallah was not prepared to see Mini in this attire. Clearly, he was lost for words. It took a while for him to gather himself and say something. After a pause, he asked, “Little one, are you going to your father-in-law’s house?” Unlike the earlier years, Mini blushed at the question as she understood the loaded word ‘father-in-law’.

Memories of the duo’s first encounter and the blossoming of their friendship rushed through my mind. The Cabuliwallah heaved a sigh of relief and slumped on the floor. A huge weight seemed to have descended on his shoulders. He remembered that his daughter must have grown up like Mini has done. Eight years is a long period.

The drummers and the music party played their tunes. Rahmun was deeply engrossed in his thought. His grown up daughter, his countryside, and his commitment as father buffeted his mind relentlessly.

I knew why the Cabuliwallah had fallen silent. As I read his mind, empathy for him overwhelmed me. I took out a bank note and gave it to him. I asked him to rush to his country and discharge his duties as father to his grownup daughter.

The hand-out  to Rahmun forced me to dispense with the arrangement for the electric light and the military band. The austerity did not please the womenfolk, but I had no regrets. Instead the thought of the meeting of Rahmun with his daughter in distant Afghanistan filled my heart with great pleasure. I enjoyed the festivities of my house with much heightened spirit.



Related Posts

    Do you plan to write Civil Service, or Management entrance examinations? Do you want to be an outstanding lawyer or a journalist, or an author? If so, you need impeccable English writing skills. We will build your skills step by step. Follow our blog daily. For more help, write to us through our mail id - broadbase.knowledge@gmail.com
    Notify of
    1 Comment
    Newest Most Voted
    Inline Feedbacks
    View all comments
    Would love your thoughts, please comment.x